Aparna Sanyal writes

THE MINARET

They say
The minaret
At a certain angle
Blocks out the sun
Seen from below
On the street
They trundle
A cart with bullhorns
And saffron battlements
Ready to do ululating battle
With the muezzin
Whose call for
prayer
Will call instead
reinforcements like rats
Skulking insidious sewer-laden
They will emerge wetly slick
Battle ready, join the fray
The minaret knowingly
insouciantly angled
Offends their sun
Eagerly green
Crescents
Are grins
They mock
The bullhorn, the caste thread
The fibres vibrating
Within these men
Novitiates
Or are they ephebes?
They who are picked
to be lost in the scrum
Their itinerant revolving door ties
Pastel-ing red ire
To orange
Today 

 

 --Megan Noel