Our home was soft corners, diaphanous shadows,
A ghost-home tamarind tree of dark midnights
That used to shed many tiny leaves and bird-twigs,
A well deep in darkness and shrieking night crickets,
A wet coconut rope slithering on its stone rim.

The water shivered on its perked up surface
At the dark touch of the dimpled metal pail.
The pail got pulled up quickly spilling water
To the banana which squealed with green joy.
The thorny fence wound its way in the moonlight
Quietly disappearing in the hillock without trace.

We are keenly waiting for our miracles.
We are waiting at the dusty bus stops
Of I- love- you graffiti and sleeping beggars.
Some times we wait in the back alleys
Of broken down old cars and scruffy dogs
When the bells- tinkling bullock carts arrive
Bringing their loads of golden rice straw.
At dusk these things will surely happen
When the papers will drop from the skies
And books are closed and words exchanged.
They happen at other times in walking thoughts
Where they stay as loosely strung images.

Opposite are some bodies of consciousness.
Here, on the green park bench, I cogitate
On the fevered awareness of my body.
There, an old body is moving towards me
Pointing other body things to another old body.
Like the old body that whispered, pretty dear,
To the wasp that sat on the window-sill
Still but seemed to be saying something.

This comedy thing plays out clearly
In the down of your throat, the way
You walk and talk in fits in yourself
Flies abuzz, your red scarf waving.
This morning we walked briskly
Explaining these things to ourselves
Our hands quickly went up in the air
Our throats cleared in anticipation
Nothing came save a guttural sound.
Since nobody laughed at our joke-
A two rupees joke on the cell- phone-
We sat deeply on the foundation,
As our legs dangled in empty space
Through the waving grass of the breeze
Showing bits of sunrise behind the hill.

At this moment we are trying poetry again
When the Gurkha guard paces up and down
Hitting the night with his rhythmic stick
As his shrill whistle pierces its silence and
A distant dog protests its snout at the dark sky.

We use it as a pain balm on our temples
Of low self-worth and high aggrandizement
When we refuse to take our glances away
From the short term low walls interrupting
Our blue skies with painter stroke birds frozen
Above the rocks that rose from sleeping shrubs.

He always looked for a catch
Amid complex loops of reason-
In the people logic of democracy
And the fine arithmetic of men.
His eyes now float upwards
On the hill, in the forest
His pockets are full of rain
And the helicopter’s whir.


He had them coming everywhere;
He promised them rice and jobs.
His words were hopes, sparks
That flew off from under his toes
As he walked their mud tracks.
His eyes now float upwards
On the hill, in the forest
His pockets are full of rain
And the helicopter’s whir.


(The Andhra Pradesh Chief Minister Mr.Rajasekhar Reddy has been killed
in a helicopter crash in the dense forests on his way to a public
meeting)

Amidst waves of undulating optimism
I reflect on this morning’s wavy lines
The jogging track’s bikini geometry,
Scraps of park conversations in waves,
A gust of wind riding on film music,
A scared rabbit’s grass-jumping white
And a lens eye short in beauty-waves.

A mere single phase electric line
Makes me much afraid in the dark.
I am in the first phase of my old age
Groping for a matchstick with unsteady hand
In the dark recesses of my mud-wall.
In the quiet afternoon, I sit by myself
Much afraid of the crow’s metallic caw
Marking my life’s phases matter-of-factly.

When my mother was not a mere idea
My falling sick was a cosmic event.
Now it is like the forest tree which fell
In the storm, noticed only by the birds
And the big black ants at the root.
It is now a mere idea like my mother
An idea which comes to its fruition
And fades away in the cosmic sky.

White is coarse -spun cloth shirt
And the white of a squint eye
Operating from beyond the world
Two years is long time for an eye- white
Not to merge in the sky's white.