God in the hills

Silence is all ,the stone phallus in the hills
Snug in the cave ,a light from earth lamp
A blue and dusted god with river in hair

And a moon no longer super, far from us.
Words are his dreams, god in snow hills,
A god submerged in the river of his wife.


Small in our flesh

He interrupted us ,smiling,
In our endless daydreams,

An earth would come alive
Where stone feet touched .

Thick conical stone leaves
Intertwined with his torso

Hid a splendid nakedness
From that sleeping world.

We felt small, in our flesh,
When an earth came alive.

( The statue of Gomateswara , a Jain saint stands tall at Shravanabelagola in Karnataka- the world’s biggest monolithic statue constructed in the 10th century )

The ghosts of Golconda

Yesterday’s Golconda was the rhizome
That would make it a new green verse,
From a poem lost in transient memory.

The shepherd’s mountain hosted ghosts
Over matchstick sounds across bushes.
Today it is back again dreaming out of.

We better exorcise female ghosts from it.
They are a flesh turned stone with men.
Their sleeping tombs are cold with past.

Bodies were covered in a male darkness
And their stomachs homes to male egos.
Now they are in the same stone as men.

Bricks to our understanding

Let us make bricks to our understanding
From the foot slush of a twelve year old
In Peru or Orissa, not one with the i-pad.

Bricks are so much like the sleek i-pads
Gleaming in yellow bus, in school bags
On backs weighed down by knowledge.

The brick slush feels soft on child’s feet
Ankle -deep in the earth mother’s love.
Let us make bricks to an understanding.

(about the child laborers employed in brick kilns of India and Peru)


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)

Deserted homes

Home roofs are just some old air
A stratified layer left in echoes.
Old air is like our air soon to be.

Homes are first a dust, then air.
They contained bodies to be air,
To be no stones only dust in air.

(Kuldhara is an abandoned village near Jaisalmer, a ghost village deserted by its residents overnight in 19th century to escape persecution by a tyrant ruler)