The lake shimmers in the distance ,its brown sands sprouting a rain-less herd of sheep. Sheep root into its skin , their tongues touching the insides of its dry mouth.There is a shimmer of water in the distance touched by a sun low in the sky. Near the bread-knife of the water streak lies a white van like a loaf of bread, with painted figures of humans crawling around it.The humans are ants going about their no particular business.The van is presiding their destinies as their ant-nest.
You cannot go there, says the cop in a police jeep.The camera cries.It recoils in protest against the policeman’s refusal. No lake pictures, no horizons heaving.
The lake is now a dark old man tending his sheep. His eyes look at the camera’s eye and there is instant recognition. His sheep is on way to their home.They are tiny smudges of black and brown paint on the canvas. The old man is a portrait framed in his sky. His ebony skin is a dark silhouette against an indifferent sky.He is indifferent from me, a mere object in a dark corner of my camera. So close to my rear view mirror. When I capture his black body on my visible sky I capture myself as well. In the rear-view mirror objects look closer than they are. He is no different to me. We are of the same space .
During the day the insects keep coming in from the sun. In the evening they come from the earth, fully donning their silken wings. Their cousins are our dear old mosquitoes sleeping on the trees in the day.They are waiting for the night to open in our silky mosquito nets with tiny holes like stars. When we sleep in our mosquito nets we live under a vast promontory of white cloth . A lone mosquito enters in between stars and sings its song near our eyes as we close our eyes.
Frankly we do not like mosquito songs. We prefer our own songs in the buzz of our mind. By the little songbirds in our skulls that keep fluttering their wings to drink nectar from our medulla .Our medulla is a deep red hibiscus flower meant for worship and prefers its own stock of buzz-songs . When the songbirds flutter their wings in the mid-air their wings sing a wind-song about the therapeutic effects of nectar .That is how it helps them stay afloat for long periods.
Morning was windy with a mild sun , a red peach on the hills. The tree broke into bright yellow flowers with not a leaf.
People of a laughter club come here to laugh together. The laughing club will now do a dance of laughter. They have a habit of laughing for nothing. They laugh their sides off, as if the wind has tickled them in their bones.
They hold their sides from falling off and spin like tops their raunchy torsos. When their laughter is done ,they are serious facades scowling at the red peach of a sun.
We walked on the beach in the hot afternoon sun as the sea had reached its high point of receding with dead fish puked in disgust from its fat belly and a few brown mollusks, still sleeping in shells. The sea seemed to say nothing much in metaphor.
The sands torched feet, yet opened a soft wetness to a mile-long series of footsteps sinking as prints writing our history for erasing by the next wave. But still the sea did nothing to suggest metaphors.
A fishing boat in sight was not much of metaphor nor a ship lazing in giant afternoon drowsiness, that stayed moored to the sky with a fat deep anchor.
Looking for metaphors we were lost in a sea of words.
Our barest essentials are nuts before we bite a bolt from blue. Now we turn blue in faces when faced with the particulars.
We shall turn blue like the sky ,not a fluorescence of Krishna whose blue is a middle thing between royal blue and ocean green ,in the blues of a peeved lover her eyes closed with his flute.
Ours are blue blood particulars. They will in due course merge in the blue vagueness of sky.
This morning we were led up ,by words, to intact mornings. Icarus failed to fly on waxen wings and dropped down peacefully as the farmers furrowed their land. Our monkey God rose to meet the sun fruit only to return with a red apple mouth .
It did not matter we failed . Our mornings were intact.
The almond tree forgot all about the maroon leaves it had dropped a few weeks ago. It is now green spring in its leaves. A pocket music sang of the many women of Krishna with only one in his heart.
In the neighbor green bench there is now an absence where was a stretching girl. Girl now stretches morning runs, clockwise.
The song in the pocket asks Radha why she is not singing her love song.
Childhood was largely a museum for the poet in winding lanes , where they go up in the air, at the end ,at their conversation ‘s dead end. Men were at the end of conversations loosely hanging in thin air by their flowing white clothes. Those were ghosts of earlier colored clothes, monkey caps against the biting cold of the hills.
The caps they donned were of monkeys in nose, in the absurd monkey movement, from tree to tree looking for fruit in the cold space of blue winter. They quickly reached end of conversation. At the conversation’s end hung a monkey cap.
The child wore monkey cap on mom’s shoulder. As moms went in the hills there would be dead ends to every conversation, dead ends to every mom.