untitled 31

when a gandhi cap trundled
down Verur village road,
head tilted over a stick, in thought,
15-year old grandma
was first up in welcome.
grandpa, crouched behind the window,
being a panchayat official.
when a langoti sadhu came along
on advance notice,
grandpa, painted in ashes,
offered rice and dal;
grandma, in period, was
banished to a distant courtyard,
sewing contempts to her heart.
at 80, grandma --a Taththagata --
rested in the portico nudging a grass
and mud village road
over paan and cut tobacco.
she now resides in a tin trunk,
a black and white fade out.  

untitled 30

awaiting Yama on the banks of Verur river
Gandhi's soul grew a coat of flesh.
mocked on earth and heavens,
gandhi shivered to a cold, dawn wind.
after a hard night out,
Yama stumbled on the stone steps
locating Gandhi.
freshened with coffee at a street joint,
Yama said:
"we know and do not know each other."
gandhi bared toothless gums.
Yama continued:
"You pray to gods;
question them;
insist on solutions;
gods dislike activists."
Gandhi replied:
at kurukshetra god averred to
lovingly owning every soul
ahead of advising Arjuna to kill  --
particularly confusing."
a woman's laugh usurped the stream's gurgle.
fondly feeling a rosary of skeletons
slung round her neck,
she passed by, joyously.
strum of a violin, a few thumps on a
drum. 

"Kali is birth.
Kali is death.
shuns gold.
craves skulls.
with Shiva loiters
favoured spots
in burning ghats.
blushing,
tongue out,
owning up human,
inhuman grime."
Yama replied:
"some say life is maya.
for others god is maya.
saints think maya is
a woman;
a disdain;
a sin.
she and Shiva employ me;
a resident at fiery ghats."
for Yama it is no matter.
OM =  MC2.
unknown=known.
Gandhi, the lawyer, caught
the illogic.
said the old man:
"crave for compassion,
not contradictions."
sheared from gravity,
a protesting earth,
drowned in space.   

untitled 29

under a pipal,

ankle deep in Verur river,

grandma stood,

eyes shut,

head down.

........

dusk.

parrots, egrets, herons, cormorants

heading for rest.

six years ago,

a train stopped

at the 20 ft. long railway station,

without a station master,

a name,

a ticket counter;

carried away men, women, children,

with their tales in tin trunks;

leaving an ancestor,

knowing nothing of anything,

anything of nothing;

seven banyans for company.

stretched out on the grassy platform,

the ancestor, unwound by a past, waits.

...........

on Link Road,

a new generation engages the mornings,

readying for fresh blood 

to takeover.  

untitled 28

For Chintamani junior, Vengurla was

a throw of stones in mango orchards,

feasting mangos;

fasting mother,

lighting a diya at dusk to the broom

in the prayer room;

broom is Goddess Laxmi

bought on an auspicious day,

okayed by the house priest;

Laxmi is luck, love and legal tender.

shunned in heavens as maya,

banished to earth,

sweeping homes of deaths,

ghosts crowding night breaths,

preserving births.

in our mango republic,

King Alphonso, exiled to Gulf,

has left behind ruins of packing cases

for locals to mull.

Our mango republic,

birthed in forests,

home to sages serving poetic guesses,

leaf wrapped,

to themselves;

could be hearsay as evidence is

adulterated.

what is,

is dreams are taxed;

corporate jinns steal poor of soul and skin;

residing in skyscrapers,

scorn groundscrapers; 

gods epically mortgaged themselves to asuras;

sages protested;

asuras were obliterated.

in our mango republic,

Gitaic vision wears dark glasses;

absolution lies in nebulous assurance

of rebirths;

raindrops hanging on to green

threads of grass lessens daily hurts.

the King is no more.