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)


Inside the train

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)