Nothing seemed a translation
Without an original, the poem
Unboxed without its contents.
Here we do with a translation,
The poet making it all happen,
From nothing ,only empty air
But the air is nothing but life,
Life at its breath and happen,
A translation without original.

Buck does not stop

There they love their animals
Film stars no less, in a jungle.
When black buck dies by a star
Arguments go by black gowns
About death’s entertainment,
Their cogency tested in silver,
In sweaty summer civil courts.
What shines is black and buck.

(A law case under wild life protection laws has been going on against a film star for over fifteen years for having killed a black buck.)

Indian ink

We were born in cloth, our valley
A sad tale of tears, of lower pain.
But we are permanent ink, Indian.

We are sketches, thickened outlines,
Walking silhouettes at orange dusks.
Born in cloth we are permanent ink.


Girl’s braid is knotted in grandma
Mama wants cropped and gone.
The braid is snake no one wants.

Braids and grandmas are dated.
Let them remain in the ant-hills
Under wild life protection laws.

Bricks for cotton

Bricks are way to build rain shelters
Above us , when rain plays truant.
Our children’s feet play brick slush
And our women hang babies by trees.
Our heads now bear blood-red bricks
Made of the same earth that used
To spring cotton like white clouds.

(Due to monsoon failure, several cotton farmers turn construction workers for their livelihood)


With some extra years before
Fading pearls of eyes,old man
Easily traverses memory lane,
A dusty lane of a quilted street,
In sleepy hollows of a rag bed.

A rag bed shall invoke pleasant
Would-have-beens, challenges
At a summit top of endeavour,
The red fluttering rag one had
Sunk in snowy conquest’s peak
On path strewn with hangings.

Such is the power of word rags
Thrown at the winds at random
That they turn acted out events
To be nostalgic about some day.