Love

My mother never told me
Love is a bottle of mango pickles
She used to put in my cotton bag
Every time I leave my home town

One day
Her season of mangoes ended
And never returned

Now my five-year-old daughter asks me
Ackha help me prepare an article about love
For a competition in my class.

Just to keep her mum
I bought her
A mango fruity.

Bulbul

For take off 
She doesn’t have to
Stand in queue
Waiting for her turn
Nor
Look for a signal
From the air traffic control

So cheerfully
By a precise movement
Adjusting her wings
Smoothly 
To left
Sometimes to the right
And such a comfortable landing.

Anywhere
Anytime.
No collisions.

She has no flat in the clouds
Nor in the trees
You may find her 
In the crowded city bus stands
Busy junctions
Below the flyovers
Beside the pillar shadows
Or in front of super market

Even just in your mind

She may land so suddenly

Whistling playing joyfully
And will take off in a flash.

Then for the entire life 
You will be left thinking about 
that little girl.





To Speak

In a letter or email
I can still talk to you better.

Over phone
just fifty percent 
But
When you are here
It is
Absolutely flop
I am unable to utter a word

But
with birds
trees
or
river
there is no 
interruption in communication.

However to speak
To a flower
Words are to be
In 
own native tongue
And to a green caterpillar
Its own vernacular.

So many such languages
Around
Which I long to speak in
But 
See 
I am so dumb.

When you are no more a dog

Had very powerful
Muscles
Metal finish nails
Piercing gaze
Sharp ears
Razor like teeth
And
A tail like a beautiful pink flower
With long stem
So soft and flexible.

He use to say ‘yes sir yes sir ye..’
With his tail

A slight movement of a shadow,
And a variety of sounds,
Or a spectrum of smell
He will catch
In no time
Analyze precisely
Even in sleep.

Even now
He has a nose
Yes both eyes
Also legs
Tail..
Yes everything

But the left leg is sticking in the back tyre
Of a truck
Going to south Mumbai
Carrying some potatoes
Tail rolling below a school bus
Body tilts this way that way
When some bike passes

And
In between 
If some school children cross
This road
Their shoes become red.

Thinking somewhere …

The bus conductor
Pushed me out
As I was leaning on a foot board
For support
In an open public bus
Going somewhere
In Mumbai city
In the early 
Twenty first century
Thinking about
A Malayalam poem
In English.

Top