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      December 21, 2012Not the ExceptionRohan Chhetri

      The man who survived a derailed train,
      His compartment lunged into the basement
      Garage of a housing complex, did not think
      Of death. Death does not come as a thought
      Preceding itself. The texture of death is felt
      Only in the affectations that surround it.
      The man tells his story of survival on television
      Because feeling fortunate, he is already
      Far away from the real thing. Me quarantined
      In my room with blisters all over my body.
      And a gentle waft of incense smoke, my grandmother
      Fills the room with, to invoke the seven goddesses
      Out of me. Feeling the seven sores on the insides
      Of my mouth when I swallow my soup. Death is abrupt.
      The soul still dreams of dying even after the death
      Because the body teaches it so. We think death is
      Aberration. Thousand automobiles out to run you
      Down every morning. The precision of the machinery
      Outside us. The survival of the everyday is a constant
      Accident from which we will recover in death.

       

      from #37 - Summer 2012

      Rohan Chhetri

      “To logically begin to reason aspects of death and more so to write a poem about death is hardly easy. It requires the ingenuity of executing a love poem. Knowing exactly how it is going to be read. And like all love poems it demands a fierce authenticity. Maybe Lazarus could’ve written a truly great death poem. I wrote this poem during a period of extreme illness. I was bedridden and isolated physically, and religiously as per my Hindu religious customs. Although I did not mind the imposed isolation so much, it was definitely one of the closest things I could get to feel and experience about death and dying and the unfathomable ‘after.’”

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