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 )
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.