Cotton suicides

We wear our palms on board
And lotuses smell fresh mud.
This monsoon is treacherous
On cotton in a cracked land.
Minds get cracked like land
And bodies disappear in fans.

( Successive droughts in Maharashtra have led to a spate of suicides by cotton farmers)

Worn sunset

Our stroke of luck does not happen
All the time ,before television or off it.
This sort of a smile is just some ice,
A frozen Arctic waste on mom’s face,
Fixed for ever and there is no gold,
A worn sunset with no talk of dawn.


Object is no love but wind.
You get windy like doors
Banging shut for nothing
Their stoppers stopping
Short of love expressions.

Words fall somewhat short
All for sounds to take over
In crucial moments of love
Like death that is a sound.
Death is an act of love said
Without sound,just a poof.


Lightness is bearable by a being
Largely to be here and not there,
A breeze holding aloft body stuff,
A windborne chiffon chestcloth,
A fluffy umbrella flower landing
On a wayside acacia at random
Like a plastic bag , stuck on thorn
In an eternal possibility of flying
Off anytime on a passing breeze.
Lightness is the music of words
Stopping to embrace body’s ears
That interrupt to signify sound .
It is body gone and you know it.

Loose sky

Since I came , stars have changed
A lot against the dark sky, behind
The well where the waters glisten
And rope and pail wait out a night
Ready to bring up the fallen ones
Shining by default in well waters
Dropped by a somewhat loose sky.

My fingers are tiny , not that pointy
For star counting and I often forget
Where I stop and where to resume
When I have to do my home work,
In between and run up to the roof.

Repeat stories

We were there another time
The old brick walls with moss
A flower creeper in crack sired
By a bird’s chance dropping
Or the terribly busy antlines
Crawling as if they were fate’s
Calligraphy on our foreheads
Across our skullplates, where
Stories are writ to repetition.

Uncle and nephew

While uncle was at it ,in his life
He had bitten his sarcastic lips
About the world and its maker
And you nephew were peculiar.

Nephew now asks uncle to wait
Till he reaches a house bottom
So they will jointly stare at sky
Making fine sarcasm together.