Sudeep Sen

OM: A CEREMENT

Architecture of frozen music.

— Goethe

In my city, I am surrounded by constant cries 

   of the dying, burning pyres heaving 

under burden of wood, smoke and bones —

   wailing summed up by sonic notes of Om.

Civilisation’s first sound — Sanskrit syllable

   echoing a conch shell’s harmonic mapping — 

its involute spiral geometry holding within

   and emanating airborne sonar screams. 

My ancestors, grandmothers, mother — blew 

   into this smooth shell cupped in their palms,

held intimately as if it were a talisman, 

   a prayer, a pranayam in yoga’s daily ritual.

But breathing is a privilege these days —

   pandemic-struck, oxygen-deprived,

my friends perish, the country buckles, airless. 

   Even an exquisite cerement lacks the sheen 

or wax to wrap the contours of a corpse now. 

   Each day as I write endless condolence notes, 

etching dirge-like couplets on gravestones — 

   my city continues to be dug up — not to make 

space for burial sites, but for palaces of illusion:

   an architecture of frozen music, greed, calumny.

A country without a government,

   a country without a post-office — Shahid laments:

“Let me cry out in that void, say it as I can. 

   I write on that void.” Om’s celebration now

an unceasing requiem. Yet we chant in hope, 

    for peace: Om Shantih, Shantih, Shantih.