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.
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.
She has to take loneliness by herself surrounded by these lonely others . Spinning tales is cold loveliness about empty smiles on frosty lips.
But would a knot make difference, that tied cloth yellow on its hem? Knots slip away in old together, in powdery dissolution of bodies.
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.
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.
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 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.