My mind overflows my body.
Take my body- I don’t need –
And my bags in that corner.
Give it to the medical student
And to the Kolkata rag picker.
(former Chief Minister of West Bengal Mr.Jyoti Basu wished his body, on death ,to be donated to the Medical College)
Ephemeral are waters formed
In snow hills melting by a sun
And the water in water tanker
Here over which fiery women
Fight in their diagonal throats.
Ephemeral things reach seas
From the hills and the tankers
And by women’s wet voices.
Their bodies thirst for waters
From mountains and tankers,
Their ephemeral voices break
The quiet of a morning walk.
We would create mind of body
To touch the inwardness of all.
We prefer to keep an old dogma
That had us scaling a Shiva hill
A snow hill of an endless night
While poison of doubt spread
In a bluest of throats, keeping
A world awake by kitsch songs
Over houses of burning thatch
But bodies stayed all of piece.
We have a tattered tarpaulin over libidos,
Beside running buses of lusts to perform.
We are cocoons of married togetherness
That are spinning lazy silks of nine yard
In long musical yarns of Hindi film dance.
But it is rattling here in wind and storm.
We have to return tarpaulin to the maker.
We are soon naked under sun and moon.
(A 23 year old girl who had been gang-raped in a running bus in Delhi died in a Singapore hospital)
They of the uncertain sex beat the wind,
In their joined palms in forced cadence.
A floor-mopping cleaner boy under seat
Met our eyes ,with his money-wetness .
Train went sputtering for lack of puffing
As gravelly stones hit its forbidden parts.
We hear body’s fall steeped in melody
An exquisite sound gone from fingers.
Eyes fell in broken strings , the music
Lost in a whisper of time, in nightfall.
A glass spread quickly in strung eyes.
Big black eyes were strung to a song,
A lifetime song , flow of a generation.
The sound is now ashes, eyes beads.
(A homage to Pandit Ravi Shankar the Sitar maestro who passed a few years ago)
Then, at the dead of the night
A river’s waters rose , swelled
And spilled over to the village.
The mountains then looked on
As a flying chariot-in-flames
Had sheared the edges smooth.
The river then swelled in pride
As rain poured into catchment
In rugged Western mountains.
Now the river is within limits
Tamed by the monstrous dam,
With no excitement of a spate.
It is now so much brown sand
With streaks of shallow water.
Nowadays , funeral fires rage
On the sun-baked river-bed.
On those annual festival days
Thousands of merry- making
Peasants and townsfolk alike,
Congregate on the hot sands
To celebrate a god’s birthday.