There waved tiny flags on a vast unutterable silence
Of the mountains, in rain and fog and vague figures
Whose eyes went over silky layers of September sky
Surrounded by thin mists of confusion and intellect.
There sat a monkey god, himself victim of confusion
In a frosty silence ,abetted by a stony lack of clarity.
Should I or should I not, kill demons and restore life
To God’s swooned brother,by a medicinal mountain
Or smear myself in ocher, my eyes closed in prayer
And god- wife’s pearls turn rosary for prayer count.
The flags fluttered in confusion on our many desires.
Gods turned to prayers and frosts would fizzle down
Now and then,to bright sun emerging from the pines.
The tailor had an eye for his needle
That went in and out a cotton hole
As if it was his very own heart lung
Furiously beating in an old rib cage.
His needle had eye for the thread
That went in like it was Bible camel.
Diwali is closing in with customers
For dupattas amidst light crackers.
A needle has its catching up to do.
We mostly see them with mustaches
With faces in their hanging on a wall
While women cover heads with cloth.
But it is not just a hookah sputtering
On a sagging string cot under the tree
And shouting – you mother of my son.
It is what they do with woman bodies,
Says bra burning woman about bodies,
Bodies stamped signed and delivered.
In some hills bodies are not stamped
But carry grass proudly on their heads
As if they are hills under a fresh grass.
As we ask them to the facetious faces
Who does it , now and day and night
They laugh their faces to say they do.
In the evening , women walked to the movies
Their bare backs aglow with stars of jasmines,
Out-smelling dark waters of street side gutters.
Our dreams vary with the color of fetid rivers
Flowing down with sewage of private shames .
Our streets are our teeming animal husbandry
Whose wealth is calculated by extended count .
Their dung’s pancakes slapped on street walls
Are a gross domestic wealth saved for future.
We make a morning coffee from buffalo milk
Milked right before houses in morning streets.
When it comes to quality of the milk in coffee
We take no chances with milkman’s honesty.