Courier

'Ustad Bismilla Khan' sent me a courier.
It was the latest grown yam in his courtyard.

He plucked it
washed its dirt off
On a restless morning

Enclosed in hardboard boxes
One inside the other
Covered further in newspaper
Pasted all ends with cello tape,
Again
Covered in a bigger box
Addressed to my name,
Scribbled with mobile number
As if from a concert
He got up content within.

By chance,
there is an axe-mark on the yam
It watered itself in strange pink
And my wet palm here
Is so scratching with an unknown pain
Till it reaches here.

At last
On a lonely day
It reached to me.

Having washed off its dirt again,
Yes. Just out of a habit,
Kept among handsomely other yams
Tomatoes and drumsticks in my fridge

Taken out as if nothing happened
I made a delicious yam fry.
How painful was life for me, you know?

I'm fed up of this 'Ustad Bismilla Khan'.