They say the other world is beautiful, all those who have been there and back. Streets are neatly cobbled and swept clean. No plastic water bottles are floating on fetid water bodies nor polyethylene wrappers rustling in the breeze nor street dogs sleeplessly barking. No one hits a bum in a snail of traffic.
But another world is more beautiful. Men went there and are not yet back. There are classical dancers on clouds, but no loud speakers on vulgar music. Clouds are not made of plastics. There are no milk sachets on a breeze. There they have no fly-ridden clinics and no morgues for men to lie dead.
Surely you can’t be lying dead twice.
A matter of clearing, a single sound ,a vast journey in space, a wedding its sound journeys to my eager ears ,a locus in a space graph of listening.
A soundless night makes it possible. Geographer’s poem is very journey, a moving away of a chunk of space or invisible space vastly stretching.
The wedding is space of a drumbeat, a clearing in a jungle of night’s silence .Some humans make wedding sounds. Sleeping dogs are making no clearing and no patrolmen stick-tap this night.
Our space enters here, in the window. Curtains are mute spectators to wind and trees carry space back and forth.
The thinking man recalls ,looking at his wet feet,the total freedom he had enjoyed from all choices,as a tailed fish in mom’s original waters.
But the dark knots would quickly turn blue.The floating things were soon discarded together with the knotted rope that seemed to connect between them.
Nine months of his floating were now nine holes he had to let the wind pass through. In order to untie the knot he had to cut off the rope once and for all.
This here picture I have produced in a visual of an early morning light when a pain needed balm on the back of nerve-ends tautness of the previous night and editing blues of much saturation.
You and I were trying to edit detail ,an emotion that cut thinking at its back. Morning needlessly brought poetry. Poetry once produced cannot be edited because it is there in your front lobe.
But I cannot seem to edit all that detail from this night of life when it occurred. I cannot edit the colour of my dreams nor change the depth of field in them. I want to know who was editing all this before a morning broke off night’s vision.
We have no balance left to read poems into the train’s deep night we made our own towards a hill God.So we go on in a brown pen note with calligraphy as in a forehead. Train would oblige not to tremble Like Nepal under a falling debris.
Our forehead obliges with script but it does not know its balance .Calligraphy is fine, not (in)scrutable .God in boulder smiles knowingly .We will check with Him up there.
In the bare foot grass walk there is solitude buzzing in the ears. The dew on the grass seeps through your feet into your being. That is when you look downwards and you see shapes.
A plastic carcass of a dog lying on the grass unburied. A rubber hemisphere of a child’s ball. A tiny red flower, its petals lying strewn around. Peanut-shells around a green bench. Peanuts like kidneys. Shells like empty spaces. Green benches with shapes of absent human bodies.
Human bodies are moving shapes. A body walks like a hillock tapering to a fine point, a dizzy height with a temple on top. Another walks like an ocean wave on a placid afternoon. A man walks like a caterpillar gathering the back portion of its body.
Bird cries are shapes too. The park bird cries a short twig-shaped wailing .The cuckoo sings like grass that comes up each time you trample upon it.
The walking track is geometrical bikini shapes. Its mosaic dances, as you walk, like girls in bikini swinging their hips in affected anger.
The fourth day after the festival of lights the snakes appear deep in their pits waiting for our milk and worship. The women pour turmeric and milk on the pits.The snakes inside the holes receive them on extended tongues and bless them with more children. The pits were built by industrious ants but their holes are now houses for snakes.
Just in case the snakes are still sleeping inside the pits , the children burst crackers with loud noise. The snakes then wake up to drink their milk.
The snakes are nice fellows who do not normally come out to harm humans. But if the husband snake has been killed by a human the wife snake will follow him to his bed and finish him off there itself. The snake wives love their husbands so much.
We do not want to take chances. That is why we feed them milk every year without fail.