We liked her much and ethereal self.
She carried her transience about her
As though it was a long flowing toga.
For her transience was a settled matter
Of evolution ,in Darwin and burlesque,
Just a comedy of sorts, full of sarcasm.
Surely the world was made in her kitchen.
Apparently he could not make a fine job.
Actually when she laughed it was at him.
Not that she was afraid of him, except
In the spirit-smell of a buttocks- injection
When she had a creepy feeling in her belly.
Things seemed to happen by a strange logic
A beyond-logic one failed to nail down.
Everything got mixed , things and words
Stewed in an orange light, an unreality-
Being light up there, the force of gravity low.
Above all this woman thing was God-like-
The mother of all, who suffered for children
Who have once lived in her puffed- up belly
And for strange men she met in the corridor.

We began with doubts in the dark night-
Everything that came under the sky of night-
The noiseless stars -that were just flickers
In the crisp air of a deep night and crickets
That creaked from dark and thorny bushes.
We thought of sultry bears that came down
From the hills for ripe sugarcane in fields
On windy nights when we were sleeping
On the river bank, with a long stick safely
Sleeping beside us on a springy string cot.
The dogs sculpted their own long protests
At the howling wind and  bush rat’s scrawl .
There in the sketchy bushes of darkness
The lizards slept fitfully wary of night snakes.
Outside, the fireflies tantalized the country.
Our doubts persisted through the night ,
Going on unabated in sleep and dreams.
At the ****'s crow they dissolved in sleep.

We sat in the afternoon in the shadows of
Ancient trees paying homage to the lady
Who had died, of excess of life over death.
We were treated to a feast in her honour
It was her wish we should be so treated.
She was sharing surplus life here with us.

Where was the promised river bank where we
Would Invoke her spirit amid deep-throated
Sanskrit chants and smoking holy fires?

There is no river bank here but ancient red walled
Storied structures .Here well-fed priests call down
The spirits of our dead by sonorous chants.

All the while she smiles beatifically, in the hall,
From her two-dimensional existence in a photo.
The excess life she had died of seems still spilling.

(Cancer is uncontrolled division and growth of cells meaning
unwanted increase in life activity and consequent breakdown
of life  support system)

The body lay there in the room
With flies and people buzzing.
The pale face looked indifferent.
Tomorrow it will go down
Into the bowels of the earth.

Yesterday night he was busy
Searching for a quick-fix solution
To his life’s problems in the
Froth of the golden yellow brew.

The body had a fatal hunger
Just like the woman in its life.
Scoops of dust settled on the coffin;
It had no complaints about life.

(The death of our Security officer ,Stephen )

Belong some where, a place or thought
Otherwise you stand out, all eyes on you-
None with you or your music or the wind.
In the night those tiny parijat flowers
Actually belong to the dark neighbour
Of the red and yellow house with a woman
Hanging out of the white parapet like cloth.
Their fragrance does not belong nor she.
The parijat belongs to the wind and death.
She of the parijat house parapet belongs
To the evening and the blue sky of rain.

She stared at the roof beam,
The wood that was once a tree.
A tailless lizard came from
Behind the beam to look
At her for the umpteenth time.


Kitta kitta , said the lizard
She who had become 'it' stared
Unremittingly at the beam
That was once a forest tree.
The beam looked at the lizard.
The continuum flowed endl’ssly .

The hum in the head does not say
Anything except deceased cells, fear
In the hair follicles, dust in the mind.
There is of course a song, then a picture
Loud and brave, beauty and history-
I hang my thoughts on the computer thing
The images there are larger than my life
And every one’s life and river and water
Mountains and people dead and Sanskrit
Chants addressed to the dead, my people,
Who are no longer my people, except
Through the connectivity of a dark priest.
There are clay-pots of bones and boats
In the holy rivers and priest chantings.
We have thought of transience and rain
Rivers overflowing on the highways
Dismal failures and temporary successes .
Then finally some beauty-talk in art
And literature, deep thoughts, mystery
And everything coming to an end
As though there was no beginning.
Yet the colors went on all the while
And they smelled nice like incense.