first you have to be
a river not a piece of shore
then journey begins

I listened to the river’s babbling,
her competing voices,
none winning, none getting ahead,
ahead of the next bend, the next meander,
a departure from the mainstream,
taking the conversation in a whole new direction -
leaving the lies behind
and the truth high and dry,
to be banked, baked crisp and brittle, crunched
to dust under a heavy rockfall of doubt and disinterest.
But I listened still, for the following chorus,
the next controversy.

I didn't need to wait long - the new river babbled...

When the tidal wave came
I was looking the other way.

I knew the gentle Shuttle
had its shallow banks
concreted, walled, ready
for the diverted torrent,
but for some reason I was looking
North, thinking that way lay
the Thames and its barrier,
not knowing the wave
would follow the Shuttle’s
more meandering route

and I got it in the back of the neck.

There came a time when I realized the river flowed outwards
The west became Sahara and east Bombay.
The golden chops grinned in greed.
My lips were full in windy cold winter,
and you became hoarding supply-less supply.

Before the storm, the river had all but given up,
the guttural roar of wind and deluge
rattled all souls, except her
and in the aftermath she swelled
and bore delicious weight again
and my eye-contact
with the pageantry of the green headed drake
told all the muddy truths:
to underestimate is to lose

The mystic Sadhu
chants cryptic
mantras,
I hear
the Hammssss of his voice,
He is lost in his world
Like I'm with mine,
Above me, the bridge
clanked gleefully
announcing the arrival of her lover;
Shimmering in white, honking
it moves slowly like a big serpent,
Ending the tryst
with a flickering red light.

Several mounds, smoldering woods,
and one body stuck to
the trunk of the bridge
swirled in me the fear of
leaving this world early,
leaving all that I strived to
achieve, and leaving all of
it in the middle.

Buses pass on the next bridge
A hand came out
and aimed the stream with
something, probably a coin,
to compensate for wrongdoings,
Coin-collectors waiting like a
starving lion in a zoo
pounced on these throwings,
aiming the spot  
with a magnet like
a trained ninja in nocturnal warfares,
After a few unsuccessful attempts
A boy yelled in joy
"Har Har Gange".


The Ganges was like this
from the beginning,
She was moderate in demands
offering so much
at the cost of a penny,
Throw a coin and
you are absolved from all your sins.

The river of time continues to flow,
and yet here I stand -- unmoving.