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For Chintamani junior, Vengurla was

a throw of stones in mango orchards,

feasting mangos;

fasting mother,

lighting a diya at dusk to the broom

in the prayer room;

broom is Goddess Laxmi

bought on an auspicious day,

okayed by the house priest;

Laxmi is luck, love and legal tender.

shunned in heavens as maya,

banished to earth,

sweeping homes of deaths,

ghosts crowding night breaths,

preserving births.

in our mango republic,

King Alphonso, exiled to Gulf,

has left behind ruins of packing cases

for locals to mull.

Our mango republic,

birthed in forests,

home to sages serving poetic guesses,

leaf wrapped,

to themselves;

could be hearsay as evidence is

adulterated.

what is,

is dreams are taxed;

corporate jinns steal poor of soul and skin;

residing in skyscrapers,

scorn groundscrapers; 

gods epically mortgaged themselves to asuras;

sages protested;

asuras were obliterated.

in our mango republic,

Gitaic vision wears dark glasses;

absolution lies in nebulous assurance

of rebirths;

raindrops hanging on to green

threads of grass lessens daily hurts.

the King is no more.