At Marine Drive
on Arabian Sea,
young couples
tugged Tuka, Kabira
into windy blurbs;
young drummed,
Tuka strummed,
Kabira spun,
to Vithala rhymes
on Ashad Ekadashi
with vada pavs, mawa cakes;
stuffed mouths in fun confessionals;
no claims to know the world,
neither Ram nor Hari;
the puzzle hums.
Lost in a monsoon blow up,
burping laughs;
we will go, others will come;
will Tuka, Kabir be?
Will Chandrabhaga dry up?
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