At the vaulting dome the waves refused to travel unless on a few pieces of silver and a name. The flying metal bird will take two full hours .In the meantime the angels in turquoise will feed our appetites.There is fear lurking in our minds behind bravado.
We try to shut out noises of after-death failure.We blame ourselves for failures as though they really mattered to us and the dead. We read patterns in the grey whys of decay. As if the whole thing is a science of death and we have nearly mastered the art of dying, of succumbing to the need to maintain transience.
We smugly wear the polyester film of transience about us .We read poetry in the trivial tragedies of their tatters.
The car seemed to drive perfectly as in a reality model by a dreaming creature ,turning on his pillow.And now the dreaming foot would press a dysfunctional brake.
The foot did not exist ,only the story teller ,a god story-teller , within a grand logic of design, who thought no end of himself up to the sky.
The dream earth had no sky of billions of stars but the rules followed are exactly of the earth air.
But why these partial rules of the reality model when it can dream a better model than reality like cars with no brakes but stopping thoughts.
They have not put wind in pipes yet. Their wind is yet to form in breeze. But once a breeze begins it will end in whoosh through gaps in window, a light indistinguishable from wind.
An apple goes up and down an Adam .A circle of girl lips is mango’s cuckoo, a deaf bird marking the school time, a breeze shushing an old man pipal .
They were little children, little birds.
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)
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.
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 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.