And this wild elephant, crossing State Highway 9 –
his footprints lakes for dragonflies and bees –
does not yet know the chaff of a howdah,
ankle chains, or the sting of the bull hook.
His mother is ahead, her ears flapping
for his rumbles that she also feels through her feet.
Only now her feet are burning, and she’s
closed her ears to the firecrackers, the jeers
of the mob protecting their fields. Already
one farmer has hung himself when his crop
and home were trampled – how could he feed his family?
And one woman has been crushed to death.
The men lob tar firebombs at the invaders –
go back jungli haathi! they shout, banging
on tin drums. The matriarch runs from the noise,
doesn’t hear her calf scream, his back legs alight.
Hell is now and here the caption will say
as Biplap Hazra clicks the shot of his life.