being fine

is like a delicate string
strung taut
across a canyon
over which you walk
arms spread
horizontal to the deep chasm below
unaware of the eruption of colours
on the western horizon
where sets the sun
nor distracted by the jeers
of those wanting you to trip
nor by the cheers
of those wanting you seen across
nor by the prayers
of them on their knees
hands clapsed
eyes tightly shut
beseeching the almighty
oh god, oh god, oh god!

*****

driving a car in rush hour traffic

driving a car in rush hour traffic can be turned into a kind of meditation.

i see the three-wheeler in the front ten feet away and also the bikes on either side--so close that their crash-guards are just inches away from the two sides of my car. and on the rear-view mirror, there is a bus breathing down my neck...

the three-wheeler, the bikes and the bus define the boundaries of the space in which i exist. i become the car that moves in this space that flows in the traffic, without touching anyone, delicately conscious and alert. i am in no hurry. the bus behind is impatient. the bikes on either side are also impatient and are constantly on the lookout for gaps to forge ahead. the three-wheeler in the front moves jerkily out of its impatience.

i see the impatience of everyone. i feel surrounded by the benign urge of throbbing life.

*****