By Sunil Sharma

 

When I die, erase all the memories

as I do not wish to linger on in few

digital pictures stored in a Smartphone

moments, moods, posed smiles

of no immediate or historical

worth, social value  or public  relevance to

family or friend or foes;

I wish to be forgotten and

obliterated forever from the

commodity- culture prevalent in hearts

and homes of the professional classes of a

post-Rousseau world.

Instead,

bury my un-burnt bones in the soil of a tree

that gives shade to the workers on the highway

or in the fields,

scatter the handful of ashes in the river that

quenches the thirst of my ancestral town

and let the winds carry them further

to a restive sea—and to the singing mermaids

who will understand my story

on solitary nights, lit up by a gypsy moon

in an electric blue sky, home to magical islands.

———————————-

Bio: Sunil Sharma, a senior academic and author-freelance journalist from the suburban Mumbai, India. He has published 20 books so far, some solo and joint. He edits Setu:

http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html

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