Mom’s guru had vanished behind
A custom warehouse,her mantra
Left in mom’s ears above waters.
Disciple has since entered soul
Of mango tree whose leaves are
Fluttering like birds in mild wind.
Wind must be fluttering mantra
Left behind in my mother’s ears
Now operating below the waters.
I will look in the very first eyes
Of round black faced god away
From white faced brother god.
Be there my witness, Krishna,
All the while over the coconuts
In my passing blue sky of a car.
Now I imagine the sea surging
Behind them that brings crabs
For the Sunday bazaar’s eating.
Let the lotus boulder not drop
From our god’s dizzy heights
And lotus stones not fall apart
But be held by an iron scaffold
With bare bodied men hung on
A fate they cannot think away.
(Re-living the memory of a journey to Jagannath temple in Puri)
You mocked ego’s raised dhoti
A maya of male shame, its hurt.
You spilled laughter on the floor
That pretended to be still waters
A window that opened to the sea
Leading him to ride astride wind.
Wind will come back to get you,
Strip a femininity before blind
A glass when others are clothed
And the veils of laughter lifted.
(In the Hindu epic Mahabharata Draupadi laughs at Duryodhana’s discomfiture as he raises his lower garment to enter an illusory pool in the Mayasabha-starting a series of actions and counteractions culminating in the battle of Kurushetra)
In its time , old banyan has seen
Pond come and go, touch its feet
Depending on white fluff there.
When it comes, chances are that
Unhurried women are watching
The hair flow with the wind in it.
Its red fruits look delicious to eye
And not to careful straggling goat
Standing tall on the banyan’s feet.
The birds have a red conscience
To keep in the beating stomachs
Staying clear of stomach upsets.
Goatherd is busy in banyan’s hair
As his goat stands tall on its feet
Awaiting branches to drop dead.
Watchman is ticking life.
Watchman is drunk bird.
His chicks eat his breath.
A watchman’s bird will go
Like all birds from nests
In breath or from breath.
He is now room with bird.
Without , he will be space
Like bird without the nest.
Everyone’s room is mine.
When my own bird goes
He and I are same space.
Our barest essentials are nuts
Before we bite bolt from blue.
Now we turn blue in our faces
When faced with particulars.
We shall turn blue like the sky
Not a fluorescence of Krishna
In the blues of a peeved lover,
Her eyes closed with his flute.
We are blue blood particulars.
They will in due course merge
And coalesce from ground up
In the blue vagueness of a sky.