Confetti
S. Nihal Singh

We are in Shakespeare’s
time in India,
with groundlings walking
in and out of a play at will.

A performance is a
cameo of life;
spectators are
part of the play.

Cell phones proclaim
their insistent presence in the hall.
People arrive and depart
when they want to.

Like in a railway station,
life flows without a break.
A play or dance
can’t stop it.

Only once did I see
a clash of cultures,
with the Bamberg orchestra
playing in Bombay.

A man had tarried
in returning to his seat
as the conductor was
raising his baton.

He stopped with a jerk,
eying the intruder.
The packed hall
looked at one man.

After a pregnant pause,
the conductor raised his baton.
Not knowing what had hit him,
the man dissolved into his seat.

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