Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers!
The village clown is dead.
Go around, paint the walls in smears
Of yellow, blue–no red.
Call the women out, call them louder,
Ransack his make-up booth,
Foundation, creme crayons, setting powder,
A red nose, an invisible tooth.
Chapakot Bamdi preparing to initiate homestay facilities
First, rally the eccentrics and cross-dressers,
Scrap out his vibrant garb,
Liberate your envy, relieve pressure,
Reduce his existence to a blob.
Then, flock around his face,
Loot the lasting smile he bore,
Rub out all of the lipstick’s trace,
Ensure he smiles never more.
Trample his vestige, stampede it down,
You have to leave a dent,
State the cause without a frown,
But with an expression of content.
When they said he took his own life,
A little boy was the only one who shuddered,
For it is just him who knows the truth:
The village had the clown murdered.
