A telephone call talked of an an old man with a white topee .
His small-frame father ,who worked in a cement factory.
The cement is no longer.The white topee is no longer.
Memories linger of a city on the sea where the waves beat black granite rocks.
The white surf of an ocean which stretches to distant Aden
There the ancestors had landed in a dhow to make tradesmen’s money.
Tall white stone buildings which stood against the blue sea.
At night they wore the transparent veil of pale moonlight .
On moonlit nights perfumed society people stood against the ocean .
Among the rocks where the waves from the distant Gulf beat their city.
Dark people sold smuggled tape recorders with whirring tape-spools .
The whitewashed buildings had white peace in their upper bellies .
But in their under-bellies they had fishermen’s knives and red revenge .
A frail old man from the city made white salt at the sea-shore
And spun white cotton on hand-wheels and made others wear white.*

(*Mahatma Gandhi had been born and spent his formative years in the city of Porbandar)

Guests arrive

The long shadows are past ,but the short ones remain.

The sun strikes you on the rim of your head and instead of making a halo around your head sketches your short body on the brown earth in black acrylic color.

The afternoon crows sit lazily on the dead tree’s branches and cry out an occasional caw reminding us of the coming of our guests.

Guests in these burning times when the sky pours out hot sunshine on the leafless branches? The crows continue to announce the arrival of guests with gusto,their bodies heaving rhythmically on the branch.

But where are the guests? The afternoon brought the news of the arrival of a hot girl in my cousin’s home.
She is hot because she was born this morning when the sun was burning fiercely .

But guests are guests .