What came to the mind was a mere brick wall
In several squares of thought, a soft wind
Buffeting the creepers flying on its holes
And moss of history faded into black night.
The busy brown ants were not left far behind.
If it was words of bricks we might build it
In its brown brokenness,on music of thought.
A bird visitor would come in brown stripes
Its fickle screw-head moving in sky for worms.
The creeper strutted in the sun its proud stuff
Of flowers of paper hanging in leaves in pink.
It was not a mere brick wall, but a broken wall
Of holes that hid childhood, my lost years.
The lake went unnecessarily emotional
In the shadows of the banyan and men
Sitting on the rails of its embankment
Who looked like birds flying on the sea.
Its ripples pretended to be ocean-waves.
The trees waved knowingly on the rim
Their green hairs eating up the blue sky.
We fished for hidden grandma stories.
An auntie lent her gold in a cloth bundle.
You need jewels, you jewels of women?
Come to the lake and ask the lake auntie
Who will lend hers to you for wedding.
Remember to return them when done.
You, betrayer, have not returned them?
She is no more a jewel lending auntie.
You can hear her sad silence in ripples .
(The myth relates to the Ramappa lake , a 800-year old lake near Warrangal in Andhra Pradesh that has remained a part of the collective conscious of the people through such interesting myths and folk lore in circulation in the area)
The first flower is fixed in my sky, waving in wind.
Its white fragrance is mine alone in its blue space,
The wind I do not own, but here this balcony I own
In bricks and cement, in sand from the river’s holes.
The flower is mine for claim to neighbors
And the squirrel that passes by, whoever.
When it dies and falls, I alone shall mourn.
Morning is pure light, on coffee and paper
A song in light raises head softly in the east
On the high place where god sits with trees
In his loin cloth and a fixed stare at the wall.
The rain flies shall begin life’s journey now
As light first reddens trees, makes them blush
Of god on their leaves, in their golden splendor
Their green then mixing in gold from the east.
Light fills our chests, our sleeves, our hair,
In loose strands of a girl’s hair on the road
Where electricity flowed at their fiery tips,
A song on her lips lacking, but felt in breeze.
The girl’s hands flowed as water from hills.
Their music filled trees with leaves of blush.
I do not have any words for trees, in my throat
I know them in throat, by astringency of fruit,
By disgust on tongue of caterpillars on them
In ironic glow as creatures of beauty of future
Their projected butterfly stature in the next sky,
By leaves falling one by one in October wind
Like snow in December of higher Himalayas.
I call them trees, even if they stand there alone
It is in their plurality they turn colored butterflies
When they are up and about, alone, in bunches,
Their lady-like cackle heard from jungle peacocks
As they raise blue heads from bushes under them.