Gulmohar

The sun pierces
my window, slanting
through dust particles and
puddling near my feet.
A gulmohar outlines
itself outside, the buds
becoming visible. A mynah
flits into view, on legs
that could have been drawn
by a pencil. This business
of words is not enough
for this scene I am
sketching, but
still, I see the morning
slowly opening out. The air
is crisp as paper. Distant
traffic sounds grow louder.
The gulmohar is now
multiplying, flamboyant
peacock flower, flame
of the forest; it blooms
as I write, a million
splashed drops of
sunrise, over white
fences fronting grey
apartment blocks, under
blank sheets of sky.

News

All day I have watched the screen
flicker and burn
the balaclavas and AK-47s
Cafe Leopold and the lamb kebabs
smoke amid the pigeons
fire colours, Colaba, Cama
All day I have watched the highlights
set to dramatic music
waves breaking, breaking news
waiting for action
The markets are turning red
the curtains are moving
the tall hotels are falling down, falling down
Yes all, all day I have been watching
with the remote in my hand
my foot tap-tapping the floor
my finger on the trigger

October

Old photograph. Bitter-sweet
one could call it. Your dress
maroon, fashionable glasses.
I cried a little when I saw it.
Outside: leaves, October,
the river in its watery skin.
On the Rue St. Jacques, women
wait; black heels, black leather.