On Certain Farming Techniques

On Certain Farming Techniques

 

I‘ve put some seeds out to dry

But what’s the use

The slow goofy rain wouldn’t stop

 

The thing has been around

For a week, the untimely brute

Would it ever cease ?

 

 The seeds I have saved

Isn’t really bursting to come out

 

Yet I had hopes on them.

They might even come out right

 

Now with this rain around

There’s very little chance

Of them seeing the light of day

 

As I wait for a lull in the rains

I had the time to look at the past

 

Did I have the luck to dry all

My seeds, in time to plant them well?

 

None at all, it either rained or

Flared violent all the year round

 

And , there weren’t any seeds

At any time ready to be grafted

 

May be this happens to all

Is there a given time to do a thing?

 

We do what we can

Whether it rains or shines

 

Eidetic? (A consolation poem)

Eidetic? (A consolation poem)

  

When I pump the old bore-well now

Only air issues forth

There would be a long hiss at first

Sending shivers through the neighborhood

 

Immediately there would be a parting of curtains

Bringing faces to the windows

And a freezing of children at play

 

It stalls the grocer and his cart to a stop

And mostly tumbles the milkman from his bike

 

People had become wary of the old pump

 

It’s not a hiss, they used to say

It’s a siren; it’s a wail of imminent danger

 

The long hiss would be followed by a staccato stutter

As if a machine gun is being discharged

Then an interminable gurgle would be heard

The pump had a strange way of mimicking water

It gets up my expectations and reduces me to a hopeful waiting

At last there would be silence

People would then settle into their routines

Only to be brought still by its next hiss

On rare occasions it would emit an ounce of water

It was mostly froth, and drops with a plunk,

Before anyone could catch it

 

Kind ladies who see me working the pump

Would smile and murmur:

 

Can’t you get a privet connection lad?

Why go for the bore-well water?

The water they supply us,

It is chlorinated and treated for purity

And is enriched with minerals for our use!

 

They reside in palatial mansions

Or the sky scrapping apartments nearby,

Purified water is brought to them 

By the truck loads and filled

To the full in their privet and capacious tanks

 

I would return their smiles and say:

Your kindnesses, I am poor, and do like the

Faintly tepid tang of the ground water somehow.

 

They would stall for a moment in pity

And say almost to themselves

 

You can bore or dig a well then,

Does not the city permit that?

 

They only permit swimming pools

Your kindnesses,

Wells seem to be unhygienic, and what’s more

They are about to issue notices to shut this off too

 

The ladies would then seem genuinely baffled:

 

How so lad, people are free to do

What they lawfully want,

Doesn’t our charter of rights say so?

 

It does, your kindnesses, it does, 

The trick-word being ‘lawfully’

 Do your kindnesses know who makes laws?

 

 Who ?

 

I would laugh.

 

That’s what we need to find out, your kindnesses,

That’s what we need to find out.

 

They would leave slightly perturbed, and I would

Pump the well once again, oblivious to the din.

On Didactics

On Didactics

 

Teaching the cute little wild cat

The sum of life is hard; it can turn bad, ‘cause

The darling is wild, and can only be had

By its silly neck—always remember to catch it firm

(And as one of the old masters told me)

 

“It is cute, absolutely sweet

But it is dark and mighty wild”

 

She stands up on her hind legs

Exposing the pristine fur on her belly-side

Her claws spread and her mews rasping

She’s ready for fight, her furs are alight

Her eyes aren’t the same on two

Con-secutive moments

They suck you in, and spread you thin

You be better on the look out

Or she would wound you dead

 

If you aren’t a cat whisperer

Don’t ever think of  teaching it

And you would be hard put even

To get someone to train her

 

I picked on a  poet for the purpose.

But that soul  brushed me off with these lines

By singing:

 

“My love is not speaking( to me) any more

So how can I speak on my own “ (‘Own’ is elongated)

“It is he who speaks through me

And without his words I am no more” (‘More’ is also drawn-out)

 

That’s some powerful insight

So I left in peace, no business in meddling

In love affairs.

 

Well I have now decided to release

The  cat kid to the wild.

 

If poets can’t train a wild cat, who else can?

Saturday

Saturday

Is no chatter day

Potion Sweet

Potion Sweet

(There’s never a breath in the room

The noon lies like a whale, dead and ashore)

 

She’s lying face down,  like a stream  quite

Its surface undulating, turning now,

A tangle of limbs, the ceasing,-surfacing of ribs.

Paul watches her, its midday outside,

Through the curtains, a window is looking in towards them

The curtains gaunt with age, frayed at seems

Stuttering in the pickled heat of the room

And  he is sweating, it’s a  sticky sweat

 

Unheard, there were knocks on a door

Insistent , urgent, then they lulled, picking up now

Who is peeking at us, he wondered,  god may be

God is the one who forbade the potion we took

Wakeup. He says to her. Her flesh damp and cool.

She stirs so slowly in sleep

Wakeup. He urges, pinching  her nose with fingers

Now she moves to the side and seems expectant

Extends one arm, eyes  clear, lips parting

 

Some god  is at the door. He hush  his whisper

Can’t be, she jerks back. Salesman may be

Sales men  know your name?

She stills now. Slithers out of the bed. Panting. 

When.. ?And  something mutes the question

“Listen.” And there was the call again.

 It was loud this time

Its him she says. It’s my lord and god.

She slides down on the bed,  a crumpled cloth

 

My god will kill me. She whimpers now

But he was not listening. He was worried.

The window latch…… it won’t open.

He was still  fumbling.

Its stuck,  she says. Its stuck

She is getting dressed even now. Teary yet.

There’s death in the air, the lights have all gone out

And there’s never a breath in the room

The noon lies like a whale, dead and ashore

 

Going where? Paul says harshly.

There’ isn’t a back door to this dump

 

Yet she seems composed, and even smiling

Don’t need one, my god won’t know

 

The hell he won’t. He murmurs. The hell he won’t

 

Then …..she’s all sweet to her god. He is kind. Urbane.

Paul works in my section, she says, came to get something.

The god seems pleasant and has a nice smile

“We had head phones on, you know, chatting with the boss!”

Hands are shaken. Drinks  shared

The god may have a cold. And cold smells nothing.

 

Now that the god is at home, he has to leave.

 

Outside it’s a hell of a noon

May be it’s the noon of hell

 

 

Sir, sir , sir

Sir, sir , sir

  

You want air sir? Its pure sir

Bottled in the mountains and at low prices sir

And please hold this as a secret sir, its confidential,

We have a thousand acres

Of pristine forests concealed in the mountains!

And they produce the finest air in the world

You can’t tell anyone now sir, this is a special offer

There is this package, where you can stay at our place

And take off the mask and live like a human for a few days

But it’s very expensive and only the selected get the chance

Would you care to subscribe sir? Oh,  if not, no matter

You can still savor the freshness of the things in store

Just take a sniff of this and you will feel a thousand times better

Please do, it’s the purest air you would ever find on this globe

No need to keep that mask on, shut that meter down too

Just take a little sniff, how do you feel now sir

The government air sir, you can bet your life on it

Is only fifty percent sewer gas

It’s true! You can take my word for it.

Just think of it sir, forget whether it’s purified or not

Just think where it comes from.

From the sewers, the sewers, the bowels of humanity

The ration shops further adulterate it too

It’s full of animal air and bird’s air, you smile!

You don’t believe me (With low voice) It’s even reported

That they tap fishes, and catch the bubbles they emit

It’s a conspiracy sir, your kids and family breathe it don’t they

The old people too yes? They need purer air than us,

Healthy air, country and forest air, happy air sir

Now we  supply you the purest  you can ever imagine

At very low prices too, one gallon of fresh air for only a pint of blood sir

Things don’t come any cheaper than that do they

It’s so low priced  that it would make most people cry

And it’s almost one hundred percent pure too, when did you last sniff

Anything that good? Not in this life I dare say,

Oh, there are other options too, a kidney, or a piece of liver, are worth

A hundred  gallons of pristine liquefied air, it’s the holy truth sir

We are not out to make a profit you know

How can anybody think of making money out of such a venture

And we are  almost giving it for free now

Yet tell me, what is ‘that’ free in this world sir,

You pay for power  by the amps, water by ounces,

And is it even secret sir

That the intake of sunlight is going to be regulated?

A meters is there to  monitor the amount of light you absorb

And aren’t there already taxes on the use of sunlight too

I know it’s indirect, yet taxes are still taxes aren’t they

You are a man of the world sir, you know all this already

Nothing is cheap in the world

Bar the human without means, isn’t that the whole truth sir

Buy it when you can, or you wouldn’t  get the chance

To live like a creature of god, even if for a little while……

 

 

The Fun Life We Are Having

The Fun Life We Are Having

  

Fixtures aren’t that bad, those things stay put

And may even glare us down as we get near

Nothing to do but do the circumventing

And the ducking and weaving,

Digging and hauling, till you topple, or they topple

Fixtures are all in the brain, they loom

Like pyramids, containing the condensed

‘Wisdom’ of centuries, they are logical in structure

And do all their battles with obsolete dicta

When they fail to move us we move in to move them

Hence it’s nice battling with a fixture

It can’t move while we can, it can’t smile

But grow old and vanish…………

 

Yet strictures are definitely gooey and sticky things

They play obtuse, use swords and abuse

Speak in dialects unknown to the civil tongue

Get red in the eye, show aversion and gore

Issue edicts, talk of gods and sub gods

Quote from obscure texts- Hence all strictures are

In the mind, fed by a deep sense of insecurity

They harbor the memories of battles lost

Honor stripped, positions sabotaged, they deny logic

And delve into the abyss of the past to gain strength

When they hunt us, we can’t be blunt or pull a stunt

The battle isn’t with words, it’s with blood and spit

It isn’t nice to go to war with a stricture

It walks in shades, and works through our minds

Options against them are nonexistent

Other than to Issue a few of our own

 

Tercet

(One)

A cart is being dismantled
Parts separate
The clock is still ticking on

(Two)

It’s some famed macro lexicon
Words are micro
Ideas enunciate a leprechaun

(Three)

The terminal looks deserted
Vehicles don’t ply
Jelly fish still swims the seas

The imp possible’s

The imp  possible’s

  

He peeks at me through the half open door

But I don’t dare say “come in” to him

I know he is trouble

He is the holy terror of the neighborhood.

 

I tip toe to the door

And try to close it ever so nicely

I had almost got it done

When his tiny nose came crawling in through the slit.

 

“You gave me a fright”

 

I murmured to the short brown hairs

 

The imp is merely one and half feet

But his eyes look several thousand

 

“Ride” He points to something beyond with his open palms

 

I had heard of his ride

His father had just got him that the other day

 

The other boys all had big rides

So he needed one too.

 

One can see him wheeling it among the other boy biking fanatics

(He can’t yet climb on it)

And quarrelling with them

He calls them “bitches” and “sluts”

No one knows where he learned them

And the boys are pretty pissed about that

Strangely those are the only two words he could clearly utter too.

 

“Hmm, hmm” I say troubled. I like the imp somehow.

 

He wriggles past me into the room and starts handling things

 

I try to get some sense into him

 

“No, no, not that, that’s my pen”

 

“No you can’t take that, that’s a

Laughing Buddha, the favorite of your aunt’s”

 

(He doesn’t believe in aunts. This aunt being my wife

She would probably murder me if that statue got broke.)

 

The little terror was having it pretty good in my writing room.

 I again tried to normalize things.

 

“No, you can’t, I said you can’t, that’s the mouse of my computer

The lights you see in it are not fitted there to attract bees like you.

Don’t ever think that”

 

Well he has seen the morning paper by now.

 

“Now don’t tear the paper, there may

Even be some news in it you know”

 

I manage to remove every other item to where the

 Tiny devil can’t reach them.

I surveyed the room; there is not much he can do now.  

I turned towards my computer.

After a while I start hearing noises from the inner room

 

Well the imp had locked himself in that room and was making

Hell inside

 

As all good things happen in our lives, my wife comes in just then

And starts wailing

 

“What have you gone and done now!”

 

What, what the hell do you mean, he is the one doing that!

 

And you let him into the room. I had my trunk open, it has jewelry

 

I relaxed. Wonderful.   Its only jewelry. No big deal.

 

One thing you can say about a human wail, it tends to attract people.

Soon there were all the girls in the locality around the door, the big boys smelling mischief, were not far behind.

 

Girls started cajoling the imp

 

Honey, open the door, wont you, you like chocolates, I have plenty

 

The revelry inside picks up momentum

 

Sweet, it’s your mamma, I have halwa for you

 

It’s getting merrier inside

 

The boys want to break the door down.

 I wouldn’t have any breaking down of doors.

 

All the while the girls  are directing

 Freezing and deeply pitying glances at me.

The big guy, don’t know how to control a child,

Now he has got the little guy locked inside.

 

I am all too familiar with the way girls think so I hold a poker face to it.

 

The cajoling is going nowhere.

 

The imp is grunting and whooping inside and there is a constant noise of things breaking.

 

The time was getting late too.

There were conferences.  

Without my participation of course I being the main culprit.

A consensus was being arrived at.

They want to break the door open.

 

I got fed up and moved towards the door and shouted

 

You little capsule of trouble, I have your bike now,

 It seems a good bike to me.

 

There is dead silence for a while.

 The imp has pretty good ratiocinating faculties.

There was the clatter of latches being pulled and handles being turned

The imp shoots through my legs towards his precious bike

 

I look at the guys and girls and hold myself humble.

 

The girls are not impressed at all.

 

My girl says

 

You shouldn’t have called him” a little capsule of trouble”

He is not a capsule.

 

There were pitying looks all around on the girl’s part.

 

 To call a child a capsule! A little darling at that…..

 

I was getting pretty pissed at the patronizing attitude of the girls.

As if everyone is nice out in the world.

As if such imps could get along without being mauled once in a while  

That would be tantamount to  an injustice wouldn’t it. 

 

“Oh, should one call him “mother Theresa l” then” 

 

I ask

 

More pitying looks

 

“You guys should know he destroyed every single item within his reach.”

 

Then you should have moved them out of his reach. 

 

The girls hotly respond.

 

The boys are enjoying the beating I was taking.

 

Well I was not taking it any more.

 

I say coldly.

 

Thank your stars you don’t have anything worth it where he can reach.

 

The silence was one that you could only cut with a laser beam

 

 The boys are trying to maintain composure and terribly failing.

The effort making their faces into grotesque sculptures

 

They now think hard and astonishingly  vanish from the site

 

 The girls are having some sort of spasms and there were many an

 Interesting look directed towards me.

 

They leave as if the world is full of joy and they are enjoying it

 

Slowly the coast clears and peace is established. 

Ideas and Crimes

Ideas and Crimes

 

As I feel  it

The dented wood of the desk seems to tremble

The stains and odor have long left its surface

Leaving  deep sword strokes of memory

To  gape their wounds wide

Every day at school

Baby hands would trace

Those outwardly blunted creases

Familiar with their

Deepest  grooves

Yet those cuts run deeper than they know

And are made by ideas

With razors sharp, hacking through

Soft flesh, cutting it

Into disfigurement

Annulling something alive and

Enacting a spectacle of dread for

The children to see

 

As I watch , I now see

An ancient procession still wending its brutal way

The faces grim, eyes hard

Muscle bound, crazed and angry

And still carrying stone clubs

To crack open naked skulls

 

……….As if the past is ever extant !