After Words

There has been

Much talking between us.

In the while

A spring has gone

The moon had lived and died

Many times.

It is time now for quiet.

I have forgotten the stories

I brought you,

Forgotten the songs

That brought you.

Today I bring

Only earth,

Sky,

Air,

Water,

And a little fire

Love see, and desire these

In me.

Modest Mirriam

Mirriam come,

Let us go to the confession box,

It is dark in there,

We must be discreet, I know.

The Visit

In the seven golden jingles

Of her mirthless laugh

He tried to find

A lovely little smile

To talk.

He asked her names of the books

That lay on the table

Abandoned with things.

She coyly brushed away

A strand of hair

And pursed her lips.

He altered his gaze

To her new frock

Let his eyes grow fingers

And softly stroke

The lace above her ankle.

She frowned, cast

A cold eye at the window

Bit her thumb and struck

A thoughtful pose

Should I stay or go

He wondered

She sighed, dropped

The hand upon a thigh

And crossed a leg

To the other side.

The frock crinkled to a seductive smile.

He: What are you thinking?

She: Nothing

He: How do you do it?

She: Do what you mean?

He: I mean think nothing.

I think ma will be coming

She muttered, and swept

To the other room

Singing - waais the world

So doomed...

And her voice, lifted

As a nightingales

Sad, away

And soft like an afternoon

In winter.

And he thought,

Should I take her now?

And the thought

Drew its dark lines

Upon a frail paper of his mind.

Then she came in.

I am acting in a play

She said and he crumpled

The image in a corner

With all his other things.

He: What's it about?

She: About society and women

He: It's social then?

She: It is

He: O the things you must miss!

In the shadow of the silence after

She sat afar

In a corner of her bed

Pillow on lap, feet

Tucked beneath

Then the bell rang and she

Ran to her mother

And they chirped at the porch

And they laughed their sunless laugh together

And he left tipping his cap

To her mother and to her

And to a white cloud

And strolled

In the autumn with the seven jingles in his ear

And the stroll was long

By the leaves. And in the wind, late

Into the night

Against a window pane

A crumpled image fluttered like a sad joke again,

And again and again...

The Seven O'clock Woman

It is time for the bus at seven.

Evening and she is in the crowd,

The men fidget with their rings

And brush shoulders

And furtively eye

Where one smooth ankle

Strains at an old tear in her stockings.

She plays with her purse,

Lets it dangle,

Sizes me openly with frank purpose,

Rocks gently like a restive boat, heel to heel,

Knee to knee,

And every little while,

Brings her callused fingers

To rest upon her throat.

- A hundred your place

- Two hundred mine

- Your place

- Fine

But keep your voice low,

The children sleep in the room below

And leave before mine.

Soft mango blossom is the bosom.

Limbs strong as the blacksmith's wife's

And after the business is done, she asks, are you satisfied?

Craning her neck to me

- I have lost an earring this side!

That side, crumpled folds

Clothes in tousle, the curve,

The small of her back,

Open halves of the oyster shell,

And therein, the teeth white pearl

To prize.

Someday over cups of tea

Acting the perfect gentleman with a lady

Of pearl-white teeth

I'd hear her raucous laugh

In my ear of the deep,

Nod politely, drop a cube of sugar in the cup

And stir

The tangible meanings of love

She utters in the vernacular

And by the mouthful.

- Yes, I know, I'd say,

That one has no breeding.

It all comes out in the way

She carries her clothes

- And how she lets fly

The four letter word!

- Yeah, fuck!

Between the open window and the bird,

The unnamed woman and the unspoken word,

Between fragrance of cologne and talc,

I'd recollect the smell of her underarms

In the air of her windowless room

And let it linger thus,

Over conversation, between intimates

Like an other.

Springsong In The Hills

Fifth day after no moon

In spring,

Should you come to Sela by bus that leaves at noon,

I'll meet you at Maniagar,

And carry your bag, your waterbottle,

Leading you down the valley

And nod to village lads who idle there

And point you the ledge where some years gone

A man had fashioned steps in the rocks

Working his simple tools.

My brothers would greet you with orchid smiles,

And shake your hands many times, eagerly,

And you'd sit under a low roof in a little room,

And Ganesh kaak would light the lamps,

And old bhaam would mark your forehead,

With red

And grains of unbroke rice.

I'd sit there beside you, and pray,

Leaves of barley, blades of doob

On each door, smeared

With red mud, water, and dung

From the cows.

The house,

The ample courtyard would swell

With people, come to see the young girl,

Her ways.

And one of my many sisters would draw you in

And ready you like a sunflower, in the manner of our women,

And even the sad demure wives would laugh,

Waving their dyed yellows from the window,

And the one legged soldier, up and hobbling about,

Would come and begin his endless tales

Of a daft English colonel in forty-three

And the brave Pahadis in the Burma War.

The evening wouldn't be long,

You, and I, time,

Last light among the pines, and love's lure,

But when all is gone my dear,

This

Alone would endure.

You'd ask me if I'd live here long,

All my life?

And I'd say no

Watching the sturdy women

Walk home slowly from the fields.

Lines on Feb 3, 1997

Be by my side silent.

A moment alone and quiet.

Distant, lifeless like the rock

Face of dead moon.

You laugh; you play with your lips,

You mock and make conversation,

As if afraid to turn, full face,

To be still, without will

Need, life.

And you are desperate

To smother the small voices you know

You will hear by my side

When the heart is still like the lotus

And the ears abuzz like the bees.

The Night of Krishna

On this eighth night after full moon

Like touch-me-not brushed by bees

When moonlight leaves compassed by rain clouds

Shy, fold and grow wan,

Go first my lovelorn

With all the women of our city

Singing Govinda, Govinda Govinda,

And there, dance in the temple square,

Casting away your shyness,

And raising your downcast eyes.

Like a nautch girl's brow in sweat

When Yamuna's banks shine white-kaansh,

Like her breasts, full, breathless,

Straining the seams of her blouse

When this Yamuna (Yama's kindred)

Swells against her yielding banks,

Go then my own

With all the women of our city,

Singing the name of Govinda,

Singing Govinda, Govinda Govinda,

And there dance with the fair

In the plains of Gokul

Around my Krishna

Dark hued, blue breasted, purple plumed,

Who, with a knowing smile upon his lips,

Looks down at what is beautiful

And what is not,

And contemplates

Siddhartha

Supine by her side his senses are still.

As a bird's wings, folded,

As a girl's palm, faint,

Entranced by the peace of knowing

In the warm bowers of life, a cold

Funereal calm.

Yashodhara's careless tresses are fragrant

With gold, weighed by moonlight and sleep.

He breathes soft and on his fair breast feels

Her one arm at rest,

Rise and fall, rise and fall

With a detachment that embalms the pulse,

After the lovegame

Is won and lost and won and lost.

After thunder,

And the lashing light,

Formless winds that tore at leaves, after the whip

Of rain, grey-white woven,

Is come now to land and sky, a quiet

Resignation.

Far away is his gaze.

Siddhartha, the prince, sees with lids lowered half,

Some man lotus-eyed,

Beneath the banyan tousles,

Where the small winds play truant no more,

And the smooth brow

Is inviolate.

Words Before Autumn

Words are bodies,

They are born of desire,

They die of needs.

Like other forms of dust

They too, learn

Love

And lust.

And they are often uttered,

But seldom used,

And grow to utterances,

And grow used.

And the use of them thus,

Turns then old,

Till a poet comes

And returns them from the cold.

I have been too,

Too long nameless

And wordless,

Almost bodyless too.

You should come now

Before you are old,

Find a word

For my name,

Fine and floral

Like the vowels in Gladiola,

A forgotten sound

To recall me by

When long autumns are come over the tall trees.

To John

John, my friend,

Come let us laze about the campus,

On morning-fresh pavements

Like stray dogs,

Letting our tongues hang out

While the winter sun's warm fingers

Tug at our gay sweaters,

And rest on the broad of our cold backs.

And pull out

From the hip pocket of remembrance,

A crushed stale cigarette

Of youth,

Which I in pursuit of poesy,

And you in your quest

To be a scholar

May have spared to light and share.

To John Again

The seasons are all come and gone

In Indian file, one behind another.

Clouds flashed their teeth,

Leaves un-greened,

Both died.

Winds bite now, lash at the nape,

At open collars,

And am I glad to be a poet!

To be young! To have loved and been forsaken

In the mellow streets of Delhi ,

Among Ghalib's words

And in his silence.

You, who have often enjoyed my company,

Remember to come when I am dead,

And though the ashes, some kith or kin,

Should have washed in the milk waters of Ganges ,

Forget not my songs and my tales,

Which gathered in some old bag (you could do without),

Take to the dark banks of Yamuna,

And, weighed by a heavy stone,

From the walls of the Old Fort,