FirefliesAs the night deepensClusters of fireflies rise fromThe depths of the earth.

The one-legged crow of TirupatiThe one-legged crowProclaimed pilgrim arrivalsIn the temple town.

The tribal women of Araku valleyWomen danced dimsaMen drank cups of wine all nightDrums beat in frenzy.

The tribals of Borra CavesThey all went beyondThe mountains never to returnWe see them in dreams.

At the Calicut beach

A boy walked awayFrom the orange sea-sun andIdly prancing crows.

In the trainThese white robed monks cameFrom nowhere but are real menWith real cloth bags.

At the Chomillah palace in HyderabadThe palace reached skiesIn its shadow lay kings andTheir faceless women.

In the backstreets of TirupatiWords are giggling girlsPlaying in moon, ponytailsGoing up and down.

WordsWords hum like the leavesOf the tree when the wind comesFrom across the hills.

Mother and seaThe sea has risenOnly when the night is bornWill the sea calm down.

The boat on Hooghly in KolkataThe boat stood broodingNear the jetty, its stomachFull with sea-secrets.

A train journey through KeralaOur train chugged and firstThe coconuts ran to the hillsChillies went red in face.

TrainOur train burst in ireLacking its former steam puffAs stones hit her below belt.

Morning in HyderabadFresh coffee drip-dropsIn filter,its aroma coveringBlood , gore of morning news.

At the Kumarakom lake resort in Kerala

A little white girl crawls on the grass Behind the sinuous coconut treeChasing a white-leaping rabbit.

Morning at my deskMy birds are twittering constantlyAmid scattered sounds and sun's rays.My mornings are many-hued skiesRising from treetops of bird-songs.

Sanchi Buddhist stupaSanchi’s golden brown stone dust settlesOn the beauty-things of the hazy mind .

DeathAt the end of the street they all disappearWhere there is a blind turn, a dead-end.

At the Kappad beachVasco Da Gama’s stone tablet stood In history’s powdered rock and sand And broken -colored boat masts.

On the Udayagiri hills near VidishaSeveral worn-out paths winded to forgot ruinsThere they stopped midway vanishing in bushes.

FaithThat night was hope and some angstWhile nothing ever happened , it would.

FlowersThe flowers would not talk to usOf the pain of petals unfoldingWhen stars sprinkled dust on our roofAnd the night’s queen whitely bloomed .

On the dry riverbedThe water was green and coolOnly the machines no longer whirredAnd their men no more Shouted in the wind.

Buffaloes on the riverbedEverything was the same, even the buffaloes And their eyes were vacant as always.

The grassThe grass swayed gently on the bed When the wind called in the noon.

The Sabarmati bridge The shallow waters dealt with the bridgeOn which people went up and down.

Good morning, MumbaiThe roads were picture-perfect with rocks overflowing Haji Ali mysteries near the winding flyoverCar horns meshing with crow's caws.

My morning in Mumbai :My morning came back full of feisty crowsFed on Mumbai garbages and fetid sea-fishOf the harbor’s heights.

RefusalIn the hollow of my downy back Your after-being remains as refusal.

FutilityThere was wind in the hairMy thoughts fell into the skinWhen everything happened Nothing actually occurred.

HopeIn the horizon I looked far enoughAnd deep in the tree’s silences The leaves rustled in the night.

RefusalI know you have said that enoughIn the day’s heat and moon’s eclipse.

MorningUp there the cosmic egg flickered Beyond the treesThe blue emitted golden rays In the silky clouds there.

Monsoon

This summer seemed undecidedWhen the monsoon shall begin In the salt water and hillsTo journey across the mountains And windy coconuts.

A little bird

Yesterday morning a little bird shrieked on the wireMy garden was full of them and under them, below the wires.

She is in the other roomShe does not speak to me in several dreams on my pillowI know she is now in the other room, the far corner one.

DarknessDarkness drowns us all,bush,hills and sky Except the hum of the sea-waves.

BushWhen you walk alone under the starsThe night bush exists separate from youJust a speck of black ,for a while.

At the Chomillah palace in Hyderabad

Their men’s bloated egos did not show on their facesTheir egos showed on the women’s stomachsOn the little heirs who came from there.

At the Chomillah palace in Hyderabad

When the silks arrived they forgot women’s faces The women sat gossiping about other women Other women in harem and their fine draperies.

Sultans and their faceless womenThe women's drapery Interrupted their nosesAnd seeing eyesUnder vaulting domes And resounding halls.

On a hot day in OrchaThere is a chimera on the tarred roadA woman with a metal pot on headPoetry strikes in the whir of the head A body posture replying.

The prostate enlargementAs love’s summers passed for wintry nights The joke is now on me prostate and falling And now I try to make pretty poetry out of it.

The E.C.G.technicianA white ghost with a tail in his neck Watched the geometry of my heart On the flatness of a luminous world .

Jealous

They do not harm ,these green snakes But their slither-feel is so much disagreeableAnd they merge so effortlessly in her shadows.

The loversAt night she burrowed her face in the pillow As they dreamed together their joint dreams And some times their separate dreams.

AdulteryLove was truly a splendorous thingBehind closed doors and drawn curtains.

The Sankranti festival

Children played in the compound,collecting Warm twigs for the ensuing festival bonfire.

The train journeyImages crowded like people ,in the mindAs the noisy train fan whirred pointlessly.

My motherAll the while we chant strange wordsThat mean nothing to us or to her Our words are ashes ,our love ashesA bag of of yellowed bones .

My mother's death River noise and river silenceSwept by leaning trees and rocksCarry ashes of our living since dead.

The other womanAt dusk cream-colored mosquito-netsHid shadows coalescing into each other Outside the autumn leaves fellCarpeting the garden floor.

An old man's reverieI dream of what lay beyond those mountainsOf the gusts of howling wind passing throughSwaying red sandalwoodtrees on the other side.

I am sometimes afraid of the all-enveloping darknessDarkness closing in slowly amid the staccato criesOf noisy crickets from invisible crevicesI am sometimes afraid of the all-enveloping darknessDarkness closing in slowly amid the staccato criesOf noisy crickets from invisible crevicesOld

I am sometimes afraid of the fearful darknessdarkness closing in slowly amid the staccato criesOf noisy crickets from invisible crevices.

childhoodin the morning, when the white birds in the skyWhizzed past the tall palm trees behind our houseWe called them out shaking our fingers at them.

Meeting the mentally challenged kids in TirupatiStreamlets of consciousnessThat do not form a riverBut disappear into the vastWild wastes of nothingness.

My fatherCant you see him there In the morning , when the sky Is bare of white fluffy clouds And in the blue distance Mountains pile one on the other?

The fat bookThe fat book on the table opened its mouthWith wide-eyed wonder at the trellis of shadows On the marble floor cast by the chandeliers.

Love in KeralaThe French windows hid much beauty In the shadows of mosquito nets Outside ,hot pepper creepers snaked All the way up statuesque teaks .

At the Kapady beach in KeralaThought heralded a boatful of laughter Checkered, courageous, fishermanly In sprinkle-diffused froth seething with salt and blue .

TransienceWe smugly wear the polyester film of transience about uswe read poetry in the trivial tragedies of their tatters.

the plastic curtainBetween us falls this plastic curtain With tiny floral prints and glistening droplets I see your lips moving through its translucence

On a pleasure boat in the Bhopal lakeshadowy figures enact transience in lake's night their dance flows in absurd movements their shadows crouch in flesh and blood transience

My fellow-passenger in the trainEnergy swelled within herIn waves after wavesOnly to break, boisterously,On rocky shores of bleak nothingness.

The textile designer I met in the trainHer shapes, not still forms,But frenetically moving imagesSizzled and then vaporisedIn split-second transienceEverything moved towards a stanceA fixed identity for her soul.

My mother's silk saree

Somewhere in the backwoodsSeveral industrious silkwormsHad spun miles of salivary yarnIn the foliage of the mulberry treeTo make this five-yard silk saree .

The bride's silksThe rustle of the silk drownedThe wails of the boiling cocoonsThese worms died that beauty would liveIn their plaintive cries lay new bridal hopes

My mother's bridal silks

Her bridal fragrance lives on amongThe delicate folds of these gossamer silksThat the worms had died weavingDeath is so fragrant and so memorable

The iron mines of Hospet

In the recent monsoonOur rivers felt as ifThe mountains had bledFrom fresh woundsTheir flesh has gone,Across the green seas,To the distant ChinamanTo fill out his bones.

ShadowsThe shadows were cool liquid and sensuousDense in the core but undefined in the edgesThey touched your heart , tingled your skinTousled your hair and teased your mind.

My own little moon In my childhood my moonHid behind a coconut treeA skyscraper in America now hides it .