untitled 47

dwelling in the dilapidated hush
of a temple-town,
gods and tukkaram pujari
share a table at krishna cafe,
sipping the first, filter coffee at 7 a.m.;
await masala dosa scheduled for 9 a.m.;
pujari, a driver,
bows at the steering wheel before keying the engine of
maruti 400;
wife waits, on empty cylinders,
for pujari in the evening.
whiles away empty hours counting ---
waves on the green arabian sea;
footprints of shells;
sholas on horse-faced forests;
tea leaves, coffee beans on hill slopes;
trains crawling past the empty railway station;
untimely chimes of a sneezing grand-mother clock
strung from the sky.
 

untitled 46

at loutolim, in pascal's village sky-bar
on evenings,
sit on wooden benches
with rum, paul and pascal;
an infrequent customer,
neatly combed,
freshly shaved,
devoid of discontent,
in hawaiian slippers,
bermudas,
T-shirt,
cashless,
shares rummy space.
women fizz from soda bottles,
chuckles stir rums;
last rounds are refills.
souls at placid pace.

written on the death of mario miranda on Dec. 11, 2011 (Sunday).
at loutolim, goa..

untitled 45

mother thought he was in college
when he was quarter-way to school;
his son joined him after years in class 1.
jobbed as a temple cook;
cut deals with temple priest to tend family;
a world celebrity ---
15 sq. km. of verur village
--- on avial, dal vada, boli.
chewing rolls of black tobacco shut him up;
sometimes spotted alone
on a rock in verur river.
indiscretions were scarce for the brahmin
distanced from brahman.
the 12th man. 

untitled 44

teaching malayalam to 5-year olds,
left palms of hours for Hari saar to tend
the unwalled padam;
for every peepal, banyan, tamarind, jackfruit,
bananas,
there were three cocounut palms;
carved deep moats at their feet,
filled them with well water.
browned coconut leaves made
the roof of his mud house.
when he took the morning dip in the
temple pond,
mothers yoked their kids to chalk and slates.
between class 1 and home,
spent 40 years.   

untitled 43

towards midnight the last truck churred away.
squatting on black charpoys,
dressed to wall the january cold,
the sky bent low dripping icy stars,
beside two unroped camels.
the couple at the dabba
served army rum, rotis,
dal, aloo mutter, cut onions,
in a somewhere without a clock tower;
tossed around facts and fictions
browned in the sands of kutch and rajasthan. 

untitled 42

five sisters were born over five monsoons
at Penn
--- the stone latticed home on verur river.
epic-minded parents named them ---
ahalya,
sita,
tara,
mandodari,
draupadi.
father, a wall painter, killed self with a brush;
mother deodourised moods salting myths.
leaping into the future, the five left Penn;
selected partners;
children;
rolled the floors of malls, tourist marts;
turned corporate billboards spewing branded
views;
anchoring civil society in unkempt ways,
locked,
river breeze,    
star shine,
burst of raindrops,
public whispers
insects, birds
shunning designer homes
for unkempt spaces.  

untitled 41

for 29 years,
the nurse curious of caste, creed of patients,
works 12 hours a day at the dental clinic.
at 9, madhavi is at the door for
cleaning the home.
after a morning tea, dines in the night;
fasts holy days, saving a little for kids in a
solapur village.
the sweeper is prompt with the bins;
frequently pleads for a pain-killer;
ramesh delivers four newspapers at 7 a.m. to
decorate the living room;
shankar, the milkman, knocks at 4.30 a.m.;
the government servant (titled sir) fills forms in triplicate,
marks them secret,
before sexing a woman on the floor, under a mat;
assured a double bed on clearing the file.