Convalescent *

Days come tumbling one over the other
In silent succession
Talking to me in familiar gestures—

Now the municipal garbage gatherer
Emptying the bin of yesterday’s waste,

Then the stout unsmiling milk vending dame
Carrying light her kettle and measure,

The newspaper boy flinging the day's fare
With the same precision over the gate,

The twin-jingle of his bycycle bell
Vanishing round the corner of the street...

I keep reciting the lines again and again
As though learning by heart
The jingle of an old rhyme.

*****

Checkmate *

On the clay-tiled floor
I spread myself like chess pieces,
sleeping all morning.

Dreaming...I perspire
over the next crucial move,
facing smiling void.

*****

what is the quality of that moment then?

like when you jump from an airplane
and you are in the clouds,
the clouds zooming past you
and you plunging
into a screaming tunnel of clouds…

like when icicles turn brittle your eyelashes,
your tresses flapping frenzied,
the wind blasting through you,
cleansing,
cleansing beyond all cleansing…

like when you think not of heaven or earth;
you think not of anything,
neither perchance the parachute failing,
nor whether you remember
buckling the whole thing on.

what is the quality of that moment then?

*****

Nothing

A jewel in the puddle on the ground
The lamp sheds
As I walk the streets this night.

A twirl-wind spins and lifts
Dead leaves
As I walk the streets this night.

They dance on silent steps
They arch and twist and toss
They strut back, swing and fall
Flashing
A whiff of jasmine on the cheeks.

My cheeks…
Wet with tears…
For nothing.

Homeward,
As I walk the streets this night.

***

poem

at the farthest end of the corridor
a door opens.

light skids down the floor
like skaters exploding a silent slope.

words vanish to open a void
i freeze…

the strains of a poem trip lightly in.

*****

After the cloudburst

Wet night of the cloudburst
When the floods and the traffic
Clog the roads—
The policeman
Waving his glowing batons
Muffled in raincoat—
Sodden like a seed—

Why did we argue?
Why did you hurl that unkind word on me?
Why did I respond the way I did?

I will be home at eight to a warm supper
Of steaming rice and tapioca and pickle
And you, three hours hence—
In all probability—
To pickle and tapioca and steaming rice.

We both need a hot bath before the meal
Back from the wet and the cold...

I can imagine,
You stretching aching legs under the table,
As the old dame
Ladles rice on to your plate.
A funny expression you have on your face,
Mustachios combed down!

Shhhhh… she tells you,
In a hush
Swinging out of reach—

The children,
Don’t you wake them up!

*****

my son

eighteen-year-old vishnu
in between lessons
pumps twelve-kg dumbbells
talks of calories over breakfast
how much ronnie coleman takes
and how much arnold schwarzenegger
what their workout schedules are
hauls big sister lakshmi’s big almirah
at her bidding
from corner to corner
single-handed
not as handsome as his pop
as mom often tells him
with a wink
so he won't feel crushed
facing the reality
but a nice-looking chap all the same
a wiry clean-shaven oak tree grimacing
as though in a bout of dyspepsia
which is misleading
has the best of digestions
takes the bull by the horns
for anybody
has more than three score friends I know of
some of them bodybuilders
others
sheer brains and wizardry
damn good chaps each one of them
bowls leg spin and googlies
mixing them with flippers
a stickler for style
with flicks and cuts and drives
or flexing biceps
the size of tomatoes
tapping the belly
six-pack cutting
can walk on hands and wriggle his ears
a great hit with all the girls
below the age of sixteen
his friend trivikram tells me
behind his back
uncle be careful
keep a watch
and don't tell i told

*****