Roads it seems bloom with people
The bus like a suggestive dream
Glide its eyes full of desire.

In the afternoons
The theatres bring
the cool of Simla.

The sun
in the meadows of Hussainsagar
dries crimson - dyed saris.

Every girl in a mini
seems to be smiling at you.
Vehicles stagger of neon - lights
the inebriated glare.

Trial is so
unless you have stars
in your pocket,
this city
wouldn’t peek at you;
Look even the statues
at the street corners
point their reproving fingers
to shoo you away.

What’s there in the telephone
Expect the silence of the heart!
The letter is like
A decaying palm leaf
That excites insatiable thirst for reading;
Like the Kohinoor diamond
Treasured at the bottom of a trunk
It is an evergreen radiant dream,
One gets a post card
After walking nearly a mile
To the post office.
Letters are not scattered
Far and wide as in a sprawling field;
Within the limited space characters
Turn into jowar seeds
Fingers used to shine with the glow of dreams.
There is no one as handsome
On this earth as the postman.
Dear, who broke this pearly bridge
That made you and me stand on the line of excitement?
Mother’s oxygen is letter
Rather than money order.
The clouds, the stars and the moon
Together with the sky
Form a beautiful letter.
What happened to us?
Have our empty minds
Turned bankrupt of ideas?
His childhood withered
With the triumphs of life?
The ink may be washed off
But the letters written
With pens dipped in the lake of blood
Will remain imperishable.
The pigeons are fleeing
From the cacophony of communication
Stop them, please.
Don’t finish off with one “Hullo”
The lovely volume of life.

No Vimal* designs can match
our colourful quilt.
I remember vividly
my mother stitching it for ten days

With a heap of old, worn-out clothes
before her
my mother made this system of synthesis,
this patchquilt.

Past and present are fine-tuned
in her hands, as easily.

Whenever we took rest over it
we felt like sleeping in the lap of
Amma, Ammamma, Akka** all
at the same time.

Our children always fight over it.
Beds look on in humiliation
over this routine.
A hereditary feel of fondness
connecting through generations.

Whenever this quilt is torn
my wife appears with a needle and thread.
Then, she appears like
waging a war with time-deity
sporting a sword.
In summer, it is hamsatulika talpam***
In winter it is a warm bed-sheet.
For me sleep means this quilt.

In the dreams it gifted me
I smelt primitive human fragrances
I took mighty Himalayas into my embrace
I imprisoned Ganga river in the metal cruse
I swallowed the globe like a pill.

There must be children in the house
if the quilt is left hanging over the wall.
Once it gets wet
it sheds tears, drop by drop, for a few days.

We don’t notice it...
but it is a symbol of our working class culture
a flag hoisted by affection’s fine tapestry.

*A popular brand-name in designing clothes
**Elder sister
***Cosy bed

When you see the house from outside
it may appear small.
When you see it from the sky
it may not even be visible.
But when you see the house from within
it appears as big as the world.
In fact the world turns into a bird
snuggling in the nest.

Now we have the calling bell.
Earlier
on hearing the footsteps at the door
noticing father’s arrival
our anticipation would be rewarded.
Could tell if mother or sister
unlatched the door
just by the force of the turn.

It’s ten years now
but Savitri’s* face in the calendar
doesn’t reflect the passage of time.
The beauty has not abated.
The cement on the steps is peeling off.
Those were the hands
that carried the weight of the heart along with the body!
When she came wearing
the Dhruva**-like anklets
they would wake us up all of a sudden.

Don’t feel like selling old papers.
They are filled with diamond and lapis lazuli memories.
Above all the love letters!
Births, deaths
consumed moments of painful illnesses,
even so rising, chivalrous,
hopeful, instructive journeys.
All right here!
Walls that have hidden in their wings
everyone all these years,
have now turned into canvases for my grandsons.
In their scribbling,
I am thrilled to see the future.

*A very well-known Telugu heroine of yesteryears.
**The pole star.

My poetry is certainly not greater
than my people.
My poetry lines are not so sharp
when compared to their feet.
In fact, the radiance of their faces
is not reflected fully in my expressions.
Before their troubles, tribulations,
agony-tears in their eyes
their stamina of struggle,
my poetry pales in intensity.

Our village sky, our village hill
dust-filled air, all over
are all long poems created by someone, sometime ago.
These are time-limitless, ever-lasting.
Strange thing is
A newer meaning emanates today to
yesterday reading only!
That way, our village is surely a great epic
being written each moment, fresh as ever.
My awareness is not greater than our village.
Maybe one-sided too.
Not that I haven’t experienced separation
of inexpressible beloveds
Not that the attachment of valued friends
has not remained as a portrait on heart-wall.

Some empathy, some reflection
Indefinable distress
Pathos-portraits drawn in
hunger lines
Still a smile
My poetry is not that charming
when compared to the loving ones
who offered a word of comfort.

These trees are green songs
that added sheen to my feelings
The sun-risings applied colours
to my thoughts.
Every bird has a hand
in nurturing wings to my poetry.
For digging out my enthusiasm
I salute that song
I thank that rain
for drenching my heart wet.
I may go on like this,
but my poetry is surely not greater than
my village experiences.

The mountains of Manipur*
seem set as memorials of Kalpurush**.
From behind the hanging veils of mist
they look like preparing themselves
for some magnificent show.

All along the valley
the mountains of Manipur
in one swing of exquisite motion,
strike slow moving gentle contours
as strumming one’s heart’s strings
in an aesthetic play of Rasalila***.
Wave after wave undulating softly
they seem to scatter one silent primal music.
One mountain like a warrior
comes upon as set to halt storms.
Along that blue mountain range
a play of strange shadows!
A star-spangled mansion gem-studded
rears its head!
The lake of Loktak****
appears as formed of teardrops of mountains.
The island clusters
come to view as verdant green lamps.

If one stood with head raised to watch
each mountain above seems to have its own sky.
For the Sangai deer*****
an evening time stroll
seems to stretch out till horizon’s end.
Each tree here blows leaves
of a tribal language of distinct accent.
A rolling stone stopped in its course
appears a bomb that forgot to go off.
The structures of ancient ruins stand
as footprints left of history.
Not enough
The mountains of Manipur
strike too as tombs of folk heroes
who laid down lives for their tribe.

* Manipur is known as Switzerland of India for its beauty.’
** KalaPurush is Time personified synonymous with Lord Siva. Kala also has the meaning Yama, the God of Death.

*** The Manipur dance an aesthetically appealing dance form, Rasalia, based on Lord Krishna’s dance with gopikas.

**** Loktak is a large fresh water lake. ‘Lok’ means stream and ‘Tak’ means end, meaning a disappearing stream.

***** Sangai deer is a species of deer unique to Manipur alone.

The mountain is not merely a mountain.
What meets the eye is not the truth.
That’s
an extraordinary treasure trove of materials,
a museum of heaped history,
a time-chest of wonderful secrets,
a garden of unknown flowers.

Not just as it appears from afar
its shape
changes moment to moment.
It draws all routes
into itself.
We wonder
if it’s the same thing
we knew all along.
If we talk aloud
it returns our own voice to us.

The mountain is not merely a mountain.
It also beats like the heart.
Sensitivity
is its inscrutable trait.
Can’t fathom
how water is present at such a height.
So if have to understand the meaning of heights
we have to ponder deep.

Viewed from the sky
it looks like a tiny morsel of food.
It moves like the tangedu tree
that yearns for Batukammas*.

The mountain
is the backdrop of my poetry,
a musical instrument
quietly playing in my life’s journey.

* Batukammas are mounds of clay decorated with different flowers during the Batukamma festival in the Telangana region of Andhra Pradesh. The festival celebrates life in which women worship Goddess Gowri as the Mother of Life.

Safety pin
like a star in the sky.
Childhood that has retreated
to an unreachable distance.
Not just in childhood
one can’t do without a safety pin even now.
Poking fun at globalisation
it stands between fingers
like a shrunken doll.

The same tune from morning!
Safety pin is digging up my memories.
Safety pins that had once joined
broken slippers.
The police who had saved
time and distance.
When the buttons of the knickers fell off
the pins were ready in mother’s hands!
They appeared like star festoons
hanging from the pustela thadu *

Safety pins on bangles
would sparkle like
foams of smile sprinkled from red lips.
Like weapons against danger
they would appear on my molathadu **

All kinds of feelings
as if all the beautiful sights of the world
have taken on a tiny form!

Safety pins would appear like Gulliver’s soldiers
guarding
the youthfulness behind the blouse.
They would compete with each other
to put on the tape of the langa***.
In that tunnel that pulled the tape
it felt as if it had drowned near Char-minar
to surface at Golconda fort.

Today my grandson
hangs
ten Safety pins to one,
turning the bunch into a musical instrument.
Hanging it from the ceiling
he exhibits it like chains galore.
Extending the safety pin into a triangle,
placing it upside down,
he shouts calling it a pyramid.
As for me,
when I view it upside down
it appears like a fatigued old woman
leaning against a wall.
He pulls open the safety pin,
pokes the balloon to burst it, dham.

Those days,
we looked out
for poosalolla**** Rajamma
whose sweet music of livelihood
would be heard—
“Lubber bangles, ribbons, false hair, combs
pinnesus, moladaralu.”
Kahan gaye woh log? *****

Safety pins are dropping down like tears
from the eyes of time.
The python is swallowing
small industries.
If the safety pin gets angry
it would not but prick with its looks.
Our ancestors would say—
Must remove a thorn with a thorn.
That thorn is nothing but this safety pin.

However big the giants,
one can’t but organise revolts.
Wear the badges.
Here are the safety pins.

* A chain worn by married women.
** A thread tied around a boy’s waist
*** A full skirt worn by girls.
**** Trinket seller.
***** Where have those people gone?