A humming word

 I spill silence on this page and dip a brush into the  into ink of the starless night  a stroke of brush here a stroke of brush there Look: it's your name /for a friend/

There is no room for angst in this house. Here, tears hide behind index fingers, and anger is grated in the coconut to prepare chutney— chutney as bitter as last night, when words minced dreams. A thousand pieces splattered around the house— and there’s no room that can contain it. Picture: Shravan K    

 

 On the song from Rangasthalam We are puppets Being directed By an unknown hand   In the hindu mythology, Ganges is the wife of Shiva Wind is the father of Hanuman To quench our thirst Or to breathe air We need their permit   Flute is the medium for Krishna the Trishul is the weapon of Kali to sing a song or to fight with a weapon We need their permit   The keeper of Dharma  is Dharmaraju The person with no mercy  is Yamadharmaraju If you break Dharma You meet Yama We are puppets And a society of puppets                

Brooklyn Bridge of New York Doesn’t seem as clear as the one in How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. Dazy with the medication of a medical condition I am cured of now, I remember the red and blue blinking lights Of the New York streets From the hotel window.            

Inspired by this article Move on?  How can I? Where can I? On my way to work, on some mornings, I just stand  on the pavement  where I  watched the death of my wife I held tightly in my arms And my baby whose Gurgling voices I still hear On some mornings in my empty balcony    

  Why does a pyre Burn our heart and reduce it to ashes?   There are tears in Mother’s eyes But my heart is wet   Why does sharing a grief than a loaf of bread Make our bond nourished?   Why does loss give us the unasked?