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at high school
proposed to padmini.
they never met again.
walking across the maidan
he fell for sona.
she smiled,
hopped into a tram.
couldn't hold himself from
aarabhi at the university.
a communist, she said:
"i love mao."
bumped into debi at the workplace.
walking marine drive,
talked of devotion to work.
delinked herself.

untitled --- 4.

rooted under a badam,
chintamani picks tales from
dry, rum coloured leaves in february
for retail with simplema.
an old woman was born in
a village to an aged pair.
she grew young,
her parents died.
the village mislaid sadaphule.
doing a head stand atop
the badam,
an awed brahma got lost
in a trance.
after a ganges dip, smeared in ash,
shiva shivered at the burning ghat.
vishnu blew on a mute flute
having no clues
to the aberration
in the all-male affair of creation.
reluctant to leave without a trace,
denying yama a face,
set aside by gods for
mocking their unequal laws,
sadaphule flowers.

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a white spray on a
loose pouch of wrinkled skin
is in mornings at the park
where he first kicked a ball
to start on the beautiful game.
young legs swirl the ball
to cries of 'pass';
a yell  - goal  - dies as the
ball goes wide.
the blessed play.
sufficient reason for him to
desire another day.
  

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morning sun and moonbeams
stare over the hedge.
warblers, sunbirds call.
crows caw.
koels are half-way to
valentine's day.

untitled --- 1

simplema and chintamani are
the first citizens of the road
when trees shaded cycles,
friends walked.
on an afternoon
when raindrops, the size of moondrops,
fell,
they held palms,
folded the moment in an umbrella,
now lost.
for many, morning years
simplema is the first to church,
unpinched of whys, wherefores,
whispering prayers.
chintamani follows.

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at dusk,
the banyan sports a crown
of egrets, cormorants;
at dawn,
looses the crown.


.......

at the wooden vithala temple,
an upset rakkumai,
wiping eyes of panduranga,
says:
there is no panduranga
without tuka and bhima.


bhimsen joshi died on jan.25, 2011. 

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chintamani plays snakes and ladders
with street kids.
bitten by snakes,
failing at ladders,
they blame it on poor throws
of the dice,
as he slaps mosquitoes to death
wondering over their rebirths.

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screechy parakeets crowd the
feeding boards.
the houseowner traps them,
gifts them at parties.
turn, loud, caged poets;
yet, fresh arrivals stalk the board.


......

stranded in a temple deep in
the rising waters of verur river,
the priest sat on the presiding god
holding his head,
till waters fell.


........

the house sparrow died in a nest
inside a bookshelf.
chiyu buried her under the parijat,
placed a parijat flower,
little palms clinged together.
the bird woke chiyu in the morning,
lugged her school bag,
water bottle,
to the tiled playschool under middle aged
jamuns, mangos and other trees;
waited on the mango tree
for chiyu to finish school; deposited her home,
prepared a hot dal-rice.
in the nest, left a note with two wings:
fly away.

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saying sorry to living,
aiding the alone soul with a
lighted diya,
a walking stick,
a pot of water,
the priest, on the tenth day,
rasped sanskrit shlokas
to skin the darkness from
the last rites,
last loneliness.

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mornings, widow walks the labrador;
widower walks lady labrador;
the dog loves the lady;
the widower loves the widow.



...........


ranga, the barber, grew with grandfather.
verur village had one barber,
one tailor,
one ironsmith,
many brahmins flaunting unkind writs.
on monthly visits, shaved grandfather
entirely;
left with two annas, a white mundu,
locked the wooden tool-box inherited
from a tonsured tradition.
grandmother flavoured the floor with
cow dung after ranga departed;
that night, her man looked trim,
did not leave for another woman.
shaving on amavasya,
ranga spotted a snapped thread line
on grandfather's pate;
passed the news to grandmother.
ranga's grandson started on my friend
the day he was baptised a sacred thread
brahmin.
my friend migrated to a city
to hunched up barbers
at street corners
doing ancestral favours. 

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when asked of editors he
reported to,
recalls singh, suresh, bhaiyaji, nair, gangaram.
ever around with tea,
cigarettes, snacks, touch of liquor;
none wrote of them.
on night shifts,
michael, peter, cardozo, albert
made newspapers from lead,
puffing Honeydew;
after the edition, sat down to
a couple of desi;
nodded on chairs waiting for
morning trains to their sandra
in bandra.
lost, in newspaper files
defiled by blogs and emails.