In a wayside fruit stall , where we were supposed to buy Shimla apples we managed to get two apple-cheeked girls in our frames . We would get two cars parked there and some fruits on display in our frames .
There were no Shimla apples in March. There would be in late October, by when the branches now black and shrivelled up, will turn green and laden with apples as beautiful as the girls cheeks.
What we got in our frame was beautiful . Now there are three apple cheeked girls and are in conversation. Fruitful conversations indeed! I get them in a frame sharing the space with other fruits . There were oranges ,peaches etc from other spaces, other times. But they all make a fine frame together.
We ran in half pants ,in sweaty fear of ghosts in trees , birds that meant ancient fear of bodies ,while perched on tiled roofs, from life’s other side.
Bodies waited in tired old buildings before they were cut up by surgeon to find out why birds had left them and were now perched on roof tiles.
Earth on earth, the black slate is a blank, a slate for throwing at the child for failure,who learns his first letters against crows ,citrus leaves mingled with Christchurch sandalwood paste and waters in alcove. God’s child will supervise from a cross up if child is learning alphabet against crows on the lemon tree, thirsty in pot pebbles.
Son of God , thirsty crows , citrus leaves are all the big child remembers at sunset the sun to go behind trees and dog barks. There are lotuses in a pond smelling hills.The water we drink is mixed with seed, so as to clarify the muddy waters ,if any.
In the gold of a sunset the slate is filled, rather too much with connections, wires, arrows straying beyond the wood frame. But we still see faint lines of an alphabet,thirsty crows on trees, gowned teachers amid smells of sandal paste , lotus ponds we drank waters from, mixed with seed, there at the top , below the wood frame.
In the plagued beautiful city where I lived you would celebrate death by eating crunchy noontime snacks at the crematorium. In the non-plagued city I lived you would drink to ongoing death, a nightly celebration over drum beat and country.
But in the other city I lived you would celebrate death by actually dying. A moneyed death gas would generously put sleeping street people to never ending sleep .
We also celebrated in that city our own personal death , where a mom would turn ice and later a mango tree .We have since come away to another city while she is still there presiding over local wind and rain .Here in Sultan’s tomb city we await further celebration.