News missile

His lion’s mane would wave significantly to the management kids on wings of fire. A sunset shall now bury president of all time.

The old paper boy had aimed upper story with news missile to reach morning cup. Later he made missiles for the high skies. His targets are always on time , in space.

(India’s most illustrious President and missile scientist Dr.Abdul Kalam passes  at the age of 83)


Grandma bone

The first madam was in garden and was very original of her sin. You are your copy of a grandma the original perpetrator,a bone.

Bones rattle in their spare time. Do not open cupboards for fear they will tumble and you cannot rearrange them on a loss flesh.

Rows of lights

This day , four years ago,  in Bhopal, we had stood in  rows after rows of lamps around God’s pillar, looking for mirrors of lights in people’s eyes. We saw the pipal tree, up above, lighting with new found love for white birds that fluttered in half-sleep.

High above the pipal shone a soft full moon overseeing a thousand lights. The moon stood on the brass pillar like a bright lamp that drove away our darkness, inside our minds.

Women took the lamps one by one, neatly arranging them at the base of the pillar. The flames licked the dark air of the night , lighting it with their fragrance.

This day ,here in Hyderabad, we saw the lamps cowering behind cardboard walls erected in the temple. The flames were bright and soft as they had been in Bhopal but there was no pipal tree through which the moon supervised the lamps. 

We are moved into a different night

We are in a  different night today ,a night made up by trains blaring, tall coconuts swaying to rain music and short walks on a patch of moss-black on a terrace roof dried with rain marks. The coconuts hang heavily on the parapet,their older ones waiting to drop on unsuspecting heads below. The guavas ,ripe and yellow, have disappeared in the parrots’ stomachs but their hollowed telltale shells are still there on the earth.

The hundred gold coins flowers are conspicuous by their absence but their fragrance can be imagined on their heavy branches near the compound wall.The cobbler is mending passers-by in their sandals under an umbrella ,with a stone slab polished smooth for the cutting edge of the leather.The dog in the second floor is hiding behind its loud barks but not much hostility is expected today ,on a cool evening like this.


We make this extended home ,immensely compressed space,a light rolled in endless carpet ,a shadow infinitely multiplied,the poetics of our home space. 

Dust atoms descend a skylight, in tiny suns creating our home  space,expanding  eyes everywhere,corners puffing like dream cats that self-destruct behind doors.

Doors are brooms to sweep light off its shadows and shadows fall in abyss of light from a balcony to come back for ripe apple sun,to live a world by and die by moon.

Grandpa in the milky way

We were busy spotting in sky our grandpa who now lives there and we kept losing coordinates.

We would go our downstairs to drink water for the fingers that went dumb counting the stars.

It seems it was a holiday next with the stars sleeping in the hall. Rooms were somewhat stuffy.

They had their arms and feet intertwined in the deep sleep.One heard their snores in milk.

The milk would spill sideways. It was so hard to keep count.We gave up locating grandpa.

Morning with God

As I turned the corner I saw this man exchanging  confidences with a flower tree. He had three lines on the forehead , aspiring for God. His confidences were about God, plucking white flowers from the tree’s darkness. He embraced it for God. He floated on it like a flower.

He eye-contacted me for God. My own flowers were parijats that fell to the earth ,their white faces down and their red feet up. Their feet were red like Krishna’s feet on the tree , mistaken for a bird by the hunter who shot a killer arrow at it.

But  we do not have our exquisite God-children dying. From the trees where they sit playing the divine flute they just turn into God who sleeps on the milky ocean,  eyes closed,  under a serpent’s hood.