The girl on the threshold
The open safety- door
Of a neighbour’s silent house, suburban Mumbai high-rise,
Tentative, quiet, searching for a friend
With her round brown eyes in that dusty narrow marble
Corridor with the firmly locked doors.
Whipped by a whistling wind;
Her solitary childhood starkly lonely as
A bright fire burning in a street corner,
This late February evening
Hugging a locality where adults rarely talk!
The December wind
This Monday morning wind of December,
Raw and arrogant,
Aware of its power immense,
Walks like a mast elephant,
Or, a youth in love,
Caressing everybody with its
Knocking things in the
Deserted hall, crowded
Of a 2BHK suburban-Mumbai flat;
The cold breath of mild winter
Being carried on its invisible wings,
---How does it sweep the entire region!
This big-bosomed wind, knocking off the caps
And slipping inside the shirts and tinkling
Bare skins--- and whistling in pleasure,
A dulcet long moaning heard after very long in a
Working couple’s bedroom,
The whistling done by a
Smiling patient recovering
Slowly from a fatal disease,
Like an out –of-work guy,
Sitting/fretting home for three
Bleak months, then suddenly getting hired
On a long-distance call,
For a tiny office full of faded hopes,
In a busy Detroit, Delhi, or, Madrid.
A garbage dump
Stinking piece of land.
Partially cleared of the urban garbage.
Then two swings and a slider
Recovered a missing playground
And a smiling childhood
And few minutes of
Company in the
Polluted urban sprawl.
Carrying a bundle
On a grizzled head
Three roped donkeys
Driven by a kid.
Kept on their backs.
The mobile gypsy family,
Mocking a covetous city
Of high-rises and fancy cars.