They

They came for him one evening,
packed his bag and even carried it to the jeep parked
on the roadside, near the dry public water tap where oil containers line up,
marking space in a spaceless locality.
They offered him cigarettes calling him uncle as the jeep
sped away from the city in the throes of a dusk he was
not to see, as he told me, for some time.
The moon was already stripping off his gossamer robe ready
for his bath.
They plunged into the orchestra of night insects and followed
the moon as he swam the length of his misty pool.
They rested at dawn,
waiting for the fifty- four year old frame of their captive to revive.
It was not easy with gout beginning to torch flames in my friend's joints.
They called him teacher and urged him to lecture on the magic of myths
to make blood sing about unity.
We are one, they said, and
our common history is inscribed in memory of stone.
My friend did his share of tutorials in the jungles
but he confessed that the practicals
were too exciting for his old bones.
When the month was over, they half carried him through the bamboo jungles.
He woke up by the side of
his gate.
The water tap was still dry, and the oil containers
still jostled for space on ground where
no space can be seen.