A humming word

Mother ambles in the living room of my flat: Left-to-right; Right-to-left.   My flat seems bigger.  I sit by my work-from-home makeshift desk (also my dining table). As she passes by, I watch her lips move but I gaze at my laptop. My resume half complete, I type, Experrrr..  I fidget with the keyboard for 10 seconds before I walk towards her. I ask, What is it?  She says, I am talking to your aunt and detailing the Kakarkaya recipe. I love it. I pause.. look around in my empty flat. I sigh.  Point towards the kitchen.  And pick out the vegetables for us.   ** Work from home   Bottle guard is now redolent  with my deceased aunty       Note: This is written for my dear friend, who now feels like a cousin, dearest Bala. His service to his friends and his family is unparalleled. 

  The dog limps in the lane; another chases it the roads are washed with last night’s rain   a scooter heaving with milk containers, passes by the rag pickers sieve garbage their child gapes at the navy blue sky

I too, sing India  There’s no caste mark smeared on my forehead But I am the one who sits outside your house When food is served; they serve it to me with dread In a throwaway plate. I have seen steel plates from afar. I smile, I laugh, and I uncover the manhole I too, am India. I am damp and soiled; I tie a scarf, and pop my head out of the manhole This is how I earn my bread. I too, am India.  Outside your house. In a corner of the street, Earning scorn and grouse. /For the uninitiated, I too, am America is a poem by Langston Hughes. The title and spirit of the poem is inspired by that./

Sunlight dapples on an antiquated Writing table. From the drawer, semi closed, A rusty nib pen Peeks and twirls On the writing board It taps a letter pad That rumbles And lays morose The ink pen awaits And when the moonlight glitters on the table, the letter pad calls out to the ink pen that feebly walks to the writing pad and writes a poem before slipping into the semi closed drawer

Dear Autumn, I remember when summer passes and winter doesn't freeze the county yet, you’d be there – in red and green and yellow – waiting for us walk by the lakes and ogle at you. Autumn or Fall is when the leaves fall to make way for the trees to go bare during winter but look, how you’ve made loss festive too. Oh you colorful magnificence – none could escape you if they walked the Midwestern highway where you are holding the colorful leaves – like a placard to pause and remind us of the oncoming gloom of winters. Like a poster of a movie. But your leaves are colorful and despite the vermin that nibble on you, you look splendid and  your leaves are still sown at the back page of many notebooks. The leaves are dried - autumn has passed but your imprint remains. Love, Someone who lived in Wisconsin A state of deers, milk, cheese coffee, artists, and Bocce Ball pictures: n i v i e, sanju (my cousin)

 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