Dancing nuts

In her kitchen she had the earth-stove
With fire licking dark sky of iron pan.

She roasted nuts in it for kid stomachs.
Smoke from her logs climbed the wall
Right up to  a roof  thatch darkening it

To a color of the iron pan that had nuts
Dancing in pain on it, like black deeds.



The phantom of  my past hurt
Would knock at my midnight

At unlit sleep’s corner where
Awareness took a blind turn.

I tried to think of the flowers
Strewn on the garden’s path,

The sundial with quick hands
And full-grown Great Danes

Chasing the winter’s shadows .
Morning would quickly break

Upon the luminescent spaces
Of the sun-lit bamboo grove.


In a rhythm, please speak up now with us
As rain- moths are pulling out their music

From puffed up cheeks and painted hearts
The cuckoo sings a rain song from a gnarl.

Its rhythm will go on till morning and sun.
Crack a burst sound from an almond shell

Of dawn hid in kernel on night’s branches
The tip of tongue testifying an early rising.

Girls, hold skirts to swirl like an earth-ball
Kick the blue of airy balloon to yellow sun

Who has tied his horses to swirl round him.
It is now your turn to move in simulacrum.


“The sun has tied Earth and other planets through attraction and moves them around itself as if a trainer moves newly trained horses around itself holding their reins.”

Rigveda 10.149.1

The geography of Hampi

Timeless stories sit like monkeys
In the middle of fast flowing river

And circular boats swirl with men.
Boats are circles of moving swirls

Just like stones that live in circles
Of the water flowing round them.

Boats are helpful monkey soldiers
Who further epic stories of kings.

Circular boats flow like old stories.
Stones sit as abstractions in water

As if they have no shapes beyond
Stories of men and their monkeys.

The brick wall

The old brick wall came back, a soft wind
Buffeting the creepers rustling on its holes

And moss of history faded to black night.
Busy brown ants were not left far behind.

If it was words of bricks we might build it
In brown brokenness, a music of thought.

Bird visitor would come in brown stripes
The fickle screw-head moved for worms.

A creeper strutted in a sun its proud stuff
Of paper flowers hanging leaves in pink.

It was not a brick wall, but a broken wall
Of holes that hid a childhood’s lost years.


We had a rain running with fog.
If only joy could be a pure gold

Of sun alternating with a cloud.
We could see locals in their fog.

The mouths steamed tea words
Topped with momos like snows.

Momos were white like women
While they spoke in their vapor.

The fog walked up to far off pines
But the rain battered umbrellas.

While bodies shivered with cold,
Words vanished as white vapor.