Truth

Just now ,sitting on a granite plank opposite the electrified house,we have talked about relative truth. Is the crow’s caw there absolute or relative?

If you speak untruth the crow will bite you like in the saying.  Like it used to make its clawholes in the red Lifebuoy soap in our open to sky bathroom. Is  it for absolute untruth or relative truth?

Is it the same truth that was of my mother who comes down annually a crow to eat rice balls smoothly rounded by me?

The face

We would point with index finger at the face, the face that fell silent in a room of faces.Cane chairs were all that were to be pulled but there seemed no music of the chairs that was playing ,only some more silence.

Face is not the index of the mind, its index being at the tips of eyes, where words had froze at some point of time before chairs moved from place to place.

We now sit and gawk in wonder at the face in wonder at a running face that once was, with eyes blinking behind glasses from life. We wonder at the life in the eyeballs of glass its tender ego lurking in them as wet proof of life , of animated love and responsibility
for life’s events, under illusions of control.

Our anxious chairs made no noises of faces. Their light movement betrayed no emotion,only fear of index fingers stopping to point at the immobile face , bursting with the past.

Worship

We mostly sit to worship, with the walls opposite to us leaving us no room for getting up and crossing the streets.In the marble our gods listen, from the shelves of flowers and fragrances, as if out in the garden ,in the early hours plucking white flowers from black darkness one by one.

The walls face us with their hanging gods smiling below a hole that lets in morning sun and some pleasant wind. Many times we lie to worship, with a false roof above us leaving no room for getting up and flying into space above. We mostly worship under closed eyelids, our lips muttering.

In sleep our gods come dressed in vintage dresses and jewels of exquisite beauty,their light blinding us in our closed eyes. We worship our gods in the dark caves, their bodies in stone sprouting lotuses in navels ,where a master craftsman is born. It is he who chisels our foreheads, hiding our futures in them.

The moment

The moment was just then a word in the night’s early life. There was a moon and its fine pointy stars confabulating in a breath-taking geometrical shape closely resembling a forest beast and the stars its honey food of bees.

We open the balcony door to a night and the moment is now going behind in the creaky silence of a night insect traceable to  sleeping bush.The balcony’s night queens spread a moon all about the night in a dizzy fragrance like flowers in a woman’s blouse back. We turn to sky and wait for our moment in a cosmic dome of dizzily whirring stars.

Come August

Come August ,this body turns a torso with the sacred thread from left to right on my chest slung under a  bare chest cloth.

My lips lost to the  smoked thought, I await a spirit dancing on fire and its assistant wood smoke,a crow to pick up a ball of rice on a glass spiked backyard wall. Body in thought is  rarefied  air ,the body’s body ,looking for food.Come August, body is smoke.
I change the thread right to left ,my thoughts on body’s mom ,my  thoughts on bodies in air ,my future body on  bamboo.
My thread back to my drawer, I await the next August if there will be .August is the  possibility of thread , body may yet be a substance.Thread may  hang left to right awaiting another smoke on fire.

Births are accidents

On that outer ring road is one such, today night and on all nights as steel seeks a quick median path and steel is dead drunk as lake fish.

Student who loved to research stars like brother Sagan of this tiny dot knew a birth was but fatal accident ,as in an ORR tryst with the median.

Actually all our births are accidents ,highly fatal ,being causative factors, midwife being merely the proximate cause, dad’s lonely nights mainly to blame.

Births are accidents of lonely nights and directly responsible for deaths,whether by an electric fan in room or by the median in outer ring road.

The plot

In Borges’ short story “The Plot” the gaucho is set upon by other gauchos among whom he recognizes his own godson .

“Pero Ische ?” says he . Like  “Et Tu ,Brutus? “said by Caesar when he recognizes Brutus among his assassins.

He does not know he  has died so that the scene could be played again .

The plot is complex and never-ending and encompasses all times and all spaces. The irony  here is not inherent in the scheme of things but is only  read by history.