A mind says

I prefer watching the animals on television ,to watching them live in the zoo because animals in the zoo smell really bad,a mind says

You are analogizing a whole experience with a copy of its part, says other mind.

Television animals do not smell bad but are animals that please the eye ,mind explains, minus the real mind.

But are they cuddly, surrogate children? Asks the scintillating mind, raising a stink.

You feel it sounds woolly but mind cares. Mind loves animals, not their body smells. Seeing is not smelling, not as off-putting an experience, as the whole of experience.

But mere copy? How can any one be in love .With a mere copy? Says the scintillating mind.

Seeing a copy is experience too, says mind.

Agreed it is an experience but the analogy? Why analogizing a whole with a mere part?

This is not even analogizing whole with part but a whole with a copy of a part, higher mind.

And why not? Mind asks but mind is quiet.

Missed calls

At the barber’s shop there was this talk between my barber and a watchman customer. A man murdered his wife after seeing a few missed calls on her mobile. Missed calls meant affairs of the heart outside the marital framework. Fidelity to partner suspected.

Missed calls are made to check if the coast is clear.

But not all the missed calls are made by paramours, I thought in my head.

Here ,in this country people raise missed calls to indicate a desire to talk, leaving the option to the called party to follow it up by a call, if the latter so desired. This way they save talk-time. Our people are such great savers!

The barber had finished his job on me and went on to catch up on other news.


The news came in the morning. A young man who had on the previous night pointed the stars to his daughter found himself turned into one .Forty four was no time for turning a star. Look at the Mars, burning brightly, he had said to a wide-eyed daughter. In the morning he was found absolutely blue. The heart stopped at approximately 3 A.M. trying to gauge the depths of an astral sky.

Did he die in sleep? Was he in a dream he never woke up to recount?


A crow cawed at dawn suggesting a picture of idolatry, a woman gone to the wall for decorating a living room. The crow cannot be mom to eat rice. Our images cannot eat rice in words. Images cannot eat rice, only words.

We have other images of ourselves hollow men, fleshed out of our bones poor nightly creatures of fluorescence roaming the empty wastes of minds. We have other men with rolled shirts staring from ancient space, not yet knowing my own coming, that meant
his own going from all space in time. There was space only for one of us.

All our images are shadows from past that are cast on our space even after real things are gone except in sleep.


In the morning pretty yellow laburnums burst upon your consciousness as you look up and a gentle breeze touches your skin, the way it touches the laburnums. We said “burst” with an element of violence in it. It is as though you are sharing a euphoria with the flowers and the sky. Come back to the room, turn on the air-conditioner to face a steady draught of cold breeze on your skin. Let the cold envelope you.Take a glass of cold water. The euphoria continues. A word strikes, a thought.  

Euphoria has to subside. The word has to disappear. Thoughts have to lose focus. The sky is now white and hot. Where is the heightened perception in the senses, in the way your skin perked up  and the goose-bumps? By the way, what is the color of euphoria? And temperature?

Wordsworth’s definition of poetry is emotion recollected in tranquility -is this the same thing as a wordy  recollection of  a recent euphoria or even a nerdy recollection, if you prefer? There is violence in emotion but tranquility in words as the nerd types on the keyboard. Poet-nerds have their own poems to type, so different from recollected thought of the good old bearded type. As they type, their poem happens.

Milking thoughts

The  squat milkman ,who must be smelling of milk from polyethylene bags is performing daughter’s wedding.He has milky dreams for her. We wondered if he got the milk for the wedding free. In the evening he is bursting crackers in the sky, lighting  a moonlit night with color. Besides, he is bursting his sky with humongous sound .His eyes are  bursting with milk dreams. He is simply bursting.

When I see him outside my door placing two packets of milk, some times, my eyes meet his ,where I see very large milk dreams. When I open the door and see his milk packets lying around,  I say to myself  “tread softly ,for you are treading on his dreams”

My people

After I had got up this morning I remembered a scrap of dream in which I wanted to be with my people, the dream people who bore  a distant semblance to the childhood creatures who had populated my universe . A world view  about  grown men from the puny height of a kid. From a diagonal view of an adult’s face from a child’s. My goodness, why do I get mixed up in my mind about realities and dreams?

Between the  two trees ,there prevailed a silence. I sliced through it affectionately.I even patted the tree appreciatively as it stood watching the other tree silently. Again I cut through the silence at the other end , between the other two trees, where prevailed the cry of a cricket the other day. The cricket decided to take a holiday .How do I recognize these trees without the cricket shouting the hell out of their roots?

But the trees recognized me and I could feel it in their eyes. In the way they kept silent. They are my people, the way they appeared in my dream as creatures with faces diagonally linked to my kid face. Their eye contact still operated from an adult’s eye to a kid’s eye. They are my own people from dreams.