Chilly farms

The village post master has passions
Smelling of red chillies drying in sun.
His body’s blood has ancestor smells
Vague in blood,with inbuilt difficulty
To pinpoint dads to their grand dads.

Women  run their own chilly farms
In bodies ,with passions hot as spice
Such as European ancestors braved
Rough seas to discover,a white flesh
In preservation of the stomach meat.

On many moonless nights on his roof
The man dries chillies into the nights.
He keeps all the secrets of the villagers
About everyone’s farms, quid pro quo
That makes him a hot village darling.


NOTA is no choice


Ink prevents twice of a voting
Hardly the matter for a NOTA,
Only spoils pretty fluorescent
Nail polish below, finger show
By females better at a choice
When a Hobson rules politics.

The horse is closest to a door
Or none at all, the final NOTA
To press the machine is relief.
And a horse might bolt again
Into dark nights of old times.

India’s General Elections have for the first time incorporated a new NOTA (none of the above) option in the voting machines for the electors puzzled by paucity of good candidates.



No one knew hud hud would come
By the sea, from Northern islands,
A floating hoopoe,with wing span
That covered our black mountains.

Our dolphin here turns up its nose
Against looming ships in high seas.
It is our black mountain with nose.
It could not stop big black hoopoe
From entering our huts at midnight.

(Cyclone hud hud a year ago caused untold destruction to the port city of Visakhapatnam and to numerous hamlets of local fishermen on the Andhra coast)

The seventies movies


In the sepia days the pants traveled
Far and flung in bell shaped bottoms
And the sides burned on hairy faces.
The star’s hands swept an air or two
And at his every bizarre star gesture
Women would swoon in high drama
Eyes fluttering like fresh butterflies.

The pants went yellow and jacket red
In  tinsel romance to dark-lined eyes
That drooped in pretended modesty.
Movies flowed sweetly  to weddings
With no foretaste of  the black gowns.
Motor cycle sputters with chug train
Singing  the brevity of a life in sepia.

Striking a match

We meet at the green hotel lounge
Over cups of coffee and small talk.
We throw around perfect postures
Like a match struck and candle lit.
Our postures are vague in daylight,
Silhouttes standing out as in dusk.
There is moisture in the air, a cave.
Will a match strike a phosphorous
And a candle  lit for man and wife?