Thoughts went on in a mess of no meaning . No meaning would still mean some meaning . Even if we slurped tea at roadside kiosk and looked on at the lake of green hyacinth and our consciousness remained a puddle as we counted cups of drunk tea in waste bin.

From where we stood we saw the river of life flow quietly by scraggly rocks of Golconda .Our people’s consciousness came down to us as so many words spoke in the small hours and as textile pictures on sarees that felt like half formed country maps of new islands.

Our consciousness went on below skin touching our bones and would go on again in other tea-slurping bodies by decayed lakes in a steady stream of decaying bones and flesh.Their stories will flow like mountain stream.


Even the roughest among them cannot stand rain , this weather, while it is a nice camera picture of iron cable holding up clothes.Any iron shall love a village rain and succumb to long term charm.

Take bald eagle man seen rusting on park bench looking at the sky with his eyes , tiny white flowers,dropped from sky’s white clouds.His iron slowly collects its oxide and will drop away by iron bench .

The eagle rusts in its baldness,as bald eyes fail to swoop down on lowly creatures, two in bush.Its eyes slowly rust and fail away.


One has no dreams in afternoons only day -mares, belly fish of fears wrought into heavy-lidded sleep, mares ,not being equine animals of diurnal type but the belly ones where you enact fearful plot-lines.

Caucasian doctor from anywhere appears by your side to diagnose an unnoticed fleshly protuberance on neck, way to a two year death.

Story is scripted by a ghost writer of random ghoulish department.Everything is random but stitched neatly together like by a pro hack,a belly fear knotted to a taut plot.


Forum is a nobody’s discussion joint. It is a glitzy shopping mall that walks on curious gawkers. A third of the city crowd seems to be there as you can see from the cars in its underground womb.

We go to eat stuff from a capital joint. Not curious gawkers, we return with oily belches.

In the evening we walk through streets not full of sawdust but the  fallen scraps of  conversation from houses. Their words resonate through a dark silence  that has descended upon the houses .

A dark silence is before  men return from their walks. The men sit on stone slabs in the square and sip tea . When it is dark they will return to pick up threads from the earlier quarrels with the neighbors.


Looking back I have not noticed sawdust yet but I have just heard rice husk is no more. Rice Husk is the name of the loyal house maid in our in-laws house. She is 90 years of age. My memory is of a woman sweeping the house corners  in a body wrinkled like a jack-fruit.


There was an inconsequential flick I had been to . There was an inconsequential journey on way to the movie and the final journey written in large red letters on the death van which had two journeying feet that would move together ,the way they were bound together .It is an old man , said our driver.

The final journeys by old feet are inconsequential . As inconsequential as old feet on way to a movie.

The death of a village doctor

The village doctor’s death is wholly inconsequential .We went to see him near the 240th pillar of a flyover. But that was entirely inconsequential .We saw him calmly sleeping in a glass casket . He might have thought our coming to see him in his death inconsequential .My living after him is merely inconsequential.But the fly on his body is just  consequent.

That he was a village doctor was inconsequential to  his body.


These beggars tug at your sleeve to smell your money in thin sheets of small paper, sleeping in your leather wallets with decisions about their life, marriage and God inside.

Their thoughts mainly look into a sitting plastic tumbler of loose change, where water should have flowed smoothly.They dream of scraps of music, sung in trains, with breeze that came in and went out, through a whir of train fans and a sad song could easily flow to a single wire of music.

Outside the temple their cloth spreads like night sky and coins glisten in it, like stars on moonless night lying loosely with decisions about life, women and God.

Our daily image ,our sun

We looked for our images in sunlit morning spaces we look up, in morning walks ,to move for a while our computer-weary eyes away from light-words.Bleary-eyed little girls sat in groups on the balcony with school far from their eyes , hopscotch on minds.Some men in red dresses moved towards the hill, who worship a certain Goddess of the hill.They moved in hill bushes as if they were a red hibiscus flower that is being readied for worship .

The poet’s earth is a mere drum pursued of little boys.It is the sun who leaves a day at our door and a deed without the incident of fame or the accident of noise* .It is the sun who leaves us our daily image,our poem.

(* “When I have seen the sun emerge”- A poem by Emily Dickinson)