Sangam House Triptych
WORSHIP
Guru and Swami
and Thampi-with-yearning-ears
lie on the suburbs
of my fingers’ arc, lips bared,
eyes fixed in unnerving hope.
If a dog could speak,
he would drawl: ‘Here is the trick:
I let you believe
you are God, divine, adored.
Now feed me more bread, my lord.’
REPAST
We feast all the time
eat like emperors
each meal a banquet
sip the smell of rain the stubbly moon
spread uneven fingers over trees
drink in the quiet of pooled thoughts
divide light with moths, mites, crickets
and the odd visitor toad
devour the music of words
words in eight voices and accents
and moods sometimes ten or twelve
toast to the exuberant delight
the laughter of a mama bear laden
with honey and meat dip long
into the magic of revisited tales of beginnings and ends
filled with a Danish bumbling god with no sense
of shape and heroines with a predilection for puns
and one cranky rhino who will save the world
once glimpse the quicksilver
puckish god of poetry
Now multiply them the laughter the words
the thought the delight the sorrow this time
leave some in the alcoves on eaves
beside windows sprinkled on butterfly
wings stray sunlit free verses
on the grass and carry the rest
in wallets and pockets dangle
them from ears you’ll still find a few
in the hollow of a throat
FARE THEE WELL
Shed layers of night,
Sky, patch by uneven patch.
Day shivers within,
still tender; and teal, claret,
the words we won’t spell: goodbye.
For we meet again,
surely and soon on the shores
of other mornings,
around crisp toast dipped in mist
or within fresh, warm stories.
The Invaders
Feasts and hallowed days spin on orbits
seldom grazing mine, till your voice swings
past meridians and meteorites
(Insat 2-B and Mobistar abetting)
this Saturday noon to hum Happy Holi
into the unwary whorls of a left eardrum.
I could weigh the vernal sunbeams
in those notes, bronzed on a bonfire
where good blooms in twice-born glee;
count the koel warming up behind –
the first chamber music concert this year
on a fourth-floor South Delhi balcony;
nearly touch flecks of gulaal tinting you
into a metonym for tropical spring.
The call ends, like other things.
But echoes of a koelled clarinet,
of your voice and its joyful salute,
snag on the woven blue rose stems
shading my kitchen window, perch on high
pelmets, recoil, reproduce and let
loose dissident whims:
To sift ochre, emerald, indigo
from the festive phonemes and smear
an ashen, unshaven sky above;
find water-balloons to hurl at chimney-potted
rooftops, a mass christening in cerise;
teach thumri to ungainly pigeons lumbering
on the girders outside – for a mehfil in mid-air….
I switch off the cell, and reheat tagliatelle
instead, adding paprika, pesto,
carrots and capsicum for a whisper
of insane flavour – it’s Holi, after all.
Blood Moon Rising: Poorna with Vyaasa
iwNs tks dkssà esjh fu’kkuh jaXk fg~uuk fy[kuk
Xkksjs Cknu is maXkyh ls esjk uke vnk fy[kuk
dHkh&dHkh vkl&ikl pkan jsgrh gS
dHkh&dHkh vkl&ikl ‘kke jsgrh gS
vkvks uk] vkvks uk] >sg~yqe~ esa Cksg ysaXks
Okknh ds ekSle Hkh ,d fnu rks CknysaXks
Should anyone ask for my keepsake, my sign,
write the colour henna, sign the name grace
with your finger on my fair body.
Now and then, the moon dwells here.
Now and then, it is gloaming.
Yes, come. Come, let us flow away in the Jhelum.
The seasons in the valley will change too one day.
– Gulzar, Naam Adaa Likhna (Yahaan, 2005)
Begin with the labia, Lord. Make me
a word, swift and feather-light, a flurry
beneath the philtrum nuzzling the upper,
then lower lip, teasing teeth apart, swirls
on tongue-tip and blade and root that carry
ribbon lightning to the brain, the smokey winesting
of caresses on a hard palate.
Transform from noun to verb these lips. Savour.
Brush. Sip. For tonight, we need no food to dine.
Should anyone ask for my keepsake, my sign
of birth or station, tell them, Lord, nothing matters
but this nightsong: with alaap of twined tongues; tatters
of pulse that will drut in teentaal; the raag bahaar
of your breath deep within my throat; hip and thigh, shaft,
pubis—in long bandish, flesh to flesh, that shatters
thought and time. For mating, like music, is no race:
no clocks await at start or finish, pleasure shared stays
the sole prize—and keepsake, as faces change, voices drift,
signs wilt. Save its five-chambered heart, treasure misplaced
by gods. Write the colour henna. Sign the name grace.
Name its fragrance earth. Colour its music
midnight. Label the shape Desire—relic,
once more, from heaven. Measure its weight
as sunlight, but also planet. (Add
a fifth veda, Lord, penned in euphoric
verse, on kama – unnamed melody
that lends harmony to both virtue and wealth –
and spell how kama, dharma, artha usher
as one moksha, the last remedy.)
With your finger on my fair body,
resume writing, My Lord, define
your landscape of pleasure. Your spine
arches: permit my hands maiden
journeys, let one graze lush terai
around a chest, scale the incline
of collarbone, then reappear
on the nape of a neck, curving your
head towards my breasts. The other hand
trails your behind, tracing half-spheres
now and then. The moon dwells here,
twin demilunes, tight and perfect
to light a yoni. For reflect,
Lord, a flame must burn both blue and golden.
Thirst requited is key to coitus,
more so if the desired effect
is healthy sons, lust loaming
the womb, attest our midwives. Men must bring,
not just seek the pinnacle. So, rouse my
seed. Set hands and tongue roaming
now. And then, it’ll be gloaming
again and again, the blessed moment when night
and day merge to stain skies in many-hued delight.
Continue, Lord. Unfurl my petals, taste
and quaff, trace and stroke the whorls till they come
alive, enflame, throb and bloom to complete this rite
that spring enjoins. Penetrate, then thrust. Thrust. Succumb
to the pain, explode future selves, lose your being.
But do not lose me, for it isn’t over yet.
Not till I surge and pound and flood, till I become,
yes, come. Come, let us flow away in the Jhelum,
the night or the Milky Way, you plead, leave the land,
this world—how dear, how absurd are lovers’ demands
in bliss, even those of ascetics. I came, Lord, in aid
of a distressed lass. I came to bear a wise, robust child
for this clan. Ever afters, you must understand,
are not for maids. Nor life, should the queen wish to flay
defiance in its bud. You’ll forget me too, though perhaps
not this night. For nothing forever remains, whether thirst
or royal norms. Even the sun must melt away.
The seasons in the valley will change too one day.