Teacher's note

A holiday is a visit to some place

It need not be to another country

There is nothing to be ashamed of

If you have not been anywhere

No need to imagine a tour

With what your friends told you

About an exotic destination

Did you not go to a relative's house

Maybe grandparents on the other side of the city?

That is good enough to write about

What electric train or bus or cab you took

What new things you saw on the way

Anything that caught your eye

The unconditional love waiting for you

At the other end not altered by your grades

Any new friends you made on your vacation

The homesickness you felt after a while

All that would make it readable

There is nothing more beautiful than truth.

Hears and is heard

This music tends towards silence

Of the dawn before the mind rises

The breath rises and falls

Without any prompting

The feet have stopped wandering

After wanting to be everywhere

Here there is room for everyone who is lost

But has stopped searching for ways back

Let there be prayer without prayer

For the darkness to dissipate

This light has no direction or origin

No rising or setting or when or where

Here, the music hears and is heard.

Waiting

The blank page
Waits for words
To fill its emptiness,
The bare blue sky
Will not mind
Even barren clouds,
The white wall
Wails for
A child's scrawl,
The lonely aadi wind
Knocks on doors, windows
Crying to be let in,
Dreams stand orphaned
In every street
Of the sleepless city.

Lust

In the dark
Colours lie awake
For the day to break,
Roosters sleep light
Cannot wait
Serenade false dawns,
The dream brings those
Who have vowed
Never to step
Into the house,
White chases tan
While brown blanches
Ochre darkens
With lust
Turns ogre
Finds the door shut.

Colours of desire

When we meet
We swap lists
Of what we have bought,
She looks admiringly
At my designer wear
Praises my taste
Envies my luck
At getting a rare shade
Extracts a promise
To get one for her;
Pleased, I seek her tips
For repainting my house
I tell her I liked her decor
The last time I visited her;
After making a fresh list
Of what was new in the market
And what we needed to buy
We take leave, heads bursting
With the colours of desire

The deep

The hands are tired
From clappping
For those
Who leave little for others,
The throat is hoarse
From singing praises
To someone whose miracles
Include taking away
The little there is left,
The feet are weary
Of the mountain path
Leading to an empty shrine,
The eyes keep looking at the skies
Hoping for signs of cracks
The ears want to hear
The rumble of volcanoes in the deep
Which wants to give up the dead.

Agnihotris

The brick-lined
Homam site
In the hall
Is still warm
The fire still alive
Under the ash,
Children offer paper petals
Imitate the 'swaha' chant
Of the priests
Who have all gone ---
Smoke begins to rise
Forcing the grown-ups
To cry halt to their game,
The little flames
Dance away on lithe feet
To where they conjure
Another fire, other sacrifices.