Works of RK

When it was time for her to go, it was also time for me to let go. Once an irritant is washed out, they say you can start seeing better immediately. All that stupid tears and all that rubbing of the soul, until your eyelids would cry out, no more, no more.  And then, just like that, one fine day, I wake up, and she was gone.   As the train chugged out The tracks cried out in senseless creaks of half despair Hear the poem here

I have looked at myself From the edges of reason And discovered That both my sanity and insanity Springs forth like seasons Out of my distances from you. Realizing thus I have allowed the outer rims Of my diffused sanity To fritter away into crumbs Of misplaced memories From my time with you. I have often found myself being unreasonable When I am away from you. And generally insane When otherwise.

When I was young, maybe 10 or so, I remember jumping from the attic box-room to the floor below. In my mind, I was a superman, and this could be achieved. The excruciating pain that followed reminded me that Superman also experienced pain when trying to achieve extraordinary feats! It was only yesterday that I lifted you off your feets and swung you around, your hair forming a circle in my little room. I love the shreik of surprise that you let out, and the tantrums you throw when I don't put you down. I would love to do this with you all my life. That hint of a sprain in my lower back tells me that the Superman is still alive in me, it's just that you, probably, you should hit the gym more often.

It was probably the moustache That attracted the fly This was probably the last time He would be buzzed And the first time That he would not know. There was a lot of white The drapes, the sarees, the cotton With which his toes and the thumbs Were tied. When you are dead I guess these things don't matter The color, the flies and the incense That invades the nostrils Until you feel heady With his death. When you are dead I guess you are Probably just dead And it's different From just not being alive.

I can snuff you out Like a cigarette butt But the smoke that gets into my eyes And the nicotine that stains my heart Will eventually Kill me.

There is a certain Red Let me describe it for you. It is a shade darker Than your blood Spilt When I broke your toe nail And a shade lighter Than the dark cotton robe The Dalai Lama wears When he snoots a finger At the Chinese With no sense Of geography And a lot of money. That Red Talks to me. Published in Lakdi Ka Pul-II

It has been raining for three straight days. Even the trunks of trees are soggy with water. Lichens growing on the driveway have grown an inch thick. The drains on the terraces are blocked with fallen leaves. Its been a while since anyone has visited this place. The termites living in the window frames have grown courageous with neglect. This sprawling mansion of hers slowly dies of our neglect. Neglect. I look at the place where we had cremated her. There were one thousand people to see her off, eight hundred had stayed back for the feast, and a feast it was. The last and the biggest feast in her matrilineal line. Such was her extended family's love for her. Agricultural workers from her era, carpenters, laborers, temple representatives, community representatives, and many of young ones, some as young as three. The parents wanted to seed the memories of their kids with this event. Decades later, when the then old ones spoke of the great Gauri, the young ones were expected to say,