She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.

our fruiterer is a riddling prankster
who jumps up from every corner
and tray and stacks, with any old silly riddle

(1)
“Looking at apples, eh?”
he approaches Sandy
“What did the apple say to the bug?
Oh – stop bugging me!”

And he laughs at his own humor
(or lack of it)
while severe Sandy rotates
an apple in her left palm
and he ventures to the next vulnerable customer,
who is me

“How, my dear man,” he proceeds to ask
“do you fix a broken tomato?”
I shake my head, bewildered
and he unpacks his own riddle:
“Tomato paste!”
And he roars with laughter
his chilli-sharp eyes pointed
at his next customer


(2)

And off he goes with his riddles –
with his booming voice, no pause
and wrapping his answers in cracking laughs

He jumps to an old man
and he says:
“Why, do tell me, do bananas
never feel lonely?”
“Cos they always come in bunches”

And the young couple he regales with:
“Why did the tomato go out with the prune?
Oh, come on…simply cos he couldn’t find a date!”

And to an old woman he says
in  near-Oedipus style:
“What did the Dad Tomato tell his Kid Tomato?
Ketchup!”

And as in a light musical
he turns about and whoever he finds
he unleashes his final:
“How do you fix a cracked pumpkin?
Easy peasy – you use a pumpkin patch!”

Ah, our fruiterer is a riddling prankster
who jumps up from every corner
and tray and stacks, with any old silly riddle

Tom’s moved in to a new suburb
It’s a new term and new school too;
he sits beside this pretty girl
in class, trying to impress her
and Tom says to the girl:
“Hi…Did you listen to the Principal
talk in the hall? He’s an absolute idiot,
don’t you think?”

“Do you know who I am?”
replies the girl

“No,” says Tom, wondering
what this is about
“Who are you?”

“I’m the Principal’s daughter,”
says the girl

“Oh,” says Tom
and then he says:
“Do you know who I am?”

“No,” says the girl
“I don’t know who you are”

“Oh, that’s good then,“
says Tom, quite relieved

... he and she are thinking…a life together, still much in love, as always,
but a thought or two, once in a while…


He
Once, she was a frog
and I kissed her
and yeah, she’s beautiful
But hell, I thought she’d come with
castle and lands and fields
I thought that was the deal
but she just told me I’ve got to get real -
they’d done away with kings and queens;
a few were beheaded, and most de-constitutionalized -  
haven’t I heard? *“Have you been living in a well?” she asked.
OK, fine, she comes with all beauty
and love and care and all that – yeah sure,
but a million in US bonds and a billion
in the NYSE indexed on emerging markets
would have been comfy




She
OK - this guy is the best, the greatest, cool
he’s steady, reliable, good and loving and all that -
but oh, how do I get him to wash the dishes?
There are never-ending things and chores to be done -
like tidy the bed in the mornings, vacuum once a week
there’s dust under the table
And you know, such stuff that princesses
don’t lift a delicate finger about -
will he just work on sight of a list,
and get it all done?
And how long can I have him wed and awed
about this Princess thing?
Oh, yes – and I forgot one more crucial thing
that he must always have the bowl lid down after he pees
Is it too late now – should I have included it in the pre-nuptial?

The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.

I am
no longer
a portrait,
I am
a collage;
I am
water,
the sky
colours me
Blue,
a pinch
of vermillion
makes me
blush Red;
I am
a mimic,
a schizophrenic
accomodating
one too many
minds
in an
overwrought head.

i just want to sit and be
still with you, but
my heart never slows
when you're around and
i always end up searching
dead ends for what words
to use next

(my fingers still shake at the
mention of your name)