In the middle of our night we are worried about carbon accumulation in Delhi air. While they have found newer acronyms for differentiated country responsibilities,nobody in Paris talks about carbon tax.

Let us get back to a face book of friends at the other end of the vast cyber space who are playing a fine candy crush saga and they too are worried about weather but are moored to a single lady crush.

We flaneurs love too much and too fast. At least we are not adding to emissions except nocturnal ones during sleep.We are a bit breathless with much carbon. Happy Paris decides 2 degrees reduction after lots of carbon warm deliberations .

It is getting a bit warm for cyberflaneurs .Let us get the hell out of this cyber place.

White flowers, dark creepers

Muted conversations are heard in the street in the gray shadows of the houses of dusk.Women squat on the steps of their houses to discuss their kids, husbands and neighbors.

Their memories go back to other evenings of kids, drunk husbands and bad neighbors, of the many pretty floral designs before houses other women made in rice powder and color.

The incense smoke from their four-armed gods enters the streets, reaches up tall trees and electric wires, going up in silk-smooth swirls. As darkness sets tiny white flowers break out from loving mother creepers on the houses like stars we often see burst on our roof at night.

I have to make a story

On the walk back I see another  water drill for a new house site. It’s tireless hum will fill a day’s silence.

By evening there will be rivers of soft white loam on the streets.

I knock at this man’s door on the third floor to hand over house papers. Wife opens the door and arches her eyebrows to inquire while her mouth  is foaming with toothpaste. She then quickly shuts the door and bolts it from inside.

I wait in the corridor for the man to turn up.

Sure enough, I have to make a story. A parchi of early morning. A green bench narrative.

Midnight music

Midnight music is the rising ocean called by a reddening of the moon.

Midnight music is the pipal leaves playing the wind’s exotic hill music as its fingers touch their spiked ends.

Midnight music is the invisible cricket singing from the dark silences of the bush.


It is on a straight line that I exist . My hours and days become nights and dissolve into endless time. Clearly it was not my choice to exist.

When I had come into being my body actually started pulsating outside of my own free volition. My birth was a cataclysmic accident and now that I exist and occupy space I cannot stop my heart from beating.

Outside, the eagle swirled thrice in its circular motions in the April sky and settled down on the ledge of my nineteenth floor office room . He looked at me nervously , aware of me. His shrill eagle-call pierced the sky as he took off towards the vault of the sky.

He swirled , once again, in circles and swooped on the lizard in the bush. Like me, neither of them had choices.


When I went to sleep yesterday, I had to reckon this in my failures. My sleepless thoughts were mainly born of guilt. A long scroll of my omissions and commissions would stretch to the starlit sky.

I tried to arch over the vast expanse of space to see where the record of my guilt ends.

In the end had a feeling that between us two I cannot be blamed for this .

I now lay the blame for this at your door.

The old woman of April

On the green bench, April may not  be the cruelest month. First woman and tulip and dog  may feel it that way. The tulip flowers in spaces  with daylight savings but the dog here makes peace with a rival near the lamppost. Let us make piss, says the dog to its rival.

The old woman says you all may change the world in Twitter and make your email petitions. She in the meantime would  make peace with the white wall. This was not her April when first she  had come here and made such big ruckus as if she owned the world.