Sunder And Sonati

A green curtain Obscures the view From our front verandah Time to take The pruning shears To the creepers

Her feelings My words I just transmuted What she felt Into poetry Who is the producer? Who the middleman? Who is the creator? Who the midwife? Who is the poet? Who the alchemist? And he who

Baba is gone And I am bereft How does one grieve For one Who was so much A part of my life? A part of me? Rituals they say Are to help The dead in their passage Rituals, Baba said Are just rituals

Children are taught Not the beauty of Maths Nor its elegance Just some jugglery And conjuring tricks If you can choose A matching pair of socks From five assorted socks Of two different colours In

West Coast Express: 5 hours late Chaiya, Chaiya Lokmanya Tilak Express: 20 minutes late Kaapi, Kaapi Sooda Badam paal The sounds of Salem station are The whiff of childhood journeys Absent, now,

Last night's was A textbook rain Bookended by The call of the brain fever bird Brain fever brain fever brain And The contented gurgling croaks Of hundreds of toads We don't get such rains Often