Jayant Kaikini Poems

Have you conversed with dogs?
Rubbing your cheeks against their
Striped, spotted throbbing throats,
Have you listened to their hot breathed exuberance?
...

A sour-faced tempo is stranded on the road
On its back the burden of a household
A metal trunk heaved on top tilts
Its belly squashed, a cloth bundle wilts
...

The stranger seated beside me has dozed off
His body slackened, head resting on my shoulder
How helpless he is, lost in his own sleep
...

Now it is eight p.m. -
time for the cooker’s first whistle
from the single-room kitchen of the chawl -
time for the bathed luxury buses to leap
...

The nurse is at the bus stop
Leaving the night-shift behind her
A milk van and a rickshaw pass by
Leaving a whiff of incense
...

When did the ant develop a taste for the news?
Or did it always nurse it within?
Crawling along the newspaper spread
on the floor, it devours each letter
...

When did the ant develop a taste for the news?
Or did it always nurse it within?
Crawling along the newspaper spread
on the floor, it devours each letter
of news, first the big headlines of national mourning
later the medium-sized bride-burning bit
and those who slit each other's throats
for a dime, and then the small fonts
of suicide, missing persons etc . . .
Thus polishing off each item,
the ant has left.

The paper's blank now
like the pale cheeks of a pregnant woman
who died for want of blood
Roll it up now and see
the stars at the end of the tube
or place it to your ear and hear
somebody digging a trench somewhere faraway

Place it between your lips
and play the flute
or if you so wish, abandon it
in the bamboo forest nearby

Now the only fear is,
where is the ant
and where is the trail of blood at its feet?
...

The nurse is at the bus stop
Leaving the night-shift behind her
A milk van and a rickshaw pass by
Leaving a whiff of incense
The doc who had come for an emergency
In pyjamas is honking at the exit gate
Those weary after running around
In tunnel dreams are rising sluggishly like statues
On the footpath

Tiffin carriers greet florists
Bicycle bells are calling out
To plastic lotuses in the ponds
The ward boy wielding a long broomstick
Mistakes an orange peel for the fruit
Somebody who unveiled a mosquito net last night
Forgot to remove the nails driven into the sky

The trees convulse
Shaking off the darkness

Let all hospital doors open
Let all children with feverish eyes come into my embrace
Let wounds heal with the mere kiss of a sunray
And let the tears not curdle the milk of our bosoms.
...

A sour-faced tempo is stranded on the road
On its back the burden of a household
A metal trunk heaved on top tilts
Its belly squashed, a cloth bundle wilts
Legs folded, the cot stands in a yogic trance
On an ink-stained table lies a hemispherical rice bowl
Carrying a ladle deposited in a hurry
Loose pincers laced with tea powder
A calendar Shakuntala rolled up in past glory
Fastened to her belly,
Pins and rusted needle with a pleat of thread
A rolled-up bed and a sleeping cupboard
A crow flying in a reclined mirror

All would have sprung to life
If a well or an oven were within reach
As you ask if anybody's around, lo,
Reclining on an upturned bucket
A stone-still button rabbit keeps vigil
On a black cloth behind a glass frame
Written in white thread, Kusuma, Kausalya . . .
And a myriad such names like monsoon flowers

Is she around? Where did she go?
She who threaded button after button
Wiping her nose during a sighing noon
Who slipped into the backyard when somebody came home
Hid herself from the visitor
Who came to see her younger sister
Slipped her brother's shirt over Amma's petticoat
Called on homes near and far
To make papads and steal a meal
Where is she now?

A needle missing in the dark
Somewhere in a crevice a ball of thread falls loose
Oh, how many buttons there are in the market
Slowly, the rabbit breaks out of the glass
Cranes its neck to look here and there
Sniffs at all the household items
And leaps out of the tempo into the street
In search of its creator
...

The stranger seated beside me has dozed off
His body slackened, head resting on my shoulder
How helpless he is, lost in his own sleep

His hands are lush with silvery hair
The breeze has a lock curled up on his oily brow
Small creases lie by the eyes, which if he smiles
Might wrinkle around his narrow gaze
At home, he could make himself more snug
Knees up and head reclining on his left shoulder
His drooping lips quiver
As though his mother is oiling his hair

There's a blister on his fingertip
Is his voice like a greying whisker of hair
Or like the trace of his worn-out collar
Against the fading print of his shirt
Melting with age?
How he must have trembled as a child
On his first errand to a shop -
What thoughts crowd his lonely mind
When he lights the evening lamps?

One sandal has slipped down from his toe
The nails are growing thick and fast
His tired limbs sprawled in different directions
A giant wing guards his defenceless sleep
The breath from his heaving chest
Is enough to keep the world warm.
...