In a whir

The blades of a fan moved in a whir

Underneath I sat

No less in a whir

Someone got up and switched off the fan

I continued in the whir.

That I may grow into a tree

Give me a plant to breathe

That I may grow into a tree

And from then on meet the sun and the skies

While being rooted firmly within.

. . . reveries . . .

The act of being important
Is important at times
For if you don't
You miss
That great opportunity
That comes knocking on your table
Once in a while.

Delhi roads

The sunshine melts the pitch

Creating a mirage in the middle of the sea

Of traffic, on which ride in lissom waves

The snarls, the honks, and the expletives.

Things will not come to me

Things do not come to me

as they come to you

as through a door

opened to let in the morning light

Poised and calm, you

like a clean tablet, take first impressions

every time.

Then outflow it in matter for the soul

or the mind.

In that white light of reason that bathes you

I stand blase and unclean

My amorphous mass

absorbs, and gains mass, infinitely.

To will, I shuffle

a striving and a planning

of my thoughts and ideas

which way they course.

I do, and do not

seek words, and pare and add

this way and that

to create the perfect discourse.

When it comes, it comes

like blood spilled

from subterranean veins

that had long contained it.