She was the old Bengali sweet of a dog , always at her old friend’s feet .
She was in pain from old age. Her mistress had her lie at her feet and she would go on smiling at her doggie sweetness. There was nothing the vet could do to keep her going.
Everyone wondered who had a right to decide if she should sleep. Did her mistress have it ?Nobody knew . But the mistress would just smile down at her .
Yesterday evening the Bengali sweet dog had slept her last sleep. But the decision about it was apparently not hers. Nor of her mistress who would only cry after her absence near her feet.
A crow caws at dawn suggesting a picture of idolatry, a woman gone to wall to decorate a living room. The crow cannot be my mom to eat real rice.
Our images cannot eat rice on a priest’s word. Images cannot eat rice, only words. We have images of ourselves , fleshed out of our bones, poor nightly creatures of fluorescence roaming the empty wastes of minds.
We have dad in rolled shirtsleeves staring from an ancient space, not yet knowing my coming, what meant his going from all space, all time.There was space only for one of us.
All our images are shadows from past that are cast on our space even after the real things are gone except in our sleep.
Whether it is pecking at the bathroom glass ,all the time or only when I go there is my mystery. What is the mystery in sparrow’s mind about the bathroom visitors , their bodies wet in the knowledge of a pecking sparrow?
A sparrow tirelessly pecking at own reflection is mystery , set against futility of its effort. How the bird can be stupid enough to peck at own reflection, disregarding past failures is mystery that overwhelms bathing bodies.
I cannot look in its eyes ,set too high and tiny, only sense a light squirm in its body as I enter. Overwhelmed by no mystery it squirms ever so lightly which is the same each time I enter its space.
The quest for mysteries is mine, not sparrow’s.
Through this window the night touches and makes us one with the super-moon ,above trees now in sleep, leaves at rest ,having touched the super moon in clouds.
This is the very chamber , our own space ,our Raum , a crow that robs us of cities ,their rubble to make cement sculptures of ancients, our moms who had caused our existences , now taking yearly forms of crows on speckled walls, for rice balls smoothly rounded to sonorous chants.
This is a space of things, our emptiness ,a hollow of our bricks, future sculptures in rubble , space between them and now that connects all things to a super moon ,a powdery space still hosting our matter.
It was body to be bewildered. We shuffled our eyes under stairs .There sat our darkness in chairs.
The chairs sat on unmindful, with bewilderment in between. Bewilderment went up and down a phone.
World might have been ,too .World is body, God -stopped. It had now no red river flowers.
Bewilderment gasped on air, eyes turned glass after bewildered. There was no more bewilderment.
You raise your eyes to the mountains .You will reach their summits when you will fall on your back and your neck disappears and becomes your back . You reach them to the point where they will join up with the sky.
Join up? May be , welded together. Then your eyes will be blinded by the brilliant sparks the sun the welder makes and you cannot determine where the seam occurs.
Is height the main thing about the mountains? Or the slowly melting kindness of its snows?
In the mountains you feel free with the eyes and the neck you can swivel enough to reach your eyes to the summit . Till you are on your back where the welding seam between their tops and the sky is clearly visible.
Javed Habib is a glow sign about beauty and hair . There is beauty and then hair .Beauty is an abstract quantity in your subjective vision but the hair glows as an objective reality by its side.
Javed Habib is a glow sign of a beauty chain. A significant other across our cities binding us in beauty and hair .
Beauty and hair – What an exquisite phrase ! Like we had a phrase called nipple milk when we were in childhood’s knickers . When we had to weekly-wash our hair , our moms would rinse it with Aritha milk. But Aritha milk gets into the eyes , making eyes red like a ripe sunset behind the Western hills .
When the children were red in the eyes a recent mother would be asked to squeeze nipple milk from fresh- mother breasts into a stainless steel bowl .Then they would drop the watery milk in our eyes . We would feel it such cool and tingling .And the milk flowed down the cheeks and a tiny stream would enter mouths . It tasted so good on the tongue!
Behind every such phrase is a childhood story.