Four in the afternoon is brilliant lake in teals
From an alien land come flying a long away,
Coexisting in crowded bazaar of local cranes.
Together we shop, tell the teals among cranes.
Lake is everyone’s shopping for stomach fish.
Some fish dance inside empty air of baskets
By the lake ,for women to decide their prices.
Soon they are on the way to hungry stomachs.
The banyan spreads dark hair on the muddy river
And its red fruits are dropping on it like rain drops.
Come to its folds to experience our sleep and death
In an extorting sleep, the interest for a life’s capital.
The fruits mark time for periodic interest payments
And interest shall cease only on a final redemption.
In the meantime we sleep off our interest payments
And each time ,hope that interest is not redemption.
(Schopenhaur’s famous financial metaphor in which he calls sleep little interest payments for the capital of life we had borrowed at birth that will cease only on death,the final redemption)
Eighty and five springs in leaf-ends later
She still finds her life a song , a number
Not numeric, but mere music and matter.
She can hear crickets’ music in lumber
Frog-lets croaking in night’s rain-puddle.
In autumn years perhaps you imagine
Her steeped in mixed aural sounds, in muddle
A vague spectacle of death in a life’s din.
In such music one hears yellow leaves crunch
As if they are the dress one wears for lunch.
In Bishnupur horses no longer fly
Their decorated necks look pretty
But break and dissolve to the earth.
We now have potato cold storages.
Our youth play cards under banyan.
Our horses do not fly these days.
The afternoons were glycerin
Add to it angst of the worst type.
Evenings musical and mushy,
She shimmered in white wine.
A black night danced in my veins
It was a charade , this love thing.
I woke up on the next day
With marbles of careful words
That clattered against each other
In the vacuum of my heavy head.
From a nightingale’s perfect throat
In city’s past we recall poem
About circles of light around
Dainty wrists, as they slip on them
You don’t know where a girl ended
And a morning’s hued light began.
(Recalling the poem “Bangles” by Sarojini Naidu, our Hyderabad’s very own nightingale, on her 135th birth anniversary)
I have notion that all this is not there,
With the sun and the cloud and empty sky
Falling in the sea, in fits of laughing,
With wind sporadic from the vague mountains.
Mountains are not there in the horizon.
The horizon is notion from our dreams
Embedded in ancient mountains not there.
Notions are not there with bodies not there.