Mary’s Designer Hanging

A Poem – Mary’s Designer Hanging

Who was Mary Ross?

The world hadn’t known,

Till the day she was sentenced to die.

 

“Oh, what was her crime?” they wondered.

Her hideous eyes glared at them,

And she smiled, her yellow teeth gleaming,

Sparkling in the exuberant sun.

 

The news flies buzzed noisily,

Capturing every tremor of the dung-beetle.

It was a sunny morning,

“Perfectly lovely for hanging” said the executioner.

 

While he typed away on his phone,

Writing sweet nothings to a woman unknown.

Mary Ross waved at the crowd,

As she got down from her limousine,

The queen about to be crowned,

 

A rose or two thrown at her,

As her fans watched spellbound-

For years the trial had proceeded,

She had run over a scarce animal one night,

And a drunkard had spotted her,

 

While an illiterate memorized her car number.

The duo walked to the thana,

With a tale that earned them respect.

The police stormed into her house in outrage,

Oh what a crime to kill the innocent!

 

Nearby her neighnour sighed,

Hoping they would find his son someday.

Mary Ross had denied her crime,

Yet they persuaded her nonetheless,

The courts hardly saw her,

She had slapped an officer,

Bail was not granted.

 

If only she had been docile,

If only she killed a poor man instead,

“What a nuisance!” said the inspector secretly,

As he drank his tea.

 

The days went on,

The cell where she lived grew bored,

Family ceased to visit, too embarrassed with the details.

The thugs would whistle at her,

For she was a dame in sight;

Weary she grew, waiting for judgement.

 

Then one fine day, someone came to life,

A student fly spotted her,

And went to swoon over her plight;

Overnight, she became a celebrity,

A banner of injustice done,

There were buses burnt,

Candles floating in the air,

Garlands exchanged,

 

People ripped each other’s hair out,

Burnt some more buses,

Went back home to watch the cricket match.

Leaders of the moody mob gathered,

Wailing over her despair,

Patting her lice-ridden head,

And then washing off their hands.

 

But why was she being executed?

There lay the question,

The dung-beetle danced around knowing why,

While the bigger ones ran around,

Curdling more milk and dirt on the way.

“dear Mary Ross, today is but your last day”

So they said and watched in delight,

As she fell down the chute into another light.

***