Rama! Rama!

Dawn's eyes tremble on the eastern horizon.
A few early birds stretch their wings and look skywards with expectation.

On the sea shore,
Hanuman towers in Jambavan's eyes,
one brimming with pride, the other with awe.
The monkeys all shout "Ram! Ram!" celebrating victory already.
And Sampati totters about joining them.

In a far off forest,
Lakshman carves a path through the bushes
searching for Sita
thinking of Rama.

Outside Ayodhya,
Baratha forgets his morning ablutions chanting "Ram! Ram!!"
In Ayodhya,
Kousalya's breasts heave in her sleep, "Ram! Ram!"

Across the ocean,
Vibhishana wakes up and looks into his palm "Ram! Ram!".
Ravana stirs in his sleep and sighs in a musical note that resonates with Rama.

Now,
Hanuman folds his palms and closes his eyes.
He intones "Ram! Ram! Ram!" as his right foot takes off the ground for the leap.

Below the great Asoka tree, Sita sits in penance.
The leaves in her garden prison gently rustle as Hanuman leaps.
Sita does not waver.
She breathes in and out "Ram! Ram! Ram!"

The name is taken up by the wind and carried to the sea.
All of creation reverberates with Ram!

The sun rises.

Ram opens his eyes and sighs ‘Sita’.

Another moon

I saw another moon she says.

I consider correcting her, telling her that this was the same moon we saw before the bike turned left and headed out of the layout into the clearing.

But then is there really only one moon? The same moon chasing the same sun in her sable chariot night after night in an endless hunt?

Is there not a moon that appears as a dosai and is eaten away really slowly by a distracted god kid?

Is there not a moon which is actually a coin that some kid tossed too high before starting a game of cricket?

Is there not a moon that rains down cool nectar making the thousand petalled lotus bloom in the poet's mind?

Is there not a moon that burns with the fire of a thousand suns even on a winter night because the shoulders of beloved do not meet?

Is there not a moon that drips exquisite poison maddening a nervous heart and filling it with fantastic terrors?

Is there not a moon conspicuous by its absences, telling us tales of what might have been, of a future that is now orphaned with neither a past nor a present?

Is there not a moon that glows with ethereal beauty, whispering all the secrets of the universe that nobody ever sees or hears because our timid little hearts are buried in insignificant troubles?

So yes, my daughter, you are right.

We saw anana moon and we always will.

Jackfruit preserve

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

Would you like a recipe?

It doesn't start with the jackfruit.
It starts with you.

Ready?

Note book open?

Pen on the mark?

Oil your hands. Halve the fruit. Cut along the radial lines. Scoop the fruit out. Deseed, chop, boil, stir.
Sugar, stir. Salt, stir. Lemon juice, stir.
Boil, stir. stir, stir, stir, stir.
Pot in a jar. Serve on toast.

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

How do you recall the sheen of the oil?
How do you remember the symmetry of the radial lines?
How do you store the delightful stench that hits you even before the knife pierces the fruit?
How do you embalm the tenacious hold of the tenuous fibers?
How do you pot the exultation of freeing every last imprisoned fruit?

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

How do you store the tree's penance? The wisdom of the roots? The lucidity of the leaves? The passion of the rain? The love of the soil? The empty buzzing of the bees? The summer sun that pierced the fruit open with sensuous fingers?

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

Would you like a recipe?

It doesn't start with the jackfruit.
It starts with you.

With you forgetting the recipe,

forgetting to preserve;

forgetting yourself.

How do you preserve a jackfruit?

It starts with you forgetting the jackfruit.

The vampire's call

Behold! Behold! A pallid moon!
Its limpid light hypnotic swoon.
Afar, afar, some wolf does croon.
Awake! Awake! My bloom of June!

Alive and dead I'm split in twain.
I rest in boon and roam a bane.
I sing, I pray to gods profane.
Come, come to my hunger's refrain.

You pale white flower of winter snow.
You fertile bed left fallow.
My sickle's stalk honeyed meadow,
Take, take this seed that I do bestow.

Your lilting breasts they swing and sway.
Your gauzy robes they spread and splay.
Your eager feet tiptoe ballet.
Hark, hark, my willing reluctant prey.

Behold my eyes of crimson fire!
They light the path to taboo desire!
Your pain, your pleasure they fain inspire!
Kneel, kneel, my slave I am your sire!

Now bare your soul, yes, bare your neck!
That soft and taut and white white neck!
No, don't be scared, t'is but a peck.
Yield, yield, my girl yield to my beck!

O! Writhe and moan as I drain your bloom.
I grunt and growl "Hoom hoom! Hoom hoom!"
Your dreams, your fears forsooth consume.
Feed, feed pristine and endless flume.

Alas! Alas! The deed is wrought!
Another soul to evil brought.
A sweet pure bud that spring begot,
You fade, you fade and come to naught.

Sweet, close your eyes let sleep befall.
Avast! Avast! All life's cabal.
'Twixt tomb and womb languish my thrall.
Die, die, star spark...

until I call.

Abduct my Seetha

Why do you need covert plans and sinister strategms? A golden deer, a mendicant's bowl and a plan to abduct? Do you think she is a bottle of perfume locked in a cupboard to be anointed only a limited number of times? Do you think she is a draught of nectar that can only quench a single thirst, a single time? Have you not heard? She is her father's daughter, a soul of the soil. She is her country's princess, the body-less one. She is a jasmine bloom that shall exude fragrance till she drops to her mother's lap. She is a bubbling cascade that throws up water unmindful of anybody's thirst. Come to our hermitage then. Not at the crack of the dawn, at high noon or at dusk For I shall be lost in penance and she shall be lost in my penance. Come just after the sandhya and partake of our fruit and drink. I shall then go to gather some firewood. Talk to her and know her soul. She loves strumming her vina but is still an amateur. She likes listening to stories, especially those of the magical northern lands. She doesn't like ambition, so do not talk of your battle and wealth. She doesn't like harming animals, so do not talk of your love for meat. If you must indeed abduct her, then do it with your words, your heart and your soul. The flight in your vimana will be all the more pleasant if you are not distracted by her struggling or in battling guardian birds. But bear this in mind. She is not yours, not mine. The bow was not broken to make her mine, but to gain her respect. So, come, sit, talk and gain her respect. Then carry her away if she comes. But before that O wise ten headed one teach me to sing Vasanta, for she craves that in the evenings.

Gods' death

I write a verse in bleeding red
The chaste god dies of lust
in the arms of the long nailed siren
trading principle for kisses,purity for pleasure.
Videha's princess is the forest queen
She toils in the day, dreams in the night
And at dusk strums the demon king's lyre.

I sing a song of soothing black.
The shepherd god never steps out of the sheep's pen.
He knows no battle, no stratagem, not a lie.
Herds in the morning, sings in the noon
and at dusk becomes hi beloved's footstool.
He ages, forgets and fades in oblivion.
He dies in sleep, a shepherd's son.

I sing a song of verdant green
The god of gods is but a grocer
His bounteous wife borrows to make ends meet
and loses sleep over her errant sons.
The elder is a glutton and the younger philanders.
Their home after all could be next to ours.

You, mortal, go ahead and
Worship
Build
Murder
in the name of your god.

I close my pen and put it away.
Endless gods die in its stillness.

தமிழில்

Ondhymandian, the spotted owl(et)

Ondhymandian had a big scowl
He looked unhappy and was afou(w)l
For he found it tough
To play blindman’s buff
As he was a tiny spotted owl

Note: Image sourced from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Spotted_Owlet,_Athene_brama_indica_-_Flickr_-_Lip_Kee.jpg