ambling on a sunday city morning,
circled by goats trundling ahead of their goatherd,
he paused.
walking back home passed the
goatherd aflame in cash.
single on morning walks,
coated in waves of auto fumes,
prayers parting lips,
is good morning friend.
--- a few lady rag pickers nosing bins,
an old leper in an orange headgear tagged to
a blind sister, squatting outside churchwalls,
tired milkmen on cycles relaxing with mobiles,
newspaper vendors not calling news,
couple of deranged women,
stray dogs asleep inside a shiva temple
----  daily, unshifting landmarks.
importantly, madhavi,
watching kids, without schools, noising,
takes off to her village with her three kids,
a remembrance of smiles.
while madhavi mops home,
he cleans, chops vegetables,
never knicking fingers.
slinging a stifled soul from her shoulder, madhavi walked to the devi temple,
60km from her village,
the promised third trip.
is sure of devi keeping the deal.
on diwali day sat in her shack
twirling a damaged 50-rupee note
passed on by one of her middle-class employers.
her village river has two banks, madhavi none.
the bell in her soul has no gong.
it happens to roadsiders.
fate lines cannot be braided.
he cannot be them.
in aging times hopes to walk till knees bend.
smiles
--- at squirrels scampering overhead wires
bridging treetops;
last of the snails after rains, snailing.

scary lightning,
drooping clouds on parijat blooms;
spray footpaths at dawn.


...........  


relishing a rare breakfast,
the bullock lurched, dropped on the tarred road,
shoved down by owner and three hands.
they tied his legs for shoeing.
a lone tear crawled;
iron nails pierced the flesh, jesus-style.
in an hour, the bullock stood up;
yoked to a cart loaded with twisted rods;
a  whip, the animal heaved, collapsed,
leaving owner cursing shoeing costs.




............

something of newspaper prose about the lady
as she swishes her tail and trunk.
today, she is still, in her style.

cormorants, egrets, flying fox crown
the coconut.
a spread of newspapers,
laid out by sachin, at its base.
no newsreader; a scanner of film releases
on friday.
he goes to bed with films.
her village pond, trees and birds unspool
when shantha, the flower vendor, sleeps.
saket, the tea fellow, meets up corporates midnight.
over a tea break, they meet, uncertain of the day.
one show a month at inorbit is sachin's desire.
a trip home forever, consumes shantha.
my tea stall will become a 5-star hotel, claims saket.
six years over. 

dawn sleep.
afternoo seistas.
earthy fiestas.



.......

on the way to the temple.
an elephant, chained to a banyan
on a patch of grass and earth.
the lady, unstill as ever, over a primeval hurt.
unkempt, alone, scraping her sides with
a banyan twig held in her trunk,
sways to an inherited beat.
on the pavement, under a blue plastic sheet,
a couple, many days and nights old,
sip tea from the same plastic cup.
cars in tinted glasses swim by.
raindrops brush the bare air.
he pauses, some distance from faith.


.........


raindrops roll off mango, jackfruit, jamun trees
to a patch of tarred road.
five feet from the road, he stood.
a cattle egret stepped around daintily.
a line of poetry,
disappeared after two mornings.

a rainy morning.
an empty church
soft weaving silence.



........

swathed in tinted glass,
a citified soul relaxes
with a mobile on a drive.  

in 40 years
never managed a window seat
facing the wind in a local.
at office missed a window desk.
brushed up wordage on night shifts,
signed off editions,
scoops, bylines never his.
retired.
is at the Press Club corner, on a day grained with rain drops.
orders four rums -- one each for Joe, John and Jim --
for memories gone.
after the last dark hour,
the last friend,
the last rum from Mohammad,
stretches on the floor,
to the distant hum of the Sea and the Drive.
the Club is his, he of the Club.
an yellowed newsitem.