Pol Pot’s clay pot

I sit here on the precipice with my feet dangling in the darkest abyss of time. On the fear-line I espy a pile of neatly stacked skulls ,of large circular eyes with the mountain air hissing through them.

You see other skulls had thoughts when their holes were eyes, that wished no brains in them. Wonder what the old man thought, when lying on a string cot, he saw the smile of death where the banyan met the sky.

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The plastic curtain

Between us falls this plastic curtain with tiny floral prints and glistening droplets. I see your lips moving through the interleave.

There is work, overdue debts, deja vu there, on the riverbed. A thought came- no words, only an electrical presence. Nothing much has happened, then and now.

Will you repay my fifty rupees to the barber for the hair which once was, flowing in the river to the oceans, its sound muffled by the waves. I only appear in dreams on restless pillows. On the other side are flowers etched in plastic. They don’t perfume beyond the riverbed.

The miners have come and gone

Then the mountains fell silent. Leafless shrubs on them pretended they did not exist, waiting for the mountain’s endorsement of their terrestrial existence.

Night’s silences broke through stacks of brown mountains The wind blew in their faces, as if it was flowing water and the monsoon had arrived. The fact is that the monsoon has already come and gone.

There was no water flowing only hot brown sandy spaces with the west wind whirling in it. The cloud that would bring water has already come and gone and there would never be water ,only blood from recent wounds.

After they have come and gone there will be large circular holes. You stand on their rims guessing where their inky darkness ended.

Hampi rocks

The evening swapped the orange sky for a silver-lined cloud in tatters .The rocks had sizzled through the day. At sundown their fever subsided .Their blazing orange desires ebbed In the nucleus of their inner being .

Time had burnt them to perfection beyond the pale of their stony selves .Their sun-smell touched the bushes quickening life in their brown limbs. As the sun sank behind the world’s edge ,their shadows vanished in the sky.

The guava tree

The shopping is utterly irresistible. Her sister is gone and she is next in line .We see the bone-dry fear in the whites of her eyes. But why talk of death, probable leave-taking? These people have sinister designs to deprive her of the joy of being alive.

The last time she went shopping she had a minor sprain in her ankle .The doctor made such a ruckus. Come to think of it, she believes she could cook food for twenty. A walking stick? Who needed one?

A thought comes like a yellow autumn leaf riding down layers of air. Her sister gone, she is next in line. But she has a lot of things to do yet .

There is so much to celebrate – the resplendent colors of crisp cottons and sheer joy of feeling their sheen and a thousand joyful flippancies. One haggles deliciously while feeling their smooth texture and still complain of quality. A Saturday shopping expedition followed by hot snacks at the roadside restaurant ,warm summer days of family reunions ,ambient evenings of perfumed weddings.

She crinkles her eyes to peer through the sky-spaces of the old guava tree, in the backyard of her ancient house .It is all the same and nothing has changed .So much to do and so much to celebrate.

Homo sapiens

The ape reviewed the homo sapiens that was .A fistful of matter seemed to matter so much. Why then blow it up in search for other matter .His sun had brilliantly thought he was the sun. Then other skulls came telling of other suns .

A bearded man dropped a lightweight petal .Another’s fruit explored the falling world .A rainbowy microcosm appeared in spirals. Yet there was saffron fear in a fistful of matter .Knowledge was but neatly stacked craniums with the entire inside matter notably missing.

Re-assembling

At the corner house big citrus fruits hung in green ripe silence .A group of coconuts went into a huddle and exchanged morning notes with the unwashed house in the breeze .A man walked from the sun holding with one hand an oil can of spilling waters, his other hand in space balancing the weight.

Another man from the sun released bursts of smoke from his muffler, into the air,his eyes softly closed like the morning train in the countryside chugging quietly as its white smoke rose to the blue mountains.

Re-assembling meant making a big deal out of everyday events.And non-events.