Jamshedpur, Jharkhand, India

Stories

There is a kneading here

of land and sun.

When the slush dries,

the earth writes its story

in brittle whip-marks across

its flesh. Closely examined,

you will find in it a record

of all that has passed 

- buffalo hooves, cycle tyre,

dog paws, green-eyed marble,

a kite's cellophane remnant,

some beloved's flashy hair. 

More, if you have eyes

and care, also, to see. 

A broken story sighs

everywhere, waiting

to be called to memory's

banquet. But the list is

too long to be fed on

remembering's scarce ration.

Those who will make

the least fuss are invited.

Also, those who will

leave no regret behind.

Born Free

His pale eyes speak to me first.

In them are diffident suns, dusk

playing upon him like a gambolling lamb.

Holding as defensively to itself as a nut,

his tight-wound body anticipates censor,

fear cramming like newspaper between his ribs.

Across the broken nails of his fingers and toes,

I read his story. His ragged elbows on the bridge’s limbs

are soiled stamps not more than nine years old.

His vegetables for the day have been sold,

his gaze nervously swinging from the road to the water below.

On this bridge, he is evidently waiting for someone.

My heart blesses him with strength to grow into a loyal tree.

And I realize I might have missed him altogether this dusk

if his wise t-shirt had not screamed ‘Born Free’.