I enter my buddy’s house.
It wears a deserted look.
Is there anyone at all? I yell
I encounter a silence.
Called once again,
Face a quietude.
I go back.
A sound stops me.
The sound is shrill. Not a man’s
I move in haste.
Could be a ghost? I presume.
The voice echoes
through the avenue. I hold on.
Nothing inauspicious in the lineup.
Concerned, I go onward.
The expression is a wee behind.
Terrified, I sit down in a corner.
The voice trails.
My heart pounds.
A parrot nudges close.
I attempt to fondle her.
She talks incessantly.
Is this not the one I heard so long?
I chuckle. Crazy
Marriage is a binding.
Male and female unite,
a synthesis of any two objects
a symbiosis of two events
one could continue with many.
Considering the union
the sensuous element overwhelms
the sanctity is beyond that
a will and an earnestness
to perpetuate the genre pervades.
It is private. Thematizing
the amalgam is bizarre.
Enthusiastic about art and literature
I become mad when I look at and read
any of these artistic features.
The desire swells as I grow grey
am allured by the exquisite.
I understand it is beyond the sway.
I slither out of the sensuous.
The perspective demands a restraint
but they are sacrilegious
Romanticism is an artistic movement
where aesthetics play a discerning role.
Control should be the rudiment.
Excessive sensuality revealed in expressions
might be enjoyable to a few, while many
stay from such sexual derelictions
The vacant eyes, a sullen countenance,
a minimalist solicitation,
forces an embarrassment.
Her face is impassive. I sit quietly.
She hurries to the pantry.
Sticks around for a while.
Places the refreshments and drink
before me. The gestures are
one of indifference.
I gift her a diamond ring. Turning back
I meet her gaze which I return,
The refreshments lie untouched.
My chef is manageable
most days: turns unruly on circumstances
when he needs to be told to behave.
He prepares delicious stuff.
for the arriving guests.
Lays the table with crispy potato fries,
salad greens, eggplant kofta, garlic and onion broth
spinach stew and raita.
Dressed in sparkling white,
with a sterling ladle and a smile
he orchestrates the soup service,
briskly, yet without spilling a drop.
Then swiftly to the pantry to fetch rice,
instead, abruptly strikes a fight with the maid.
yells at her for no cause.
She retorts loudly.
The help is erupting
the flow of the household.
The alarmed company look to leave.
I turn up the ambience music.
fast-walk to the cuisine. With my eyes
silence the housemaid and stare down the cook.
The volcano immediately subsides.
The chef and the maid cool and resume,
catering to the guests at ease in our home.
I engage in a buffet.
The great number of the courses
are Greek and Latin.
The premier dish is a chaat
a blend of chopped onion,
carrot, chilli, tamarind extract
over a Dahi Batata Puri.
I pick up a considerable helping.
The first spoon of this fusion
gets stuck in the gullet. An extraordinary
taste lingers. I keep aside.
Smitten by an uncomfortable sensation,
I turn back. Two large eyes
stare at me. A toothy grin
adds up to the uneasiness. I move fast,
mingle with the crowd.
Relaxed, I settle back in a corner.
The eyes watch me from further away.
I thrust my meals and speed
The eyes run behind.
I hop into the station wagon
head for in tremendous rapidity.
The perceptions and the simper
haunt me. I arrive home. Bolt the door
and clamber into my couch.
I stay intimidated.
I go to my parent’s home
after a lengthened time.
My mom lies dead.
I stay there for a period
the mind journeys to and fro.
I stare at the place
where she combed my hair.
I notice the chair
which she occupied.
Her glasses she adjusted
while she read.
She would place her middle finger above
and the index finger below the lips.
A characteristic posture.
I break down.
The siblings inspect her belongings
Open her almirah Her collection
of silk, Benaras, tafetta baffle. The elder brother speaks out.
The elder brother speaks out.
“The silk is not for you.”
They examine the safe.
The jewellery of gold and gems
shine. Exquisite are her adornments.
The brother works in.
“The ornaments not for you.”
The siblings check her documents and stocks,
count her cash. A worthy inheritance.
In a chorus they interrupt
“The properties are not for you.”
I step out of the house
with mother’s memoirs. My eyes turn moist.
I turn back, just once.
Desist from uttering,
“Those are not for you.”
A female in gender
she plays no complacency
dominates beyond courtesy.
Kaya behaves arrogant,
directs and ordains with pride,
overthrows the veterans to a side.
Wastes without concern.
She squanders with a will
does not resent the bills.
Masquerades her ageing lines
applies rouge and lipstick
which play a pretentious trick.
Her spouse is a dummy
descends to the oblivion
bends his head like a dandelion.
Kaya dances and dramatises.
Her personality is showy and theatrical.
She has never been ethical
Beat the heat
with a splash
How to knock?
without a drop
I reflect for a while.
Check for a source
I sweat a lot and sigh
My body is drenched
A stream of reflections
keep me involved.
I study and evaluate like a cow
that bites and chews the cud.
I stare at the sky for a solace.
Instead, the firmament inspires
The nerves act cool. The body
emerges malleable. The mind reposes.
I renounce the inhibitions
calm down with the energetic waves.
The deprive, the shattered hopes
eligible for a plunge disappear.
No sooner I convert, this circumstance
I grow forward.