By the green leaves of a hedge the women, in a chain, sing their bhajans upwards.Their God plays flute, in the shadow of the pipal tree by the river.He eats butter and plays in the moonlight with cowherd girls ,receiving songs from women chains.
They are mothers to God secretly happy He steals their butter.They are mothers who are afraid to see mud in his baby mouth because it will upset his little stomach but are secretly happy He eats the earth up in all its mud. That is the burden of the songs they send upwards.
Spring is vernal surprise to the old man but dengue springs surprise too. Like the woman who had till recently been coming to pay maintenance money for the second floor flat declares she no longer has anything to do with the flat nor with us.
She has embraced death by dengue.
What a venal surprise!
As a word dengue sounds swift and businesslike.True to its word, it does not take much time to die of dengue even if you are not at an eminently die-able age.
When you say dengue, you almost sound professional .When you say so-and-so has died of dengue you sound convincing . You know it is a no-frills death .
Old man’s winter is forgetful like gorgeous snow . It smothers the recently visited spring still in the heights of the pines . A mere mosquito can make so much of difference .
It is one long winter broken by occasional spring, a few old Apple blossoms tentatively promising fruit by October .But fruit may not come in this kind of snow.
A mosquito can bring dengue to woman .Bitten by mosquito she may not come back for the next spring .
Soon we went about the poet’s business in the wooded paths of human history trying to tread softly on delicate hearts in some ancient history of poetry kind.
We saw the turquoise tourist bracelets glass bangles that clinked in poet’s story and the shadows they cast on brown faces. It was gold evening always and sun set.
The mountains sat there immutable and blue .Their egos went home in a white cloud.Our silken pajamas were to come back from roof up where they were drying. In meantime we had to whisper softly our cumulative secrets into our winters
Beyond the parapet sparrows hopped chirping incessantly to a morning sun as if they were ripe and golden wheat that waved heads softly in grass breeze.
Our temples were soft in the outlines of pagodas where they scraped the sky ignoring the wind. As we looked up at the top of God’s golden pillar we looked softly at the contours of our own history. Everything came home as if it was in our mother where it had happened, in our beginnings in her.
Cold is the mischievous imp that takes over your innards for a while. I meant imp the littlest devil but the word program here has changed it to imp(ortant).But I do not consider it my VIP guest.
It takes charge , especially of your lugubrious head, where it hums like the midnight sea of Barua. It refuses to go away till it’s three days of mandated residency are over , at your big nose and in your throat where it lines up like a new music tune .No antibiotic gets at its throat.
Like the newest pop tune it is catchy for a while but does not stick long. Not that it is a fair weather friend .It is the old rage that triumphs in the long range.
This is blue space for everyone’s writing, spurred on by four pointed pencils.Not one of them is blue. But the space is blue and empty like the sky where a fleeting jet can leave a white trail.
Houses in Rajasthan are blue and empty. Our Sunday moods are blue against the looming Monday, with body parts hanging out of shared rickshaws, as if they are schoolbags.
The sea is blue against the sky of many hues.From the hill-top, as you climb down you see the sky as continuation of the sea and you do not know where there is a seam or a joint, in the blue marking out the sky from the sea.
Yesterday we wanted to see a moon in the blue sky peacefully co-existing with the sun. But the moon went pale out of fright and was hardly recognizable against the sun’s golden silk cloth.
* Moon and sun
We saw a disc of moon on the west,paling to its insignificance before the sun in his golden silk cloth.Some time ago we saw them coexisting in the same sky without rancor.
That was in the Himalayas .In the Himalayas both hide behind snows and many times come out of the pines, together only to quickly vanish in a surprising chemistry .
On the day when we were travelling to a silverine lake we saw the moon softly smiling behind the snow peaks. The sun was yet to wake up from his sleep behind the pines.