Ratnarao’s short verse

Our old tiled house had its cornersSoft and purring like our family kittenWe looked into our abandoned wellTo fathom the depth of its cornersThe water there was a mere shadowThe shadow of a reality that once was.

The key would not turnI can see through the keyholeA shadow playing on the wallThe shadow moves towards anotherUntil they both become onePlaying the same musicOf life and deathOf death-in-life.

The night queen bloomed beneath the windowAnd I can smell the morning grassBeyond the red-and-white sareeThat hangs, dripping, on the clotheslineAmid shattered pieces of the summer sky.

Then , one dark night,when we were fast asleepThe monsoon arrived with fierce wind and galeSpoiling the children’s fun and promises of sweet fruitWe blame this entirely on our cuckoo friendWho brought in premature rains this seasonBy persistent and persuasive musical supplications.

My moon had fallen into the well;My pail could not bring it upI shall continue to drop stonesSomeday the water will rise enoughTo bring up my beautiful moon.

The firangipani tree bloomsIn my village temple compoundI smell God through a child’s memoryRecalled by its fragrant flowers.

In the morning when we shook our hibiscusTiny tingling raindrops fell like iciclesOn our falling eyelids and outstretched tonguesYesternight we were afraid of the fierce rainOur dear hibiscus stood between us and fear .

The winter fire swelledPushing shadow man to wallThence to the mango tree.

Girls threw stones in charcoal squaresTheir pigtails wavered , ding-dong,As they jumped over the squares ,one-legged.

Kudos to Kolkata’s kidsWith lilywhite cheeksAnd lightweight stomachsScrounging for food crumbsIn its garbage dumpsThey keep the city cleanAnd our conscience clear.