Big joke

We get into conversation quickly for our marionette jokes pulling, mildly fitted to a current context, our big joke lurking behind them. Jokes are our magic of semantics, drawls from a prolonged tongue ,the lips hiding the holes of truth and a splutter of laughter in eyes .

Jokes are of some significance ,largely based on their intonation and  the utter futility of speak effort.


Curry point

We are a two-salary credit card couple. Our point lies mostly in the joint curry. While we are not making a joint point we are eating it as one big argument.

We do not speak the  whole world, you see. We just point where our thoughts lie and try to catch up with running time speeding away like grammar school bus.

We thank God for credit card points. We make summer holiday packages to see old suns tipping sunset points, in our swollen sweaters and point to a ruddy sun dying below a fast food cart just  like the  one we have in our  own street corner.

Fire in the factory

There is fire in the pesticides factory  and all you see is television fires, licking tongues of fire and black fumes rising like freshly dyed hair.  When you make poison for pests you make them with fire. The fire will at times eat you up, like your poison will eat them in. Their poison is your fire. Like the poison that froze in Shiva’s blue throat  and his third eye spewed orange fires that threatened to engulf the world.

The television lives off your  fire and poison and death. In your fire and poison are its stomach fires .The fires in their stoves have to be kept going to keep their stomach fires going.. So they will  gently stroke your freshly dyed hair as their dramas are played out in the day, screen after screen. In the evening their stomach fires will subside and soon there will be rivers flowing in the sky drowning  the sun, the trees and  the clouds . The rain will beat their cars so much that the cars will turn blind in their eyes. The downpour makes such fine holes in their umbrellas that they can see the stars drowned in the rain.

Warm at the new house

It was a warm night, warmed by  words addressed to gods. The gods would bless the new house, in the eleventh floor apartment, when the priests called them down one by one by sacred words. The words would ward off evil spirits .

The party was warm and convivial. From the balcony we saw  rows of luminous blocks . They had balconies where long drapes of  colorful saris shivered in the wind. Some of them had grills that looked like prison grills. Their inmates stared sadly through the grills, from behind diaphanous saris.

Let the grass grow over our feet

By 8 A.M. the grass is bathed with warm gold of sunlight, the silver of  morning dew gone. Feet walk less briskly in the sun’s warmth. The park has a rarefied air of just three souls by now,one in the northern corner,making nose noises,the second speaking into phone on the green bench.The third is the speaker with poetry in mind.

Three girls zip across the park, from gate to gate,like phantoms with a load of Sunday’s homework.

The bird in the trees above the park wall is a phantom. Its squeak is a short,squat ,mono-syllabic utter, a single shot  repeatedly let into the air with layers of sound underneath.

The boy who sold us clarified butter

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?

Yes,they are happy in  their sheds chewing golden brown rice straw.
We give them fine straw and they  give milk that is  like moonlight
And  here we are to make such fine clarified butter ,clarifies 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,
Clarifies the boy who sold  to us two kilos of  clarified butter.
We are happy to have our doubts on education duly clarified.