A gentle breeze touches our winter skin , the very kite flying breeze we used to have on our roofs this day years ago .
Today the kites may be flying on high roofs in our former spaces. The breeze may be flying rooftop kites cutting each other down. Here we have no kites for the sun’s northward journey. But we have rice flour chariots for the sun on our roads.
Here we see women making beautiful rice flour drawings before the houses. Their motifs included new sugar cane and flowers of kitschy shapes. Some times there are chariots for the fiercest sun.Their colors run deep as their blood emotions. They run deep in ancient cave memories.
The 70’s film songs are doing their walking rounds ,snug in pockets . It is cloudy and winterish. Not yet winter in pockets.
Morning after night was of intimations.
They came to remind us of flesh’s surprises . They come to us in our pees standing in bathroom. Pees come with interruptions. Backs refuse to cringe .
Dorothy’s jokes are sardonic reminders of mortality. Fucking busy or busy fucking. The latter you cannot be, in a tattered coat . You are former on the smart phone. Try to stitch back a few tatters. Generally pretend to be fucking busy. But try to stay erect on the stick so the birds do not crap on you.
After rains, we had a child banyan, in the rock crevice with its lizard. Both of us left to our devices, we walked ,a body and an idea.
There was the voice of the boy hollowed of the boy’s walking. The hillocks upended an old sky. A peacock’s cry rang a snake.
A red wheelbarrow is a poem’s idea in rain, with the white chicken. The boy is now a hollow voice ringing inside the sea conch, miles away.
(After the poem “The Red Wheelbarrow” by William Carlos Williams)
Back when it was a smoke of fire wood, women blew a breath into earth stove and men brought a bag of vegetables from someone’s farm and in river boat they brought a mountain’s other side, with its grocery and high-necked pots from a village weekly fair with trinkets.
The pots would grow bigger with grain and there were no wardrobes to store one’s clothes and it was high-necked pots that hid them in bottom shadow. They were all made from alluvial earth. Being of the earth, they develop cracks and must return to their dusty homes.
He is dead as proud marble man who had left a marbled lady cold. This lady is dead too ,never born. She lives in a cold old testament.
The lady is veiled, pure and dead from a piece of Italian mountain, dead as the marble of her maker who had lost his marbles to a proud death.
The museum man of last century went cold as maker of old things . All old things go cold as marble, making death rather extra proud.
(Veiled Rebecca is a beautiful marble statue ,made by an Italian sculptor Benzoni, based upon her Old Testament character . The statue is found in the Salar Jung Museum in Hyderabad )
Like moths and butterflies, we carry our larval thoughts , the mental baggage we had before we came out of a bag, through the post-larval space of time.
Like them we had once gleaming tails. After tails had finally disappeared, we looked up skywards to look for birds that would do their three sorties of bodies.
Some times a bag that was our home seems the very bag and baggage we carry around. With all our baggage we keep looking skywards for birds that made 3 sorties.
He had appeared a year ago in a balcony of some one else’s disappearing. The latter smoke was a sound we all heard in our plastic chairs. He too was seen in a white plastic chair near the balcony.
And now what a fine disappearing act he would perform ,while he was still in heavy-lidded sleep!
The red skin spots have matured to turn senior citizens. The mischievous anti-bodies responsible for their outbreak were now more calculated in their approach.They appeared entirely impervious to our assaults. A mere congress was grass on the lakeside and harbored enemies. Or a papaya pollen that came floating on the street air.
Despair was glossed over. A witch doctor might help. A doctor who could shake the ghosts out of women. At the village there was one near the railway line.He would send forth tiny brown pellets down your throat like bullets across the vast expanse of your stomach. He would look down his eyes on your epidermis and determine the bullets . He would speak nothing and could say nothing. When he was not sending down bullets of brown stuff down your throat he was shaking women off their ghosts.
We waited outside iron cages. There were women squatting in the cages waiting for their turn. They had daughters who had carried ghosts in their bodies. A sprig of neem leaves was waved to keep the ghost at bay. Ghosts are scared of the witch doctor’s words. The daughters then shook like trees in the windstorm. Luckily we carried no ghosts in her. The red spots were not result of any ghostly actions.
Neem flowers are our sweet vernacular. We smell our neem with a bitter taste but they are our moonlight’s granules and fruit promises nipped in the bud.
We live by promises by the moonlight about wave after wave of fresh moons. Our falls will be like our neem flowers bitter but fragrant like the new spring.
In closed spaces we smell our decomposition.Our smells are like cows in shed ,swishing tails on flies. Flies do not smell anything ,sitting on decomposition. Flies do not have noses, only mouths. In the mountains cows do not smell anything.
The women make wall pancakes of cows in decomposition. First, cakes sit on walls in the sun. After that they burn fires in kitchen to make pancakes for stomachs.There is smoke in eyes and woman tears.
It is all a matter of spaces. When our spaces are closed we smell our decomposition.