Tuesday, January 18, 2011


Even the dictates of almanac
Mislead the sacred course
Of the holy Ganges
Into the arid zones
Of the sandy pasture of Thar
For a smell of vegetation.

Sundari smiles
While hanging like
A dried up saree from
The balcony string
Of her dingy cell on West Avenue,
For she offers an eye-contact
To the tattered frame of
A cycle-rickshaw below.

After a casual copulation
When the domesticated sparrow
Flies into the blue
Leaving her in pregnant deception.
She still collects dry twigs
To build a dream,
To lay eggs
And brood in incubation!

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