Getting Him Home

Its that time of the year again,

When idol stalls are put up,

When modaks are made

When a silent thought is interrupted

By the rhythm of a dhol that plays far away.

Its that time of the year again,

When loudspeakers blare,

When traffic barely moves

When money is extorted

In the name of religion.

Its that time of the year again,

When the God comes home.

When he is welcomed with fervour

When he stays, sees,

And chooses not to stay long.

Its that time of the year again,

When we bid him adieu,

With a smile on the face,

And a pit in the stomach.