Looking at lists of things in their aura,
The ordinary man turns common man
In checked shirt , unkempt moustache
Like a neighbor’s cat, on long whiskers
That are less than any ordinary things.
The common man had been dipping
In our blue mornings of bleary eyes
With our milk sachets ,outside door.
Lately he is seen missing from porch.
(R.K.Laxman(92) the creator of the Common Man in a daily cartoon in our newspaper passed this week)
Uncles on green bench talk politics
From newspaper page, aggregates
Of men’s affairs that have no faces.
The little fingers they had held on
Tight for years, before green bench
Are beyond a green sea practising
Greenbacks ,stirring greenest envy
In aggregates ,yet not greenbacked.
Stubby fingers, ringed in knuckles,
Feel dads have right to big picture.
The fingers, now pointed elsewhere
Have no other views in the matter.
Here we have to increase earsize
To hear star’s light on our backs.
Our ears come in standard sizes.
Starlight seems growing dimmer
As desert sun is glowing warmer
On our highly clothed nakedness.
(Watching a fantasy Hindi movie titled P.K.)
You spilled laughter on the floor
That pretended to be still waters
A window that opened out to sea
Leading him to ride astride wind.
Wind will come back to get you,
Strip your feminity before blind
A glass where others are clothed
And all veils of laughter are lifted.
(In the Hindu epic Mahabharata Draupadi laughs at Duryodhana’s discomfiture as he raises his lower garment to enter an illusory pool in the Mayasabha-starting a series of actions and counteractions culminating in the battle of Kurushetra)
White and Christmaslike, the cathedral
Ascends to a hallowed purity of its bell
Its stones bound to each other by time.
Its stained glass is very thing of beauty,
That is much like our December’s hoar
Crafted like our Nativity’s balcony star,
Eastern star that travelled all our night.
Our enslaver’s beauty worshipper pastor
Swore more by white beauty than piety,
Posnet purely petrified in English stones
Hauled from across white imperial seas.
(on visiting the exquisite Church of Medak built in the imperial times by Reverend Posnet)
Thinking away seems to mean
Looking into the very first eyes
Of my black faced god away
From white faced brother god.
Be there as witness, Krishna,
All the while in the coconuts
In my passing blue sky of car
While I imagine a sea surging
Behind them, yielding crabs
For a Sunday bazar’s eating.
Let the lotus boulder not fall
From my god’s dizzy heights.
Let your stones not fall apart
Still held by an iron scaffold
Of bare bodied men hung on
A fate that cannot think away.
(Re-living the memory of a visit to Jagannath temple in Puri)
Abject we are in this old corner
The bottom of economy’s dogpile.
Our savings fear no passing wind
Like w.p.i.weekly nonfarm rolls.
We are oldies fluttering papers.
We shout in no halls of bourses.
Our diaphragms do not vibrate
To money-wet cries of brokers.
Term deposits are fixed stares.
As they stare, eyes turn marble.
Principal grows shrinking skin
Interest a sneeze,an abject nose.