A Wounded Soul, Naipaul, Naipaul…


The one amongst a rootless clan, but ‘noble’ blood
A boy with a fist of enigma, and estrangement
Who dared to spill ink, and chew intellect’s cud
And sinned with words, to his heart’s content!

Oxford was, no use to him, nor BBC
A Trinidadian dream, was all he was
Who set out, to devour, human hypocrisy
With a poison-pen, for a long-lost cause!

How trampled time, grand civilizations!
A race erased, many bloodlines’ trace!
Myriad histories, lost in translations!
And a faith became, ‘infidels’’ face!

His ‘great labors’, brought ‘Nobel’ too
But the storm, did pay, its fury’s toll
A small-town lad, lost to truth untrue
A Wounded Soul, Naipaul, Naipaul…!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra

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