Plateau, circa 2005

Farms breathe in and out
with every exhale
a flock of finches patterns the horizon

the falcon reappears and bombs a tree
under him the nomad releases a cloud,
from his parched mouth, grinning

a slow bullock cart carries away fresh promises



I watched your favourite shows with you
Even the adverts, the escalating 
Crowd on the bridge 
Caressing the railings to feel the sun 
Even looked at your photo albums, telling you
That you liked nice earlier and nicer now 

And when your team lost I laughed at life 
Mocked the pigeons at your window
Made you smile and stirred iced tea, refilling 
Your eyes with great memories about yourself 
You said you wanted to fly 

Why one leaves without notice is a mystery 
I’d know only if you return and share yourself 
Again, maybe this time we’ll actually make a trip 
To your village and run across your farm 
Taking the flush of breezes into the night 
Where the moon arrives slowly, waiting 
For your silent smile to ferment 


Sarod. Winter morning.
A quiet farm of millet and breezes. Linen
with soiled creases.
A village with ancient excuses.

Practice. Afternoon.
A moment of silence dots
the river of time. Plucked
by an unwavering note
floating over a bed of rhythms.

There in the corner, besides
all the figurines and rice sacks
we sat sagely watching
a composition ripen, the end
mingling with the distant calls
of winds conquering farms of millet.

Rice Fields, Circa 2000

in this moment, the paddyfield
stirred by soft breezes

by the grey sky, mango trees
cloud into a forest

till the knees, the farmer
wades through his fluorescent land

by the pecking drizzle, he stands
watching the storm brew

13.1.17 – in memory of Nerur, Kudal, Maharashtra.