Men are busy with tomorrows like big red ants on the mango. Mango’s leaves are busy falling. Some leaves have homes stuck behind them looking like bowls. Some ants are red , some dead.
Men are busy falling like leaves. Some have bowl shaped homes ,stuck behind them, like leaves. The mango is busy cooking up cuckoo schemes for next rain, boys busy planning mangoes in salt and chilly, for summer.
Bowl shaped homes are busy falling off from behind leaves. Leaves are busy turning dust. Tomorrows are busy with dust.
The cashew temptation is casual and sandy. Under the cashew you lie down on the hot river sand and let the sand singe your skin .Grains of sand that enter your holes where you dislodge by a blow of your breath. Blowing does not bring babies. But the sands are everywhere, they cannot be dislodged in some nooks.
Babies are afraid of your breath when you blow into their eyes. They shrink away from you ,from your talcum in the rolls of their baby fat, like the sand that had singed your bare naked skin and entered your nine holes.
The cashews are yellow, fragrant and succulent. But when you eat them they catch your throat. The sand burns sin off your skin. The sun rains his heat on your love. You burn from its purity.
But the ripe cashews catch at your throat later. And you cannot dislodge sand from the nooks.
A word keeps me in a state of boundedness to a sentence . A mountain child is born and turns a wavering coconut tree , a tree that dallies with the sea wind .The child who was born to the mountains points to a new bird of a plane. Look there is a new bird ! The planes are finally here and their language. But the word is still missing. Now a poet’s near one is transiting from a hospital silence to a radiated arm. The arm turns blue like the sky and will be nothing like it. I am not sleeping. Please go on with your woman talk while I hear inside my eyelids. I hear the fall of the cascades there.
Let me cut off my ears so I cannot hear her silence, says a poet of a near one who is transiting from a temporary to a permanent silence.
I keep waiting for my anchor word. The word fails when poetry gains. I am anchored to nothing. The mountains melt and turn streams and river .River flows to the sea. The mountain child turns to sea.
Decrepit windows do not look down, only wet clothes hung in balconies. Toothpaste foams at woman’s mouth with her girl’s eyes awash with sleep.
Poems walk past the chicken cages, on their delicate stomach upset with thoughts of chicken necks to wring later in the day for someone’s table.
The chicken do not walk like poems, crying foul of the human condition. They cross no streets but find themselves poems in stomachs.
There is fire in the pesticides factory and all you see is television fires, licking tongues of fire and black fumes rising like freshly dyed hair. When you make poison for pests you make them with fire. The fire will at times eat you up, like your poison will eat them in. Their poison is your fire. Like the poison that froze in Shiva’s blue throat and his third eye spewed orange fires that threatened to engulf the world.
The television lives off your fire and poison and death. In your fire and poison are its stomach fires .The fires in their stoves have to be kept going to keep their stomach fires going.. So they will gently stroke your freshly dyed hair as their dramas are played out in the day, screen after screen. In the evening their stomach fires will subside and soon there will be rivers flowing in the sky drowning the sun, the trees and the clouds . The rain will beat their cars so much that the cars will turn blind in their eyes. The downpour makes such fine holes in their umbrellas that they can see the stars drowned in the rain.
Sounds come from drums and pipes, from silences vacated by crickets ,owl’s shrieks, crane’s sleep-sounds, men turning in a sleep, from dreams.
The wedding sounds are of joint sleep,of many liquid nights and sounds of tears,from black-lined eyes, red hurt noses, sounds of two bodies sleeping, rising.
With two coconuts and wind to wave in ,there is angry God at the other shore.Between us and him there is a wading,as if of oblivion, of our never returning.
We are wading chest -high in waters and our heads below our drowning act.These waters are our common wading,a thread through our living and dying.
This is the very aqua inside the coconuts,waving in high wind, the very waters,we had come from and we had waded,when we had begun,our eyes still shut,to a blinding sun waiting at cave’s end.
(on a visit to Narsing Jeera temple in Bidar)