Don’t ask me. The day continues to be bad. A Bay of Bengal cyclone continues to rage in my under-belly, with the cyclicality of ten hours or so between four hour episodes.
Tomorrow I will have a live camera inserted in my belly , while I will keep my mouth agape. The camera shall bring out any delinquent stuff that is inside.
At the sea there were ants of bathing people. On the night of Shiva, Shiva eats poison for the world’s sake and the world shall take sacred bath and keep vigil all through the night. Just to keep up morale.
Shiva freezes poison in his throat. He turns blue, like the blue sky hanging on the sea I feel in my balcony. Like the Shiva actor roaming the streets for the entertainment of passersby and
his livelihood. Like the blues the office-goers sport on their sun-tanned faces on Mondays.
Light pours to alter a reality. Shards of sunlight play host to an enhanced reality, beyond glass table now grasping a newspaper in steadfast shadows trailing flying dust.
Light breaks ,ever so delicate, on the ice cubes of varying sizes formed when we were sleeping. They will turn liquid shadows losing the reality of forming.
Anselm Hollo ,left to the mercy of auto-correct , becomes a hello and I cannot say hello to his molecule . Nevertheless I find his molecule in poems.I say Hollo to him.
Hollo, we are now calling,
A molecule from your life
Whose lineaments we are.
We are here, much happy.
Your molecule entered us
As a cabbage in stomach.
We find your lineaments
In poetry, as a molecule
That lives in our stomach
Until we enter a sea of air.
(reading molecules from Anselm Hollo’s poems)
Our change will happen not at the midnight of cakes and candles, with loud claps and crackers but in the doorways, each time we pass them like ghosts, room to room, under flowers, delicately painted on their frames on yellow.
The doorway is not inside nor there in space but just hanging on time, as we hop and skip ,holding our hems from paint sticking to them.The year-end is a doorway that will disappear in the dusty lane and in the dust we can’t recall what ghosts we had been in the room we left behind.
Like coastal things ,let us corrode in peace on the sea beach, in a 3-B.H.K apartment. The iron we have been eating for our Complete Blood Picture has turned out old, brought from defunct hill, a hill corroded in last year’s mining licences.
Today we see a blood moon corroding on our roof and its rust falls to clouds. In the bloody confusion rain may forget to fall on port city’s parched tongue. All farmers on the countryside are up on the trees,their tongues tasting the tree’s cold air.It seems they are entirely corroded.
All things corrode and even a moon we had seen in childhood coconuts. The moon is made of a fragile iron that rusts of too much rain clouds.
So rust in peace, that is all we can say in requiem.
In that merry-go-around , you touch the sky for a brief while,trying to reach the stars but your flying feet have touched the hem of the sky and returned empty-handed.
Luminous tube-lights cris-cross with the geometrical figures of the wheel drowning the silhouettes of men in a hurry.
Everywhere there are people in the wheel of life, now going up,now coming down with a bit of the sky in their pockets.
Their blood swirls in their bodies, as if falling from a mountain’s top,and minds remain in suspended animation in between.
This morning was barber time, my head in his hands and my ears full of him.
Barber jokes went over shrouded customers, their heads watching the ceiling fan
as if they were looking at the sun in the lake.The ceiling fan had no motivation to whir.
The Singareni coal-miners refused to load coal because they wanted a separate state.Their own state of bliss. So there is a power hiatus. Fans do not move in barber shops.
Barber asks customer in a non-veg barber joke
Tomorrow is festival of the many-armed Goddess
Who had killed fierce demons under her feet.
Doesn’t your father kill a goat for her sacred meal?
Customer :Don’t know about the goat or demons.
Laughter from the shroud.
My head starts imagining things between the snips of scissors. Imagine these humans are goats and the goats turn humans .Will these goats have many-armed goats as their goddesses ?
Barber goat will say to customer goat: Will your goat father kill a human for our goat Goddess of many-arms?
The goats laugh from their white shrouds. At this point I pay forty rupees and walk out running fingers on the smoothness of the head.