Once Upon a Time in God’s Own Country

A quarter century ago,
a few days after Christmas Day,
was born a hazel-skinned boy,
not by a virgin birth but ordinary,
blending with a billion dreams,
representing an ancient glorious land of the world.

Then and now,
I often gaze at the sky and frown at a river and wonder,
why does anything exist at all,
from amoeba to anaconda,
for what and who’s joy.

They say the cosmos is billions of years old.
But for me, parturition of my mother was the big bang
and my decay shall be the apocalypse,
for everything before and after is Māyā,
never witnessed by my senses.

Stethoscopes wouldn’t have heard the lub-dub of my heart,
if thousands of years ago, my greatest grandparents,
never decided to experiment beyond their innocence,
that fomented a series of permutations and combinations,
until the twentieth century.

Never I’ve had my fill of merrymaking on my birthdays,
I never longed for it, perhaps it fell on the holidays,
or was it perhaps I wasn’t born in the ‘day’ but at night? I wonder

Wherefore do we celebrate birthdays, I do not know,
for they are a reminder of your temporary stay, before turning into crude oil.
For me, this is the day of contemplation, a day in solitude,
an interlude from gazing at the moss-green river,
but musing inwards towards the crimson river.

Nearly a quarter century after my first vociferous cry,
at the stroke of the midnight hour, I gazed at my phone.
An unusual desire to receive wishes, from someone I adore aroused.
I heard a buzz, and with ecstasy, my fingerprints unlocked the hidden chest, the electronic words were rather from someone unexpected and dear,
and I expressed gratitude with a woeful heart.

The first soul who wished weren’t my parents,
weren’t my best friends or wasn’t my fond,
but was Her Majesty Google who showered digital balloons and sang the birthday hymn. Oh technology, you shall be cherished,
until you command mankind!

Over the years I kept the day of my birth sub rosa,
folly it may seem to be,
but the bliss of receiving a few pure wishes felt more special than a hundred notifications.

After all, it’s just another day.
Like Rome wasn’t built in a day, so wasn’t my body and mind.
Belated wishes, I might receive,
from the ones who missed my day amidst their pursuits.
I thank them in advance for the wishes that may or never come.

Alas, before the clock strikes another midnight hour,
will someone who aroused my craving to be wished,
remember a boy from the God’s own country?