Well, we now have made our point,
A pointless point about curry point.
The curry is not point but polygon,
In geometry, not school grammar,
A mash of fresh vegetable growths
A muddy rainwater of street puddle
With flotilla of lumpy dead cabbage.
We are two-salary credit card couple.
Our point lies mostly in joint curry.
We now have a tarpaulin over our libidos
Besides running buses of lusts to perform.
Under the tarpaulin when it is not raining
We are cocoons of a married togetherness
That are spinning shiny silks of nine yards
In long musical yarns of Hindi film dance.
It will be raining here with wind and storm.
We have to return tarpaulin to tent maker.
And we will be naked under sun and moon.
(A 23 year old girl who had been gang-raped in a running bus in Delhi lost her battle for life in a Singapore hospital)
My midnight sleep’s footfall
Is a matter of a rust’s restil,
A sleep rusting on balcony,
A pale moon rusting in sea.
Sea moon goes red in face
When there is my upheaval
Where I live from balcony,
Rusting with spent dreams.
( Restil is sleep inducing drug commonly used for sleep disorders)
Somewhere in journey, near the banyan tree,
I meet this perfect stranger in color headgear,
That sits heavily on his head, his legs swathed
In silk dress-cloth, a torso decked in camphor.
I see him come riding on horse, sword in hand.
I decide to join him aloft, in a journey beyond.
When I look back in the hoof-dust of his horse,
My village becomes mere blur in the blue hills.