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.
The wall is to the street of midnight,a bit of the night, a tiny world, a dog with a nightly bark in liquid throat.It is to scraps of men, to birds in sleep on the distance of branches, their chicks warm to the twigs, feathers in making.
The wall is a vague obstacle to the night, to fears of decay, opening in a window ,nothing but a hole for escape.The wall exists because and for escape .Because you cannot climb emptiness.
The wall is curtain to dark from light , hole for escape, a climb with a leg .It is a scrape of skin, escape from itself, a burst from body, its walls painted on the outer of inner rushing rivers .The wall contains a monsoon burst.
The saree rags are torn to further shreds ,like enemy country’s flags. The sun was a round bright light in the sky till a while ago but not hot yet. A spring breeze blew on the stillness of the road.
There was no dog today, the famished one. The one with its ribs sticking out. The dog of small things on the road. Nor the one who had squatted by me two days ago and followed my pantleg all the way home. Yesterday the rich Alsatian in the high security house continuously shouted from the hollow of its throat. There are rich dogs, poor dogs.
But now I see a rag picker scrounging around for small things. He has a canvas bag on his back. He is an underdog of small things.
The afternoon sun was yellow and bright but the sky had bales of white cotton clouds stacked one upon the other.The eyes were heavy with sleep amid intermittent sounds of women’s laughter from the street and metallic crow-caws.
In our childhood nap the eyes were heavy with sleep amid rhythmic sounds of pounding of rice and metallic crow-caws.
The geisha had eyes like rain. The Chairman liked them much. There was laughter in the eyes that looked the color of rain. But then they were just memoirs of a geisha. Just memoirs*
Thank God ,the whole thing is just an afternoon film on the telly.A girl sold into slavery becomes a geisha out of own volition .Being a geisha is being an artist.Thank god she is just an artist
Thank god,that makes me feel less uncomfortable below the ribs.
(*Memoirs of a Geisha-A film )
Here, off the stage, the Blue Roses calls out, her glass recently broken. There was nothing blue about her or roses, just pleurosis, wrongly spoken
You know she is expecting her gentleman caller the warehouse prince. Her brother calls his mother a witch who is rising on a broomstick .You know, she does not like his going to the movies all the night.
BTW he is actually not going to the movies but is merely pretending. Blue Roses is not going to the business school but is pretending.*
Actually nobody is going for a morning walk. We are just pretending.
*The Glass Menagerie by Tennesse Williams
There the parijat flowers lie on the earth ,their faces in the dust, feet to the sky. Somebody’s cut flower creeper fills the air with previous night’s fragrance.
On the hills ,from a balcony ,a dark woman looks down as if expecting the milkman. There a man is up in arms against the sun. A woman froths at her mouth with toothpaste.
Words remain,as many scraps of memory. An image or two vanishes in the wilderness. Its fragrance stays as unrealized poetry.
When you wake up in the morning you reiterate your existence saying aloud “Alive and kicking!” .When you are old you say “alive and kicking (against the sleeping quilt)”.In the morning walk you are blinded by the brilliant morning sun in the tall grass waving in the breeze .You say “alive and blinking”. The grass re-asserts your existence as the sun continues to shine warmly on your skin. In the distance the hillocks sit pretty against the blue sky waiting for the golden sunshine to cover their flanks.
The continual re-assertion of your existence by saying it aloud has a downside. Instead of the long time frame one sets for oneself in younger days, the time horizon is now just one day –between today’s dawn and tomorrow’s, now, so uncomfortably close.
You want to be alive and blinking- at the far horizon where the hillocks sit prettily waiting for the sun’s golden rays to cover their flanks.
Everything is such a fake here including all things I have said and what I may say at the end. I do not know what to say next.
I am just faking it for the real as the original vanishes in the sky. It is such fake overarching sky ,fake like your Gucci handbag.
It is a fake sky, yours and mine .We fake our emotions under it. Our words are fake as our sky, not knowing what to say next.
The silver mountain had disclosed answers to a meditating saint in deep recess ,now sky blue with priests interceding for us on behalf of a phallic stone god. Then were no blue – red painted pillars enclosing people bathing phallus gods with smooth gluey banana milk paste, just a saint and his God in banyan trees sprouting from silver recesses for wind.
The saint would look for beauty in jungle and in silver mountains, on his cross-legs ,blinded by a gold of sun , a child’s doubts ,a flicker in the mind like a child’s smile.
We search beauty in blue stone pillars climbing kitschy colors engulfing men. Their beauty flows in white gluey paste around phallus gods in silver mountain. The mountain is no more silver but blue with white clouds about it as gluey paste.
The children’s elephant god has a stomach he pats lovingly and the moon laughs at his too much sweet eating in a sky. They don’t forget to make his clay rat.
Grownups have 52 feet elephant god with a ball of sweet in higher hands so when they will drown him in lake they auction the sweet in his high hand.
All through a year they wait for him to return in mud and plastic paints. He does not seem to mind a little drowning in our dirty lakes to come back next year.