The Funeral of Hement Karekare
The martyrs of Mumbai
never imagined by the inter watchers
until they die.
Now after three long nights downtown, blooded by the true believers
Was Karekare, with flakjacket and helmet in earnest charge until the impact rushes to black
His forces lated by vanity were blind and worse, used. All yet to discharge without their leader
While ten smartly dressed young men empty their bags with discipline
Now his son has donned the ritual loincloth and waits to set the pyre
A billion watch, he circles his father's corpse with shouldered burden as the flames begin
Naked and tall among the mourners watching the flowers curl on his father's face
Karekare's widow, daughters' hands touching her shoulders from behind, she stares
The day they met? The pride they raised? The dutiful tomorrow now circling the ghost?
The fire flickers and builds, the mourners retreat
And then the Taj action is finally over, the smartly dressed young men are finished, there
and at Oberoi and at Nariman House the rabbi and his wife with hundreds more
Smoke and ash drift away