I see them sharing spoilt sweets,
remains of verses from everywhere,
stitched like shoe and at times,
when it is good, imitation jewels.

I used to say hi, hello, how are you
once in a while, and like any newcomer,
used to laugh at their jokes
which often made no sense.

I see them cheer vandals, anti-socials
and psychopaths, men of questionable
records and identities, who would rob
children, elders, ladies, anybody
at night to make enough money
for their drugs, their life supports.

They browse their religious texts
like a newspaper. 
In the morning, when light smells
like lemon and smelling salt,
they hold their newspapers
like religious texts, shouting slogans,
cramming the yellow headlines.

The contents inside won’t make any sense;
every bit of light, which escapes
is a sun, which they celebrate and cerebrate.

Across the street a few neighbors shout,

hurl insults at the only Moslem family
in the area. They make stories that Saleem (eldest son),
who went to US for higher studies, was arrested
and later on killed by US cops for aiding terrorists.
He was a year senior to me in junior school,
taught me a little bit of differential geometry.
In September 2001, he was
a second-year grad student at Columbia (NY),

and part-time actuarial consultant
at the 102^nd floor, when WTC crashed.
His family had a property dispute with neighbors,
who occupied part of their land,
who now call them terrorists,
whenever the court summons
them to vacate illegal occupations.

Now, I remember the story of a boxer
who threw his Olympic medal into the Ohio River. 
 
Copyright©2005, Debashish Haar, All Rights Reserved