Death pressed 3 bullets on an old man
The old man uttered two words
On a God that Death did not know
The old man did not die
He walked past with a smile.
The old man became a Father
With three bullets on his chest.
Death was depressed.
`My bullets are wasted’ he cried.
He roamed around looking for fresh air
Used axes, swords, knives and bombs
But every effort bounced back.
Again he pressed bullets on writers
And they too did not die.
`My job is an occupational hazard
So let me try someone else’, he said.
Then he tried 3 bullets on a woman
Who stood by justice
With her skills of written words
Oh my God, even this one does’nt die
I just need a break he cried
I am a useless bum
And I need to retire,’ said he.
Then he bought a piece of land
With currency notes having images
Of the Father he had shot
And planted lady fingers
With the teachings of Fukuoka
Calling his farm natural and organic
And for the first time in his life
Mr. Death laughed loud:
`My lady fingers are better
Than the smoke from my bullets’.
After all these incidents
When I entered his organic store
To get lady fingers for my sambar
They tasted life
A life that must stay!