At dusk glass broke and turned back to its original form.Glass is now a series of shadows broken in colors without a scheme,pure kitsch with no conscience. Its colors violently disagree, a breaking sound like a girl’s bangles,as pure circles of light,broken while slipping on her forearm.

Glass is a love child of the earth and sun.Glass would break in shadows that are colors not falling in a scheme. Glass is random, a shadow play by an evening sun


In the evening we brightened their pictures by dusk light. A plant  refuses to yield roses and live up to our beauty traditions. In the balcony it had to maintain the standards of its forebears.Twenty rupees for a new one seemed  too much. It was picked up  from the mountains that smelled like last year’s monsoon.From the balcony they all went of foot disease and their foot was in the earth that allowed no breathing.  Their earth lived in plastic.

The earth here smelled like water but the water smelled like a snake.The smell slithered like one. In the density of algae the snake’s head  bobbed up ,its tail a drop.The drop flowed in the lake where algae drowned fish. The fish were still there under the algae, not yet in the triangular beaks .The beaks swooped to catch them one by one.But there were so many under the algae. They had an eternity before beaks could swoop. Time was their luxury . The beaks had no such luxury.They had to swoop again and again.

In the meantime the lake woman had some fish in her basket.The fish that had been under the algae in the earlier times. The fish that  had no luxury of life left at the time. It is now dusk and the woman has no luxury of time .The sun has no luxury left to shine brightly in the west.

Let the wailing dogs lie

We wonder why the dogs have to bark at nights with mournful snouts pointing out fuzzy possibilities of other things, of pale moons hanging by trees, of wind whistling in the rush of a sleeping lizard, of a car past our lengthening shadows dragging our day times to the other spaces,the other times.

Wonder why the  dogs have to shout at our bellyaches in the wee hours, before another fine dawn breaks on our missing people as we rub our eyes at dawn.

And why we do not put up our snouts to the night before another dawn breaks ,crinkling our rheumy eyes at the incoming suns of our window.

Jack is a fruit

We love the fragrance of its entrails when it is brought down and ripped open for table, under its thorny skin.When fatso was sitting pretty on a bark , we had it put in thin veils to stall bad eyes falling on its beauty.

Its hardened seeds play like marbles on a road in street children’s holes. The kids ,when done with their play stuff them in their burning wood fires made in three stones, in smoke that burnt their eyes so deliciously.Seeds would taste nice and smoky.

Before death on our standing knife it gave such a fine feeling to fingers .What a lovely touch ! What comfort! Death was fragrant and memorable.


The sun has yet to ripen in the tree’s hair. All is quiet except for the crunch of a walkers’ feet in the sand.The saree rag now  hardly stirs, its baby memories now elsewhere, with its mother carrying bricks on her head probably on another construction site .

A bone dry puppy is scrounging around for food. Returning ,there was  entire dog family of mother with four puppies accompanying . The canines are an extension of the night.

The morning was about  a grandiloquence, thawing a numb winter. The words were a lot of sound and their fury sounded our nights. You opened window to a dog’s bark, a lower language at midnight curve. Window is half way to the horizon.

The birth of our sun

In the seven colors that make light the sun’s fiery chariot swiftly moves towards the equinox, our own thing in backyard, a cross-square of twigs that turns a chariot on a bean leaf .

Rice and milk ,stewed in smoke tastes exquisite, like his warm gold of morning rays on weathered bodies.

We love our sun but cannot see him with our naked eyes ,except in smoke or as he is fully eaten up by our earth.

(Today is the Rath Saptami (a Hindu festival linked to sun-worship) , the seventh day following the Sun’s northerly movement of vernal equinox, starting from the Capricorn.-beginning of spring.The day is also believed to be the day on which the sun was born)

Moving finger

Moving finger has writ and moves on. After it is calcined dust inside a vault it points where empty spaces spread .

Finger wonders at old fingers’ writing, a dead word embalmed in pure light where light is dust like in the skylight,from a tiled roof with holes in its sky.

Finger is embalmed in pointing light, a dead word wondering at the present, a dust pouring diagonally from roof ,a different dust but of the same light.