In the evening we went to the lake to collect our images .There were fish and trees,boulders and algae.The algae spread like a stomach of the lake. The boatman poked sticks in its stomach and came up with leaves which would turn food for formation of new leaves on trees outside the city. Leaves grew out of leaves, then dead, now alive. They alternate between life and death, sun and shadows.Their dead bodies turn yellow and fly gently buzzing with the autumn wind.
The fish hid under the algae.The algae hid over the fish. Both fish and algae were dead in the ultimate analysis.Then they would take birth as new leaves,new fishes.Everything went fine for the boatman, for the fish woman with a basket of fish. The fish woman turned a silhouette at dusk. The fish did not turn anything. Later, they will turn to ashes in somebody’s stomach. The fish woman will turn to ashes too. Later. But the boulders in the lake remained so that cormorants could paint them with their droppings. The boatman froze near the boulder with the paddle in his hands. He too would turn to ashes .Later.
The camera wished to eat the sun in the lake. But the sun wanted to eat the clouds. Later, the camera will turn to ashes.
We saw ourselves, a rod travelling on rails falling off because it was not shape enough for the rails.We looked at the dark promontory of a day’s night and that made us dizzy, so many stars , so much time. Time sucked us in, our life in a limbo when we walked jauntily. We slept with our eyes open ,our breath slowly being taken away.We were alive like the dinosaur that had existed in the wild plains and now lives in this hall, sprawled in white bones as time stretches. The very bones that had lived before we came.
Our own bones wept for their dust and the rivers they have to float in to reach the sea. The mathematics of blood that went haywire, as their zeroes on the left went multiplying infinitely .Nothing really mattered , not even the hair on our head that stood erect in tribute to the magnificence of the dome.And the dome went on endlessly abolishing our body, the bodies in the heavens and embraced the mindlessness of being a stone , a mere flicker in space.
Our journey began. Nearer death we are now a rod on the rails that lost its shape. Our rails will continue their journey with other rods that still have their shapes, until they too will lose their shapes.
We were concerned with fragments. Little clouds that hung over cities. Fluffy cloud polygons that held promises of rain because the pied crested cuckoo said so on its northern journey. We went cuckoos over our tiny streams , the waters that ran below our feet. The fragment would fill whole streams.The very waters which our machines had probed tearing the earth’s intestines. The earth had blood then in white fine powder.Our feet are still in its prints.
The fragment hung lightly over our lake, tantalizing the city. It was a shapeless polygon that changed its shape like an amoeba., a single unicellular organism with deceptive false feet.By dusk he it became a shred of gray, a blood smear in the death of the sun.
On the hill is God’s man, with a white beard and hoary locks of history. He is chipping away at firewood , without taking his eyes away from the wood even for a second. His wood-ax catches the stick in mid-air.His white beard becomes part of sunlight, a flash of morning light through the tree branches. He must be from a distant sun-land , on a brief visit to the hills for cutting wood.
His wood is now sticks ready for their fire. He enters God’s house to light a flame for Him. And for us so we can see the flame in God’s eyes.And drink a palmful of God’s water with a sacred sounding slurp.
There is another God in the dark cave. He flickers as a lamp at the end of the cave. Between Him and us was an abiding darkness, unfathomable love to our eyes.Our eyes try to swim in the darkness but without a gliding torch we drown in it.
A helpful teenager brings a torch. The old man in hoary locks must have broken his silence.
This morning as I came out of the park gate I saw the crow pecking away at an angry lizard. The lizard got angry with the crow that was trying to eat it. There was no reason why the lizard should have got angry, opening its mouth wide. The crow flew away some distance ,seeing me because it thought I would get angry. Actually I was wondering if I should get angry at all. I remembered the caterpillar in a poem not getting angry , when being eaten by the ants crawling over it. The poet’s friend merely drew a circle in dirt about the dying caterpillar. She did not get angry. She merely fixed the composition.
I fixed my composition and came away. But I looked back at the crow that got busy eating the lizard. Luckily the lizard was not angry with me. Nor the crow. Even if they were I could not have changed the composition.
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.
There was the rattle of the machine and a vigorous thump on its flanks, another noisy night thump to quiet the dusty cooling fan inside C.P.U. letters separated by layers of dust. They fly away, keep them together with full stops between the letters.
The water bottle is down with a neck hole semi-circular for sipping like a semicircular moon in balcony with a night wind quietly humming.The night watchman’s whistle bores a semi-circular hole in the midnight.
Now is pressure on top of a prostate falling for a leak, like expected cloud in monsoon any time coming but not, being satirical about a swollen strawberry lightly woken from sleep for poetry. A sarcasm is about the old man’s love life come to caesura. A vigorous thump administered yields no love results , punctuation gone through a window. Poetry is still left in a night’s layers when peeled like tearful onion rings nothing at the core,only an absence,a silence between the layers of dust.