Tag Archives: Hinduism


The last thing she does
before she gets ready to die
once more, of violation,
she applies the mascara.

in that last and solemn moment
the call-girl hesitates.

With eye-catching eyes
she stops to shudder.
Maybe, the dyed eyes
mourn her body’s sins.

Mascara. . .
it serves to tell her
that long buried
hazy dreams
of a virgin soul
have dark outlines.

Silently she cries.
Her tears are black.
Like her.

Long Ago
in an
family tree
of temple prostitutes,
her solace was sought.

It has happened for centuries. . .
Empty consolations soothe
violated bodies.

Sex clings to her devadasi skin,
assumed superficialities don’t wear off,
Deliverance doesn’t arrive.
Unknown Legacies of
Love made to Gods
haven’t been ceremoniously accounted
as karma.

But still she prays.
Her prayer words
desperately provoke Answers.
Fighting her case,
Providence lost his pride.
Her helplessness doesn’t
Seduce the Gods.
And they too
never learn
the Depth of her Dreams.

She believes—
Cosmetics were
once. . .
War paints.
She awaits their resurrection.

When she dons the mascara
The Heavens have heard her whisper,
Kali, you wear this too. . .

(First published in Indian Horizons)


Sun in the mouth

And the truth scorches and singes
the pink open flesh of your mouth
with its pungent yellow taste, so,
speaking the truth is not so easy
with just one tongue, anyway.

Seeing might have been closest
to truth and as Plotinus said
the eye would not be able to see
the sun if it was itself not sun
and so seeing was understanding.

The Egyptians called the eye
with the circle of the iris
with the pupil in the centre
as the sun in the mouth
and that was their truth.

Cyclops must have had little
to see in this vast world and
deprived of the whole truth
and that was his loss, his tragedy.

Even Argus with all his eyes
couldn’t escape in the end.
How much truth, how many eyes
of how many senses would it take
to tell the truth to the lord of the third-eye?

A king of a Tamil temple city
raged mad to know the truth
of the scent of a woman’s hair.
Since money bought truth
he made ready, a thousand gold coins.

And a poor poet still married to faith
prayed on to Shiva, the lord of struggling
survivors, lord of births and lives and
deaths, lord of poor poets who gave him
a poem to be sung at the king’s court.

A savant there picked a mistake like
peeling the scab of a healed wound
and said that the poem was wrong.
He said that any woman’s hair
did not have a natural scent.

The lord of dances and grey ash
and cremation grounds came down
to challenge this stubborn man who
extended his truth, even if the woman
was the consort of the lord.

He would not budge even if the lord
threatened to open his third eye,
the eye in the forehead which would
reduce him to bone-white ashes
as light as the wispiest clouds.
The court cowered in fright. . .

But in arrogance the savant said
a mistake is a mistake
even if it was the lord
of the forehead-eye.

O’ saint-bard and master of many wily words
What do you know of truth or love,
or the scent of a woman’s hair?
On the nights of naked sky and
a fragile quarter moon, my lord,
he of the deep blue throat,
he of the rivers in his hair,
he of the third-eye, comes to me.
Before he tears the blankness
of my womb, before he traces
the length of my spine, the curve
of my thighs, before he strokes
my cheeks, he buries his head
in the thousand and one nights
of my long tresses and he says
it smells like the wind-lost voices
of his childhood summers.

The Gods wake up

Another worst things with the Gods is that
They sleep most of the time—
                          (they don’t even dream).
If you happen to go near heaven:
It is a very noisy boring place.
And all that you get to hear there are—
Thirty three million synchronized godly snores.
                          (The Goddesses snore too).

The Gods sleep right through the prayers
Performed by the Brahmins—
                          (maybe they find it boring).
Births, Marriages, innumerable yagnas,
Brahmins take the center-stage, all the
Gods skip. Also, “Om” is now obsolete—
a kind of recurring mosquito buzz.
                          (Besides, Om is ©opyrighted).

At times, the sleeping celestials do stir.
Gods always get excited over funerals—
                          (they are kind of necrophilic).
The loud drums lead the dead to eternal sleep,
Ancient noises herald the escaping life.
This deeper music shakes the skies.
That’s when the Gods wake up.
                          (Just to receive the dead.)

Reverence :: Nuisance

In walls of reception counters
and staircases of offices, hospitals, firms
and other ‘secular’ institutions—
pictures of Hindu Gods are painted. . .

so that casual people walking in (or up or down)
fear to spit on the adorned walls.

But still looking around or climbing:
you can always find the work done
a irregular red border underlining the walls
owing so much to betel juice and spit.

And on cheap roadside compound walls
that don’t bear “Stick No Bills” messages or
cinema and political posters—the Gods once again
are advertised. And captioned with legends that read
“Do not Urinate”. And yet, the Gods are covered with
layers of smelly urine—they don’t retaliate.

Tolerance is a very holy concept.
Or like someone said,
the Caste Gods deserve
the treatment they get.

(First published on The Poetry International Web)

When the God drank milk

September 21, 1995.

This was the second time
He spanned the world
So quickly. . . In telecast
miracles that occurred from
Michigan to Manila to Madras
Whether He was in plastic, ceramic,
Fire-burnt clay or stiff black stone
The Elephant-Headed, the Pot-Bellied,
The Remover of Obstacles, Ganesha,
The God had his fill as he sucked
The spoonfuls of creamy milk. . .

I am not willing to listen to
Capillary Action Rationalism
Or any scientific explorations. . .

Instead I am hunting for some
Silly girl’s bizarre secret, to know if
The Son of Shiva had let himself
To be breastfed, to be suckled. . .
And if she, having tasted success
At His having tasted her,
Moved on to younger,
Charming Gods,
With their mouths
Full of white teeth.


We understand
why upper caste Gods
and their ‘good-girl’ much-married, father-fucked,
virgin, vegetarian oh-so-pure Goddesses
borne in their golden chariots
don’t come to our streets.

We know the reasons for their non-entry into slums.
Actually, our poverty would soil their hears
and our labor corrupt their souls.

But Maariamma,
when you are still getting
those roosters and goats,
why have you stopped coming to our doors?

Maari, our girl,
since when did you join their gang?

(First published in The Little Magazine)

For sale

My school bud, he work hard.
He slog. He make money.
He grow dam rich.

He go to da temple, where
his po’ ol’ folks ain’t allowed.
He buy incense for two bucks
flowers for five, kinda shaggy
coconut for ten bucks.
He also buy a standing place
at da front and da special prayer
in his name all at twenty more.

Priest with ash and holy smoke
come to him, give extra blesses for
a cool crisp fifty my bud gives.

He stand there and stare,
stare hard at the Gawd;
his first time in temple.

Then my jus Blessed bud, he ask me:
Say, ya, how much da “Luxmee” cost?