Autophony

The subtle play of light on the tamhan blossoms: violet turns pink turns lavender; on a pre-monsoon June morning, a crow contemplates its nest overlooking white mounds of salt by the pans and the raptor –  perhaps a fishing eagle – a black speck starring the day sky. And then there are the gulmohar and amaltas with pods like ugly brown penises, their spring crowns thinking and last the welcome canopy of the rain-tree. I sigh. It could have been an idyll, a pastorale even, but for the  electricity pylons, the rows of false ashoka and the dour grey of a building under construction. I'm in a belching taxi, late to work again. (Published in Setu Bilingual Journal , August 2017 )

Rohini, Paresh and yours truly are happy to announce the release of the second volume of our journal of flash fiction, poetry and haibun, Narrow Road. Featuring authors from the Philippines, India, Denmark, UK, Canada and the USA, this was our first issue with open submissions. You can read the journal here: https://issuu.com/narrowroad.mag/docs/narrow_road_vol_2_august_2017

Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara Shall I tell the story of how you came to be Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara? When your dying king bid you blind his young brother You deceived him with goat's eyes, what vile treachery! Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara! You who crowned Krishnadevaraya emperor With all the Coromandel as your demesne Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara! The king's son was poisoned; he charged you for murder. He put out your eyes and granted you no mercy - Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara! The truth was discovered, you regained your honour He sought to atone and restore you to glory - Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara. Beware a kings' whims and all his behaviour: Let that be what we learn from this tragic story. Saluva Timma, Mahamandaleshwara Blind beggar at the shrine of Venkateshwara. Published in Indian Periodical, 16 July 2017

Yes, war is necessary. But let my wife not be widowed, Nor my children orphaned. Nor let my mother and father Spend life’s last lap looking At the photograph of me Saluting at my passing out parade Trying desperately to stifle a tear. War, however, is necessary. But my career is also necessary. That US visa, that VP designation And that Thailand… Well, whatever happens in Thailand. And that 5-crore sea facing flat. It’s necessary, war is necessary. I am aware that the men in uniform Fighting the blizzards of Siachen Or sudden fire on the Line of Control Or fearlessly facing militants Martyr themselves for the Nation, But I fulfill my responsibilities too And have never failed to offer Koti koti shraddhanjali On Facebook and Twitter. War, however, is necessary. But it is not in my fate that I, Clutching a mug of cold tea at 3 AM, Fight a jihad against sleep; nor, Wearing body armour (If I get any) Depart for a crusade against The searing heat of the ...

Pets are prone to it. As are grandchildren. And the little birdies and kittens You bring in from the cold. All you can do is rage - in impotent disbelief, And sorrow, and anger, and desire, and hope, And go through what they call the four Stages of grief, but what man was so heartless To coolly count while a woman smashed Her bangles on her wrists, fresh-widowed? But it’s a tendency we cannot avoid, And while we may clamour, in foolish lust For the hanging or shooting or electrocution Of someone we have been taught to fear; Our own papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy We were never taught. Oh yes, there it is In the Vedas and Quran and the Confucian texts And maybe we could use it for our own time, But for papa or hubby or Sox or Puppy We never could learn, never could be taught. All you get is vague notions that are inadequate, So inadequate, to fill that rising emptiness Called life hereafter. And yet we fill it and ‘move on’ till someone else expresses, unwantedly, T...

Rays erupt on a winter morning. As buds erupt on shankhapushpam Flowers, the clouds thunder among Silent birds. As lightning in search of earthing, His feet praying for nirvana, the wanderer thirsts. Much of what he’s Learned, must now be unlearnt anew, Alone in a noisy train with lonely men He rumbles wordless into the night mist. (Published in Whispers as part of the " Captivating Titles " activity, July 2016)

This... is a hungry poem. It is    not meant to be a hungry poem. It is meant to be a contented satisfied poem that does not embarrass its government. But it has nothing to feed on so it's hungry. This... is an angry poem. It is angry about potholes and poverty and the crowded buses and the rickety trains and the baby-eating rats in the hospitals and the cop-killing rich kids driving their dads' cars and the police who lock up youths in the cells and beat them to death and the miners cutting down the forests and the army's atrocities on the Northeast and the Naxals' butchering of hapless tribals and the costs of onions and tomatoes and ever rising petrol and diesel prices and and and and and and and and and and and and... This is a des..perate poem. It wants to talk to someone who'll listen and tell it not to commit suicide and tell it to hope and love and be friends and see the roses and the rivers and the koels and the moonlight and hea...

Railway toilets plastered with washing soda; The rasping of nylon streamers against Fly racquets; Chinese toys beating about Before the vendor quickly bundles up And flees; Jasmine garlands and Incense-stick Boxes sharing space with Severed goats' heads — their eyes staring glassily at you to match Your startled glance; the smell of fried flour and Potatoes, and of withering cabbage stalks; Taxi smoke, gasoline and soot; Sweat — anxious Sweat —Whiffing by on hurried steps and a Quickly muttered apology on pushing You out of the way; Mysore masala Dosas frying on a street griddle — all Beetroot and carrot and tomato flakes; A promise of naked women in USB drives, and hard-bodied nude males Promising fairer skin from giant billboards; Death of course, lurking everywhere, sometimes Peering from a bier; Suburban life-forms In their TV-equipped habitats not Peering out of lit windows; and I — I just go home, as I do everyday. (Published in  Setu Bilingual Journa...

They passed me by on horses in Matheran — their eyes locked into each other, unmindful of the sais leading them on or the gilt-edged sunrise drowning them slowly, or the bee-eaters darting, or even the macaques quarelling. But I wonder where they're headed — to an elopement, a temple wedding, a souring    marriage, a custody dispute, a cathartic divorce? — to an engagement, a wedding with sangeet and    mehndi, school fees, wilting outside consulates, an empty nest, a twilight of babysitting? — to a break up, new relationships, nostalgia,    regrets and a fading away into Alzheimer's? Or will they just go back, eyes looking ahead at careers, salaries, taxes, 3 BHK flats, Euro III compliant cars, always some few days away in a broad noon that starlight having dimmed. I cannot quite say. They've gone out of sight; a group of boisterous boys arrives, in their train - – another dozen thoughts. I can't keep thinking all...

My soul just had a bath. Of the kind that has bubbles and champage and a naked lover. The moist warmth caressing the skin and his breath cascading down my neck; the candles sputtering orange, vermilion, azure and that eruptive tickle of his fingers and those poems he reads in that marijuana voice to closed eyes; the pores opening, the grime of regret oozing out into the rose-petal soaked ripples... a few snatches of Traumerei but I'm really not listening - there are passions, recriminations, fights, purulent regrets being exorcised: by the water, his presence, the flickering lavender-scented light. and there will be rain and solitude afterwards, wrapped in a blanket my soul towelling off into the dry, bright tubelit night.

I watch a flower fall from its bough buoyed softly by the breeze before it lands in the grey, soulless dust; And with no leaves to shade it I watch it wilt into paleness under the sun's bleaching malevolence; I watch a wee puppy toss it in play, then tire and seek newer diversions; I watch a young girl walking by contemplate it, but it's too pale, too shrivelled to add to her pretty merriness; A botanist comes by seeking specimens, but this one is torn and damaged - I watch him toss it aside and look to the tree above with its fresh blooms - more perfect in form; I watch at last a lover pick it and tear it apart petal by petal - she loves me, she loves me not -; at last, I trample its remains into the earth - let it dissolve into elements to emerge newborn, when I come by as it blossoms again next spring.

Rummaging through old photographs, I'm suddenly driving the wrong way on a one-way street. There's an old photograph of me - eight or nine years younger perhaps. Maybe if I shed some flab, lose that double chin and some of the gloominess - You think, I can go back to that fresh-faced twenty-something look? There's one of my sister's friends taken some years back. Pretty bachelorettes worth a whistle - when no one's looking, of course - but they'll not be bachelorettes now, perhaps not pretty even. Who knows? Further back in the pile, a few snaps of my coming-of-age ceremony or perhaps a losing-of-innocence ceremony. There's me - eight years old - being initiated into rites I'm going to abjure a teenage rebellion later. And randomly there's one I see of Gomateshwara - a tourist souvenir of a visit to Shravanabelagola - head too far up to capture in the camera (probably the sun glared). If he weren't a god or saint,...

Sunday morning, on a walk with my dog. Avoiding the middle-aged, fit and not-so-fit joggers and the senior citizens stripping shrubs bare of flowers are a murder of crows, pecking a dead pigeon apart. One is trying to strip off the flesh from a wing as others attack the meatier, juicier bits. The joggers are careful to give them a wide berth, while trying not to step on the discarded condom lying alongside, for who wants seed stuck on the sole. I cannot quite 'avert my gaze', for a horrified fascination takes hold of me, watching the crows feast on a rare treat. They are careful not to go near the condom too. The gentle morning breeze, with the fragrance of fresh blossoms and the songs of the magpie-robins and sparrows, playing with the fallen, yellow autumnal leaves and the soft, warming sunlight in the cold air: do they add to or subtract from the ambience? I don't know. Like the joggers, I sidestep and walk on.

Mother gave me a patch of garden. I ploughed it with a trowel and seeded it with dahlias, geraniums, marigolds, and chrysanthemums. I watered it everyday and watched with delight as they began to sprout. Then one day I saw a new plant, with tiny bright green leaves. Mother didn't know what it was. Se called it a weed. She told me to remove it. I didn't. I thought it was pretty. Prettier still, when it had tiny, yellow flowers. And then there were other plants - short ones, tall ones, prickly ones, with white, yellow, even red flowers. One flower had petals that were violet outside and yellow inside. Mother called them all weeds. The geraniums and dahlias and chrysanthemums didn't seem to grow well. They were short and had small flowers, not like mother's patch which had big, pretty ones. Mother said it was because I had let weeds grow. But I had lots of little flowers - like little me. Mother said I had grown a weed garden...

Encased in concrete, with a dying orange above, and the silver turning grey below, the waves crash futilely against the Bandra fortress -I suppose one might, on careful listening, hear steel versus steel again; Boats bob by those decayed ramparts, signs of of an eternal poverty dependent on the wealth of the sea; On open sea a marvel of modern engineering rises - a some triumphant half-finished proclamation of victory over nature; above the clouds thicken, but loosen not as in impudent demonstration of whose writ truly runs; In the shanties of Bandra, in the towers of Worli, and in the middle-classness of Mahim, lights come on one by one - a dying day, a sleepless city.