If Funes has every detail of every day of his life, what is the problem? If only he can junk them and keep only postulates till postulates are themselves junk-worthy.

Funes is concrete. He is stuck with  the stone pleats of a lake’s Standing Buddha . The  abstract Buddha meditating  under the Bodhi tree escapes him.

There is defiance in the air

A girl in white stands in a far corner of the road, her right pigtail defiantly slung on her left shoulder.There, bleary-eyed moms stand impatiently waiting for yellow buses to take kids to reluctant schools.

It had rained heavily last night on the black plum tree There was violent wind and violet rain from the tree.The puddles under the tree were violet with ripe fruits
mashed under walking feet in rain water and mud.

The woman takes the white dog out for a walk but the dog pulls her sideways for sniff-sniff. Apparently the dog has fiercely independent views.

An old man with lungi duly tucked above the knees is dragging a bawling brat grandson into the house .The three year old is defiantly dragging grandpa away.He does not see eye to eye with grandpa on all issues.

Morning after

Just back from a giant Buddha on Krishna’s muddy banks.

There was also  a tall marble phallus God who looked us in the eye. There  the river flowed by in trickles . A few boats of people made vague gestures at us  from its streams.

Before, we spent an islands night in the river. A paper star shone bright on the boat anchoring shore ,mobbed by night moths. The river was gentle and shone with boats of incoming lights. In the morning we caught a biscuit of a sun in the clouds. A man  would dive into the sun on the river and quickly come up with river pearls.

The Buddha we saw sitting on a giant stupa. He was smiling at our ruins. In the museum we saw the ruins gathered up neatly for imagination.

 In the island four black dogs squatted in human corners. At midnight they would bark at wild boars and river snakes. Tall reeds waved to the  breeze on the ripples. A yellow Goddess Mother ruled the island. The same MA who sits on the hill lights looking over the city and the river barrage on which men went up and down.


I go in the supermarket for images, like the poet Ginsberg in California .I of course collect from the shelves Lion’s major deseeded dates. I have my dates to keep.

Can I do my listing ,like a bearded Yankie poet of the last century? He was listing blades of grass. He was making an inventory of the stars in the dark. He was pointing stars ,the way his beard went. What was the last count by him? Can we resume the count from where he had left off?

Now we collect images like Ginsberg. We wonder like him what good old Shakespeare is doing near watermelons. Perhaps he is counting the pearls of eyes ,as nothing  that doth change but doth suffer a sea-change.Into something rich and strange . Everything suffers a sea change ,including watermelons.

But how does Ginsberg count the grass under his feet ? That is where all images come from.

Sunset temple

On the top of the low hill is the temple getting ready. I see three men outside, in the yard . When is the temple getting ready ?

The old man says in two months. He is making this temple on the hill . He has had his melanoma for six years . He wanted his temple to be ready before his sunset.

He has had his molehills that grew to mountains. Now everyone’s sun has to set behind the hill . Everyone needs a temple for a sunset.


Morning after night was of intimations.

They came to remind us   of  flesh’s surprises . They come to us in our pees standing in  bathroom. Pees come with interruptions.  Backs refuse to cringe .

Dorothy’s jokes are sardonic reminders of mortality. Fucking busy or busy fucking. The latter you cannot be, in a tattered coat . You are former on the smart phone. Try to stitch back a few tatters. Generally pretend to be fucking busy. But try to stay erect on the stick so the birds do not crap on you.

Broken snake

In the evening I sit here on the road divider ,on the other side of the vegetables. There are snakes of vegetables . Some are broken in their necks, so they can fit into our plastic bags. Some beetroots are waiting to bleed.

I sit on the road divider waiting for wife’s bags to fill. Three children come from behind and peep into my typing on the phone. The little girl giggles and says “uncle”, as if she caught me doing something really embarrassing.

I fold up the phone as if I am actually embarrassed. The little boy climbs the tree. The little girl holds him from slipping.

The snakes of gourds are ready. And the lady’s fingers . They are in the bag .A broken snake peeps out of the plastic bag.