Tuesday, January 8, 2013

One morning in D

The wind
Enters my ears
Every morning
With a message
Of sorts

Six azaans
One after another
I think its time
God has a chat with the local trustee
To co-ordinate
Alarm clocks

Cross-legged, I sit
With the wind
In my lap
At a tea shop
Managed by a husband-wife
Who can't see

Patrons suckle milk
One goat per person
No cup, no saucer
No tea leaves
Nor pasteurizing
This is hand to mouth existence

I wait my turn
A murrah buffalo is readied
Which udder would I prefer
Left is right
Right is wrong
So what is weak?
Which is strong?

The wind brings news
People are thrilled
The Great Banyan has been awarded
A Padma Bhushan
First ever
For a hic-cupping tree
Perhaps the greatest
Of our times

She is 200 years old
With 3,000 plus aerial roots
And as many hic-cups
How will all 14,500 sq/metre of her
Board the passenger train to Delhi?

The wind says
Her hic-cup is a disease 
Caused by a cyclone
After the main trunk was amputated
In a fungus epidemic

Now the canopy stands
Happy and proud
Make a wish
Says the wind to the tree
She does so
In return
The wind lends her a shawl
To cover her chest

Its unbearable, this cold wave
Freezing point
It's claimed many trees
In these parts

Quite true, I say
It's summer
Masquerading as winter
The wind shudders
Due to a bit of flu

What about we
Say a chorus of leaves, creepers, broken twigs
Even in this, we face discrimination?
No comfort for us?
I trample their voices
Beneath my chappal
As I cross the field

The wind
Around the corner
The azaan is complete

One final gasp
For the full moon
As she fades
In the haze
Of the sun

The moon
She smiles
Her crinkle
Has become a wrinkle

So much to do
How to do
What to do
As and when I do whatsoever I do

I will pluck weed

Day after
Someone will pluck me

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