JC (i)

the meeting

wind was in my hair,
and a pebble in my birkenstock
so i stopped to tie the unruly locks,
and shake the pebble out.
that’s when i saw him
resting against a rock.

exchanged notes about the climb,
he was on his way to the village,
i was running away from people.
watch out for the burning bush
he joked, and i told him to stay
clear of the dancing girls.

my Blue one had danced with many,
i was the eternally jealous one,
but JC had had a tough life
i could see, he was still young.
when realization dawned,
i asked him, “what are you doing here
a few centuries late?”
he gave a lopsided smile,
“duh!” he said, “you don’t know the tale?
no one believes me,
but i’ll be back i had said!”


JC (ii)

the miracle
i am on the rock,
by the banks of the river
that you will not find on any map.
the rope of my sandals,
has cut deep into my ankles,
proof that it takes many a mile
to gather but twelve believers.
others have come too,
some to fulfil a curiosity,
some to justify doubts,
some because there’s no cable.
the expectant murmur
has settled down to a simmer.

my words have been too simple --
an ocean in their feeble hands,
hence i must prove by act
what words have failed to convey.

i wish i could wiggle my toes
in the cold waters, happy,
in the manner of children,
but this is not the time
for frolick. it’s time to fulfil
a larger design, a purpose.

your Blue one got away by
opening his mouth wide,
to show he was it all, that
the universe was a part of him,
but the folk here are too rough hewn
i need to start small,
so i stand tall, yet humble
and step on to the waters
for their first glimpse --
of eternity.

drenched!

water drips from your hair,
my eyes measure
six, maybe seven inches,
to your pink tee shirt.

the kohl underneath
your brown eyes
is smudging your cheeks,
i stop myself from saying,
"no, don't dab it away..."

you run a quick hand
through your hair,
what would you say
if you would find me
entangled there?

fascinated by an errant drop
sliding down your throat
into the vee of the tee,
i've missed the reasons
why you like malabar monsoon.

"drink your coffee, baba!"
you say, laughter gurgling
out of your lips and on
to the table between us.
i am persuaded.

but i see you shiver
ever so slightly as the coffee
spreads its warmth.
i pretend the sugar sachet is
more than mildly interesting.

i sigh inside,
might as well drink
the damned coffee,
than let my imagination
be drenched with you.

besides, the cafe is crowded,
my throat is dry,
my feet are cold,
and although you're so close,
you only wish to talk.


inspired wholly by jugal mody and his tale (again!) of an uncaring lass!