You know why I hate revolutionaries?
Asked my friend, while sipping
A dollar worth coffee
Inside an air-cooled café.
Dumb that I am, watching at the
Silent charade of the quotidian
Out there in the street,
I said, ‘No, I don’t know.’
“They wear revolutionary bathroom slippers,
They wear revolutionary souls
They flaunt revolutionary arm pits
They vibrate revolutionary epiglottis
They show off revolutionary tattoos
And they swear by revolution.
When it gets hotter, they leave
The poor revolution back in the streets
And book cheap tickets to cooler climes.
That’s why I believe the real revolution
Would happen inside those stuffy vehicles
That ferry sleepy morons between
Call centers and their masturbating hideouts.
They will one day rise against the machines that
Throw hollow commands at them.
Together, they will shoot down these
Pacifist asses, who fornicate in
Hopeless hostels and soulless homes,
In the name of revolution,” he fumed.
‘Who funds this coffee?’ I asked
“My dad who runs a call center.”
While walking back to my nothingness,
Revolution pulled at my trousers
And begged for a coin.
(Iqbal MK, a Kochi based photographer clicked a picture of Che bathroom slippers on display at shop window in Kerala. This piece of writing is inspired by this picture)
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