As our yearly street fires are lit , we recall for some reason a body so much dead. We recall the grease on the rope to its house . And now we descend two decades of greasy darkness , with our hands on the grease of so many years.
The body had then smiled beatifically but it had no valve in its heart . So the body would vanish by a fire, leaving its hollow with us. With a valve that does not work ,body was mere soul. 
A soul cannot vanish by a fire but a body can ,if under the grease of our common rope . We too will add our grease to it from the palm of our heart. Our heart still has a valve. But we never know how much more it will beat .
And when it stops to beat we will stare mutually at the lizard on the roof, and it will say Kitta Kitta.

Mother’s notes

I see history’s pages from life and death, diary notes brimming with a city left, thoughts of a garden swing ,in letters crawling like live ants out of them carrying spirit messages of all things being nothings ,nothings that encompass us over time, in a space of our house.

Here is a window to noise of crackers bursting in light, bottles that send sounds from their mouth in dark sky ,darkness that pervades the corners of the world, light ,in colored crackers,the festival of lights, a defeat of evil. That is all that is to it in earthen lamps, burning at the door some powder sprinkled on flames , smelling nice incense, some fruit pieces going around celebrating light on earth.

Her notes make out a hole in space, as a piece of time , a hole in eternity, a hole in mind, a gaping hole in time. Her letters crawl, rounded like black ants, out of pages flowing with life , with death, with my living , with hers.

The crow story

That was old generic information with no further ontological data, but leaves smell equally inviting. Add leaves to a fresh lotus pond smelling water for crow’s thirst under crow story on pot’s rim.

The crow casts old pebble story from earth pot with lotus water at the low level of shadowy pot. The earth pot has deep shadows including child’s and the smell of lotus pond water at bottom.

Again and again the crow caws on old poet’s rim with a pebble.He still sees a water level rising.

The river of life

A girl in neighborhood has come of age. At thirteen one suddenly feels the need to cover a girls’ body with an extra upper cloth. A b(l)ossoming womanhood.

In the veranda the girl sits cross-legged alone in a corner on a mat of cross-stitched coconut leaves. For three days and three nights she sits and sleeps in seclusion. She then bathes and is ready to go to school with an extra upper cloth.

From now on the river of life flows.

A boy’s well being

The boy who is the old poet had a well to look in with a bucket lowered gently to touch perturbed waters in  broken moon pieces. The midnight was fearsome with green snakes lurking in ghostly hibiscus trees standing.

The boy in knickers could not bend too low for fear in his belly. Fear perked up like a piece of balcony sky and crawled in half-pants to feet below.The bucket fell to it with deep dull thud as its rope had slithered down a pulley like a vague water snake searching frogs.

The waters came up to sprinkle moons in tiny puddles on the stone saucer rim.

Hunger on the river bank

Grandmother is an egg-head without grandfather, now in air. She sits on a muddy river bank with her stainless steel bowl to collect a few glistenings in its shiny bottom, so stomach will have a glistening in its bottom at a bottom of the growling night.

Grandmother is a stranger, this side of river. On other side of the river is a shirtless girl stranger waiting for morsel, first of the day . Shirtless girl is our camera’s blameless girl away from the boat from which a finger is pointing anonymously ,in the air. She is not one a finger is pointing.

She awaits morsel this side of river. She is my stranger girl ,not in my photo album.Egg-head is waiting for a glistening. She has nobody to tell her stories to.

On both sides of the river ,on way to a temple ,we have stories, no one to tell it to.

The middle eye

The cricket had  fallen  silent for two days near the park trees. I now hear it back again, this time like the creaking of a tree wood in the wind. On the passing tree I see a big black ant making its appearance for the first time.In the next rounds of walk I look for it.

Actually I  look for it ,till it became an obsession with my eyes, heavy with uveitis, an inflammation of the middle eye. The ant looked like having the powers to control my pain center.

Back home I keep looking for music to soothe my eye heavy with uveitis. A song about a bird in sky may soothe  pain.

Everything looked whirring as I got up from the computer. Like a bird swirling in the sky. I need  words to keep me steady in the sky. From floating away. From fear of not seeing.  Towards beauty and music.