Arriving at Noon (Chidambaram)
Torn sheets dirty at noon,
thalis on metal plates like wheels,
warped as my sense of time
moving slowly across an endless
dining room.
When the world was a forest
Simahavama halted here,
slept in a circle of grass,
bathed in the temple tank,
emerged with golden armour
of skin.
Now the sun's subdued by artifice,
fried rice lines a fragile stomach.
Faint gust of a ceiling fan,
a room to shut myself away in,
the rusty halo of a shower rose.
Tanks and lingams can wait for dusk
when cows and goats and people
throng to the temple's gate.
Just now, arriving saps the soul,
mirror images disarm with speed.
Behold the man who tries to transcend
the senses and fails dismally.
Surface cracks are huge and wide,
like Rimbaud's sense of light,
a dazzling flash that blinds the eyes
to poetry.
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Passport
Holy lake, Pushkar lake.
A lotus sprung from Vishnu's navel.
Swimming in icy water, cloudy
with centuries of dust and ash.
Petals in the hands of saints
and touts.
Down every alleyway the sound
of drums and bells.
Holy lake, Pushkar lake.
The faces of your dead as vivid
as calendar pictures of divinities
for sale in the bazaar.
Water runs through the imperfect bowl
of your cupped hands
Holy lake, Pushkar lake.
Holy water.
Incantations and prayers which leave
their mark in the form of a blood red thread
around the white of your wrist.
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Diwali
(Bundi, Rajasthan)
how your love still takes
me by surprise,
a journey that never ends
like coming home
to light
votive candles on steps,
faces forgotten now seen,
gods disappearing
through doorways
my sins
serpents at dusk
crossing the pathways
of an abandoned fort
the broken palace
quarried from green
sandstone,
its black chambers
filled with murals of battles
and lovers' trysts
memories
deeper than the confluence
of streets
amidst the walls of the
bazaar
sweet children urging
my son to buy fireworks
so that they can teach him
how to light them
how your love still takes
me by surprise,
a hundred skyrockets
shining in the night
our world
a rooftop of possibilities,
each illumination
of darkness
another realm to explore
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Guide
His face is leaning into the light,
a match struck against darkness,
his nose, his lips distorted
by the waver of the yellow flame.
He is young, sixteen perhaps,
night has washed the dust away.
He talks too much about nothing,
dreams of the city and Eminem,
how good this restaurant is
although there is no menu, no light.
The owner worked at the castle
and now he is starting out.
In his pauses you can hear the hiss
of a single burner,
imagine the turning of a spoon.
This afternoon he took you on a tour
of empty houses where courtesans
and elephants graced the walls,
and someone's washing had not
been unpegged in sixty years.
He strikes another match,
tells you of another town,
where the havelis are painted
in crimson and gold.
He knows the owners of keys,
the fragrances of rooms,
frescoes where lovers fornicate
and gods travel by motor car.
He wants to take you there.
All the time you are wondering
if you should trust someone so young
when what you want to see is so old.
His face is leaning into the light,
there are beads of sweat
on the down above his lips,
his eyes are flares in the night.
Go on, you say, please go on
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