there's fame. and there's fulfillment.

The giant waves leave nothing
Nothing to chance.
Lives, boats, even memories are gone.
And as the people gather around
The many graves of loss,
They just stare. For even their tears
Lie lost, buried amongst remnants in the sand.

The rescuers arrive,
Their earnest pride, masked under thin gauze strips
To prevent the stench of death
From entering their memories.
At first, they are shocked,
Looking at the half naked limbs, severed
By the might of the waves,
Orphaned like garbage heaps.
By the end of the day,
Tragedies turn to statistics
In the notebooks of the rescuers.

And then they come, men in suits,
In luxury cars and lapel pins that announce
The might of their being.
They sanction lakhs, draw blueprints,
Smile in benevolent grace,
At photographers flashing the headlines
Of the morrow.
They disappear, as quickly as they arrive,
Just like those giant waves.

The donations will now be watched over
By self appointed altruists
Whose altruism is directed at few
But themselves.

The real ones who stay to help
Will have to fight hurdles every where,
For trust in the times of strife
Is as abandoned as hope.

But these martyrs will stay,
Rebuild lives until one day,
They become nameless graves
Themselves.

But what will stand is the generous gifts
Of those men in cars and badges on their lapels.
Articles in papers, interviews on TV.
Always preserved in files and families.

The real martyrs and the rescuers
Will become mere memory,
Lost in the sweat and toil
Of the rebuilt land.