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 )

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...