The boy rings the doorbell and without waiting knocks at the door .Such fine clarified butter he sells, two hundred bucks a kilogram. My dear fellow, are the buffaloes happy in their copper-red udders?
They are happy in their sheds chewing golden brown rice straw. We give them fine straw and they give milk that looked like moonlight and here we are to make such fine clarified butter ,clarified the boy.
You claim you are happy , why are you not going to school .As you know I am happy because I am not going to school, clarified the boy who sold to us two kilos of clarified butter.
We are thus happy to have our thoughts on education clarified.
A running commentary examines my life in thread and bare, while it is going on live within me, this business of my life, with none from outside peering in my curious window, so I have the satisfaction of an examined life.
I am living my life entirely real-time, you see. I welcome visitors to look in the peep-hole when I am knitting eye-brows humorously examining my life by extended commentary.
Right now I fear others not worrying about me while I am grey in chair and crumpled sheets. I worry about paucity of metaphors for the day, as I think of others not peering in my window ,I worry about my synopsis, my examined life.
The winter breeze strikes mildly. But soon it will be spring around the parrot green bench.
This morning we remember the dancer for beauty who was recently horizontal to the sky. A week ago she dropped her body for dust. Her daughter would dance her drop, beside her horizontal body. What beauty !
Daughter danced by her in her beauty sleep. The stars watched her from the roof!
In the New York city (The Awl,19th February2017), the saddle horses stood immense and placid, into motionlessness ,awaiting riders.
Here a saddlehorse kicked a motorcycle rider on the road to death. Into his motionlessness.
On the road to death .An unintended construction. But now it has an image that describes so aptly the way death overtook the motor biker on the Hyderabad road a few days ago .
She who warmed our old stomachs dropped a pomegranate in our palms . Pomegranates save a lot of forgetting. Mom had her own things to forget against a white wall of a dark night. She bumped into the wall of forgetting .
Luckily she did not forget where her hand was, unlike the other woman who shuffled her feet like early morning birds. Or the other woman who forgets where she hid her comb in dishevelled hair.
Another woman who had no pomegranates forgets where she had left her baby in the Saturday market.
And now even after many pomegranates we keep forgetting where our mom hid her shadows
I carry from sleep this very room defined by a clipped table light, an indistinct moth ,a chair plastic in its back and sitting whitely.
I like to be defined by tree back to a sun and sitting wisely on drops of words in light. The chair likes to be defined by a warm bum and an aching back of history, from shadows of night after night sleeping, stomach silent from poems emerging to fingers on letters.
Table light is defined by the room of shadow but would like to be defined by a pair of eyes and the soft touch of a body where it curves on the wall ,with a moth walking in shadow.
The moth carries its room with it on the wall ,a room of light to embrace a result of death.The chair carries a room with it of warm bum bristling with the possibility of growing cold in it.
I am back at the green bench after a weeks journey through the snow hills.
Now on the green bench I write this parchi , as they do in the commerce lingo of India’s kidney West. The parchi is a tiny scrap of paper on which key figures are written in a summary form for incorporation in the Cash book before they are finalised .
In India’s kidney West, if someone is dead , he is off . By extension if someone is new and born, he is on.
Flowers in the Goddess home are beautiful . Flowers are on duty as they breath fragrance into our nights . They are off duty if they lay beside someone who is off. On duty, off duty.
If the flowers land on the garbage pile, after duty , they are considered off duty.
My morning came back full of feisty crows fed on Mumbai garbages and fetid sea-fish of the harbor’s heights, on return from a fragrant harbor.
The day echoed with fallacies and lost moneys in all it was putrefaction and beauty in tatters.The pixels were agitated by lack of sky spaces. The roads were picture-perfect, with rocks flowing and Haji Ali mysteries near the winding flyover.
The sounds of car horns meshed with crows’ caws which were continually shrill and metallic as always.Rukmini’s lying-in hospital and juice beauty parlor nested quietly in the space above the footpath.The hospital’s lying-in endlessly stretched into the windows and piercing the blinds ,broke into the summer sky.
Now on the other green bench, I have the fallen pipal leaves at my feet . All night they would have fallen to the wind.
There is spring in waiting . A festival is on of the bitter sweet neem leaves and the new tartaric fruit , that was often the subject of our childhood stone attack. The fruit is a direct outcome of tiny blouse flowers that tasted sour and sweet. The tangy fruit on tongue twisted a child’s face.
You see the train fires our thoughts. We find a train’s white metallic sky up there, as though the train itself were the earth spinning like a top in cosmic space. The train’s hoot pierces our awareness.
We then come down from the upper berth to mundane matters of trivial concern- thoughts which are not train thoughts but home kitchen and patio thoughts waiting for inquisitive neighbors to talk ,so that we could pick large comic holes.
In the train, between our finiteness and sky, there is another white sky, train sky under which several celestial thoughts take place in our upturned sleeping faces. It is as though the metal sky does not exist and we are faced with the Big sky itself.