Beauty and hair

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.


The Old Sea

The Barua sea is my old sea by the stranger’s house where I had slept a night. It was a monotone that drowned my child fears.

The monotone kept coming through my adulthood and now that I am old I yearn for the monotone to drown my old fears.

At midnight my head hums with the old sea, it’s monotone coming on the tops of casuarinas sweeping an old sky.

Whenever I have a head cold the old sea comes and drowns all my other sounds.



We are at a tooth’s edge of mutterings, onto the blanket white wall of vertical sky. We bang in it in our moment of protest only to grow horns like a dark evil one.

We are at edge of bed , at hem of skirt ,the tip of nose, the end of lip corners ,the end of all words, an end of throat ,the vertical wall made of blue vapor.

We are at a horizon of blue mountains and the horizon is at the edge of bed ,at the start of the vertical sky of vapor we bang our heads in and grow horns.

(Recalling my mom’s dementia journey before death)


Shapes of sounds

The morning was a pleasant concern with pipal leaves, their conically shaped needles piercing space in between grass-heads. The shapes were many, some conical but some shapes  were like sounds, being derived from them as bare feet scrunched their brown crispness. I asked what was the shape of a pipal leaf, fallen to the ground in autumn, whose needle edge ,when green made a funny sound when we rubbed it with wet hands in our childhood? The shape was a regular polygon,with the leaf tapering to the blue of the sky, waving to its breeze.

The shape of the pipal leaf was a “surrrr” sound as we rubbed it with wet hands.

The crow had a funny shape on the neem tree when it heaved its body ,up and down, as it cawed  and cawed , a hollow caw from its empty beak. Its cawing head was loosely screwed to its grey throat, as we feared it might slip and fall in the shape of its sound.

The unnamed bird on the unknowable tree issued short curt cries from its throat, one after the other, like a carpenter striking wood with his ax. There is regularity to its beat. Its shape should be presumably like water dripping from a leaking faucet at the dead of the night -tup..tup..tup..



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.