It is a sound that comes through child
A child of the earth and a climbed wall,

A tree with leaves plucked into pockets
For worship of a stone god in vermilion

And yellow softness of beginning god,
A god nestled in a heap of yellow rice.

It is the women in rustling silks of air,
A fragrance of leaf, flowers and flame.

It is a flame that dies in floral fragrance
But re-lives to verify a continued living.



Wear your robes into the big hills
To a precipice, to discuss beyond

The vedas, read all about a flesh
Bones are heir to, as loosely laid

As words failing toward meaning
When they sprout as new leaves

To a bodhi tree, under an ochre,
Like setting sun behind the hills
Its shadows lasting all morning.


Mom wanted a birthday celebrated
According to the moon of calendar.

We would wake up when it was dark,
Before the resident cuckoo got up,

And spread mom’s soft flour paste
On our bodies to be ready for bath.

Later in school we would be proud
To distribute our hard boiled toffees.

As the kids hit tongues with them,
Tongues hit roofs of their mouths.


They called you that currency girl.
Yet you got a 2000 nobody takes.

You got your digital salary in bank.
Yet you stand in mile-long queue.

The promises are to pay a bearer.
In hollow you hear his nose blow.

(A severe cash crunch has followed the recent demonetization of higher denomination notes resulting in untold misery to the citizens)