cotton

the egg had to be broken from the top
i crossed the dirty brook into the farm where they called them eggs poute'
dad checked to see if it was a brown country egg or English machine made white

patience wore thin he fried the egg sunny side up the way only he could
as the sunlight streamed in from the Eastern window
my craft teacher asked for too much

we used a sketch pen and stuck cotton on the end of the shell
the red cone hid the broken head
it was st. Nicholas in all his glory and the room was golden bright

jingling all the way to school delicately in Dec. i got a B

the lightman

dusk and yellow lights, we won't live forever
there's red gravel on the streets, the brook flows
those lights without glass cages, the british are gone

a man cycles with a long stick, a fish-hook
turns the lights on, that was a job
we are going to the movies, mom, dad, me

deewar, the wall between two brothers
we come back late, the fireflies
crickets, cicadas and frogs take turn

the hay is long and smells of a brown wild summer

duvet

red morning. crimson
chillie bright red morning.
dawning

yawning on the hills
next to the ocean
over the small island...

most people would run
for their cameras.
bit i go to bedroom and back
to sleep.

if there is a tomorrow and i am
alive there will more

else it wouldn't matter anyway

summers in bulsar

the goat is chewing the grass in the graveyard and the big wall separates the dead from the living
i play with my brothers wanting to hit 200 and more and they slog as i hit past the Muslim graves

the mangoes were green and then yellow
the wanki nadee was not straight and polluted by atul
the chikoo wadis as we tookthe camel-cart and went on a family picnic

from vanyawaad. the bookbinders opposite mis-binded my Tintins
and the little orange ganpathy temple and the stone otlla where kalpi foi and shilpa foi sat
on evenings and Falguni

the Bombay Grain Merchants' Lodge is on the edge of the black sand beach
the heat and green insects and sugarcane juice

in the corner of tithal road and the oxen going round and round
before Kshitij came and that was the first tall sky scraper

Toddywallah Bunglow in afternoons where we played cricket
bhavesh had started bowling fast he was born on kapil's birthday

and the bakery with huge buns
and mom slogged and made amazing food. Hot for me and not-so-hot for the uninitiated

the durgahs and the south indian pau bhaji maker in two storeys
and the wadas in the middle of the night with fried green chillies and salt

we loved trains, mangoes, white bats and those soft balls that only Valsad used
the library has lots of mills and boon and an asterix and the couldron
there is the big durgah at the end of the city before the auranga river
the horsecarts are still there but the auto-rickshaws are killing them one at a time

new year at valsad

the year is 1990 or 1991 and grandpa's green army coat
the gravel under the building
the dogs in the distance...lots of them too

its not when i had no friends
but they are in bombay
murali's wedding is coming

in the green coconut land endlessly seamless
i walk on and the dogs know me. mom's asleep
it's dark and the stars in full number

the temple, the mosque, the kalyan baug
the man selling tea early in morning and late
i walk around town thinking of life smelling the ocean

living another year before i met jenny
and the books in gandhi library and arabian sea

the ball

the ball turn on the cobbled stones
with the help of tiny wet grains of black sands
my cousins know I am frustrated at the loss of catches
and deception of the win

and aunty calls us...the dinner is ready
a huge contingent and fruit salad
and potato wadas
uncles, aunts, cousins, small green mangoes chopped in oil and chillies

they were alive then....

it must be diwali in india

as i see more lights on the dark beach
with Oh three and negative ions on a mild night
a wild night spiced by Malaysian and Indian saffron with a chai

the bangladesi boy ran after the train to complete his Ravindranath course with whiff of pepper, cardamon, cinnamon the soft winds from the north don't bite the trawler going to Picton temperatures bounce like frogs

a wind straight from antarctica

mom's death was not taken well by storms and other hypocritical relatives
who never cared for her in the living
as the pyre burned and fires grew like the phoenix

i felt her closer in death
the wardrobe on the right side that has golden light now
was dark and empty

my first impulse as i was asked to leave wellington
i knew it was a matter of time
big city boy you may not stifle the small hill
 
but you will still pay the price and thorns
that you pluck from your heels
making the soil red with footprints

sunflower sunday

the street lamps jump in the southerlies lying to an Antarctic moon
thousand miles of lighthouses and empty air bytes
twenty miles later a love glows in the dying embers of rising eagles
snow is free

Miners get a memorial and caves aren't close
The key is heaps of minerals and a rising dollar
A Brutal feeling in the huts, pubs, prawns fried in chillies
city is empty

seals die this week, painters in a dark corner, sunsets on the lighthouse
Cuba street and a late night coffee with your curls cut short
winds have died and city is warm the Christmas
lights slowly bleed

this one is not on the paper, colours are real i feel this is someone else
souls meet

picnic to tithal

It was decided unanimously that everyone will cook potato in bombay aloo
green chillies ruled vapi to tapi...the southern green belt that have tolerance for green chillies
huge mansion and three stories filled with the entire family grandparents

uncles and cousins and the water heater called the bambo which gives hot water and looks like a steam engine
the tiles have the middle sculpture of a green grape vine and rest is white
the buildings have ships carved on the top of the entrance in a quiet quite corner

the camel cart's on time it's 4 pm and the man is smoking a bidi with a huge rajastani turban
the tar roads or just large enough and the procession goes on goodyear tyres
mama gets down at the bridge of the waanki river which is wonky in shape

parsees in their mansions on the edge of mango wadees, chikoo wadees and coconut wadees
the potato boiled and fried in oil and mustard and green chillies is different from every plate
and tastes just right with the sand in it,,,what would flaked rice or potato taste if it did not have the sand in it

the sun sets