The Sage

His skinny tangled legs sprawled ahead, bearing the weight of his xylophone ribs…
The yogi’s back leaned against the temple, as if he was trying to make a last contact with the god within

They stood there, the curious crowd, waiting for him to move and prove he was alive
Some said he lay there because he had inhaled too much ganja the other night.

Others waited for a longtime for him to move, then called him names
Some said baba, some said sadhu, some said guru and some said sage

Some got a stick and began to nudge the lifeless body
They got tired and gave up. He had already decided not to budge

He wore clothes of the color saffron, his surprisingly neat beard and his long hair all salt and pepper
With his eyes closed he looked as if he was in a deep mode of meditation

His loyal dogs still huddled up beside him on his make-shift futon for warmth from the morning cold
Perhaps they were unaware that it was just a body there, their partner’s soul had already left

His hands lay partially open on both the sides indicating that he had surrendered,
Surrendered to a beautiful death perhaps beside the God
Whom he had spent all his life searching for…

Maybe he forgot to write all that he had seen and observed, how he had become a nomad to break the social monochrome
He can enjoy one sense of achievement…
At least his death was different, I have never seen anyone die while they were sitting with a very peaceful expression on their face

Perhaps this is how he imagined breathing his last, caught off guard by angels of death on the road which was his companion and beside the God who was his inspiration…
We would never know who he was and what life he lived,
From Oblivion he came, in morbid oblivion he shall fade…