The burning of the auditor’s office and a failed revolution
Led the directorate to commission a gate.
A portal in low relief of the eight circles of the inferno
Which would lead to a space of beauty, truth and light.
So Rodin, laboured for years sculpting the gates of hell.
Humming, “through me the way into the suffering city.”
While the thinker, chin on hand, looked down with pity
At Ugolino devouring his sons as the shades exclaim
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
The gates, cast in bronze, are no longer gates.
No entrance, no exit, They’re replaced by a frame
which leads to Paatal Lok and no longer Gyaan-Lok.
Where minds are emptied by necromancers in cloaks.
Seven gates in Firdaus and Vaikunth. You choose!
But the entrance to the city of knowledge is Gate 2,
A precaution, to instruct you in the art of humiliation
A skill ever so crucial to human relations
Thank God, university’s boring. Leave your minds at the door.
Remember once you enter, you leave at your own peril,
For past the beeping door and the gaping poisonous tunnel
Lurk the shadows of your hopes, now looking askance
As we worship new deities that leave nothing to chance.
And like an airport or a museum, a mall or a ministry
Remember this is not your home but a transitory factory.
We purge optimism and plant actionable items
Pain points, head winds and interminable decks,
Deliverables, USPs and waiting for cheques.
‘Through me is the way that runs amongst the lost’
Aborted conversations. Don’t talk of glasnost.
The way to paradise always begins in hell
Beauty and truth are illusions that won’t help you excel
And justice is nice in theory, ask the dogs at gate 1
Now forlorn and forgotten as they search for some crumbs
Be like those workers forming neat lines in the sun.
So, STEM your minds now from extensive cogitation
And dream our dreams, for therein lies your salvation.
The poet is an Associate Professor and Head of the Department of Political Science, Ashoka University.
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