I have tried out this thing in film
A voice from space above, about
A fan whirring , closely followed
By the dying man, whose woman
Yanks out a story from a curry
As his eyes follow the fan’s whirs.
What if the eyes stop and curry
Stops frying in a pan with no gas.
We stand dead for want of space
Or lay dying while watching fans.
A standing in train is gentle nudge
A hello to kids with ball, a struggle
To keep up the logic of what follows.
Everything seems so non sequitur.
( Imagery from the exquisite Hindi film Lunch Box)
There is rain above the platform
Empty in descent from the sky
Like sounds sloshing in a hollow .
Voices jostle with flies and bags
On thick porters in red dresses
And worn with holding suitcases
Of stuff weighing down on men.
Bags in revolt against head cloth
Rest like coiled snakes on heads.
The waters snake down from roof
Falling to the gravel on the track.
Inside the station master’s room
Night is broken by a single lamp.
A voice announced an unknown life
Deciding to call it quits too soon.
Our politics goes on like onion peel
To reach the tearful center of nothing.
Let us cut it to thin rings of slices
For a farmer’s hungry mid-day lunch
So he makes stuff for other stomachs
His own stomach lost to onion peels.
Onion is bankroll to feed hunger games
About men thirsty for a palm’s climb
For gods’ nectar where tree meets sky.
Its peels go well with the gods nectar.