SEPTEMBER 1981
(from AVADHA 1986)
This is the time of the masked-corn,
it’s there everywhere.
Glowing coals in the open stove,
peeled corn-spikes on live coals.
The local train that had stopped at the station
continues to wail.
A buffalo here,
a stubborn boy over there.
Careful!
Flying sparks!!
In another half hour darkness will envelop
the desolate street.
Somewhere in some place,
another corn-field is priming for harvest.
Monday’s Cart
(from Avadha 1986)
See, how it’s trundling along,
this Monday’s cart.
Moving through each lane,
lane by lane,
crushing tar and gravel,
leaving crooked wheel marks.
A huge crushing wheel
leaving behind a long furrow.
Eyes are many, but only
words hang on to words
forming a bridge.
There a stream, here a stream
below is a crocodile mouth ajar.
In case of a breach
all goods would go under.
Belief in god
is the ultimate reason or rhyme.
Quli Qutub Shah’s ghazal
cannot be sung during daytime.
When the bakula flowers sprinkle
on the minar
in the evenings,
it’s time for Bhagyamati to dance.
She, the eternal maiden of the poets,
standing on ancient graves and
Of all the forms and metaphors
why did you like the one you liked?
Or else, would you prefer to buy the
language in its bare form?
What would you do after buying it?
How many of these words are actually correct?
Would the same weekday come again
after it’s already arrived once?
§
Bandichorate*
(from Mukhamukhi 1978)
As I watch the local train, going
from Secunderabad to Falaknuma, slithering
slowly on the far away bridge on the Musi river,
what I am reminded of sometimes is –
the thousand-legged bandichorate-s
that are seen in the rainy season in
the betelnut groves in my village;
how they curl around curves,
how they spot straight lines,
how they unravel parallel lines –
§
The Thieves of Tank Bund
(from Mukhamukhi 1978)
I created the thieves of Tank Bund and sent them out to steal.
I taught them the art of picking pockets.
Very smart chaps. They would always get away somehow.
One of them liked tortoises. The other one
was in love with a girl from long time back.
Both were heavy drinkers (they were thieves after all!).
Once they had read a love-letter found among the stolen loot
and got all choked up. By then I had them
thrown out. They must have stumbled headlong and fallen
near the corporation garbage bin.
But I forgot to give names to these people.
You people keep your names safe under lock and key, ok!
§
Those who have, those who don’t
(from Avadha 1986)
Those who have jobs, talk.
They sign a lot of papers every day,
so they get tired very fast.
A smooth shave every morning,
a season ticket in the front pocket,
a comb in the back pocket.
Those who don’t have jobs, are quiet.
They stand in front of shops by the
roadside.
They look around aimlessly.
These people who have grown their
hair abundantly look like extremists.
All are scared of them.
Who hasn’t walked down the Sultan Bazaar road
in the evenings? Jostling each other, shoving past,
trailing behind, and turning their faces towards the
lights.
But, in spite of everything, you see, the season ticket
and the comb that separate people from people …
That’s tough!
§
Them
(from Mukhamukhi 1978)
He had a number of wives, no?
What happened to them?
Oh, them?
Some of them went back to
their hometowns. They sought shelter from
others.
Some started stringing garlands,
selling them at Charminar.
The dust of the old city lies on all the
flowers.
Some of them became dancers.
They blushed when touched.
They truly fell in love.
They sang in different ways to
different people.
As they passed on by and by,
nobody built their graves.
And some of them became endless
lanes.
The ones you walk on,
The ones you search for.
§
JUNE IN HYDERABAD
(from Avadha 1986)
As soon as one says, ‘June in Hyderabad,’
what we want is
the pleasure of cold drinks
in glittering glasses,
a face that each of us desires
to look at,
to speak to.
A draught of breeze sneaks in once in a while,
if we are lucky.
Somewhere in that breeze,
the moisture of waves,
mingled with
the heat of many dry fields and banks
the breeze would have passed through.
It will rain tomorrow, if not today,
or maybe the day after, but
surely next week,
the rain will come.
Till then,
it is but natural to ruminate on
our past romances.
Won’t it be better if the
evening lamps are lit a bit later?
Why should the light of the sky
be driven away? We are our own lamps –
as long as we glow for each other.
Apart from that,
see how many divine faces are present
Aah!
What was that sound?
Ohh, it’s nothing.
Just an unexpected
drop
of
rain
falling
on
the
glass
window
pane.
§
