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.
There it is my mountain with a mouth open at its top ,a hole in childhood village where monks lived for peace.These late poems breath life to the old choked with bare trees.
A good old poet sets about re-ordering pines, avoiding the clutter of the top clouds,to be free of unseasonal rain with resultant mud to sky. Rain drowns a pine’s loneliness at the top, late poems are about.
Krishna’s mountain frees us from pebble rain of angry gods when we are down in its under,what our late poems are about.
When everything was going the Borges way and my head seemed a vast egg full of astral matter that could spill anytime like yellow yolk, a little recall of the details relating to my own coming into this earth is in order:
Electricity struck a mother’s middle finger
Causing radically twisted views about life.
The electric wires came from father’s love
Who embraced them to get the wind going,
For a baby- son perspiring in summer heat.
Baby might have cried viable disapproval.
It was unclear if it was okay to deprive son
Of a father’s love, by embracing live wires.
It was wrong choice, a crazy quirk of fate,
A poetic justice, before a future unfolded,
A finger-pointing by its fate at a life-script
Ere a prologue is writ, an epilogue began.
High on the view of the sandy river,the trees squatted along a mossy wall ,open-eyed and shaking with curiosity.Through the river view, mild winds evaporated a brown sand that mirrored a strange world holding a moment of the trees. A house loomed on the horizon with a half vehicle parked before it respectfully.It seems a certain German had made a fetish of making beauty out of a laterite terrain that boasted two rivers, between them at a sisterly distance of twenty five kilometers.A park named after him had to be re-named after the white Caucasians left the place and it was duly named after a free country’s prime minister who had been named after a certain river canal of Kashmir. Lameyer loved steel and flowers. And rivers with hot sand.He made much out of them.
Nothing burned at Burnpur. Only there was a certain Burn of Martin Burns fame whose name it bore after the old name of diamond town went away from people’s memory.The park rose high on everyone’s agenda, the park of Lameyer, the German who loved terraces of flower gardens along the river bank.
The question arose whether Damodar was a male river or a female.It was finally settled it was a male river. How could it be a female river when it turns so violent in monsoon and destructive to people? But now the river is tamed by five dams in the valley.It is sad river,a sorrowful one river with large vacant stretches.
A desire is a lower body, a higher mind, a midnight’s rain, a tree’s stance. A wind that is making midnight unduly vocal. Dogs are contextually missing .But snakes exist in their slither down the drainpipe of rainwater. The rain slams the sleeping voices of drunk watchmen fitfully alert with their sticks. Their wives’ laughter stays hidden in a medulla , a hibiscus flower meant for goddess worship. Their daughters mutter newly learnt “A” for Apple in sleep.
The rain is incident ,knocking conjugal doors at odd hours. Interfering in conversations..When we wake up from conversations our dreams begin.Our daydreams of golden sunlight, when there is no more gray and silver rain but an exquisite sun-and-rain situation, where the sun warmly collides with rain.Where the rain and sun live in mutual bliss.
Like when dogs and vixen used to marry in our childhood. That was when the kids persuaded the rain to beat our roofs on promises of chicken eggs, duck eggs. The grown up rain has no mind nor body to eat eggs. But rain was a child’s friend and a friend had to eat farm-fresh chicken eggs for breakfast. So it could beat our asbestos roofs faster. And slither smoothly down its corrugations along with dried yellow flowers waiting to drop to the earth.
These are not made of effulgent light that dissipates to the interior of west. They are made of real earth to break.
Watch made- to- break horse smiles as their faces break in a comic mirth of earth horses expected to fly a sky.
(Bankura in West Bengal is famed for beautiful terra cotta horses made by traditional craftsmen)