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.
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.
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.
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 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.
The man was sleeping on the grass .His face was turned towards the park wall .His head rested on the crook of his arm, his slippers some feet away .He was dreaming of sleep so he can dream some beautiful dreams.
Dreaming while still awake ,his eyelids attempted to flutter while he had some pretty dreams still left under them. He turned to the wall shutting off the world from his eyes.
There was this white park wall that stopped his world at five feet to make a single white world that left him free with his dreams. Behind his eyelids was the infinity of yet undreamed nights .
I ask that you be heard, tossed about ,dreamed of. It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence. Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.When we wake up we are gone as night precedes dawn .It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread. At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.
You be heard, tossed about and dreamed of. It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence and an olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots and the six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home with black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about , dreamed of. It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are or on the dizzy peaks where everything is bound in its fuzzy snow ,at the mountain passes where vehicles pass oiled by hot tea or in the mist-filled airports where air crafts do not take off of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of. It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams ,in the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes and much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves, in lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces and lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.
I ask that you be heard, tossed about , dreamed of. It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them ,the children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows. I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees when it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west and children are still hitting balls visible in the green of the trees.
Sitting on a parrot green branch in another park (still in the making) was preempted by a sleeping dog near it. The park is still making. The man who is building the park is biding.
I am back to the old green one. A man sits on the neighbour bench making nostril noises. He is biding till his lungs are full with wind .
Biding time , your old poet says. The poem of today was his biding. The dog in the other park near the parrot green bench was biding . The man in the Municipality who is making the park is biding.
Biding is an organic thing.