I.
One moonlit smoke night
Walking back past the railway bridge –
A patter of rain and hurrying feet on the stairs –
It came out for a stroll.
Harsh Prabhu said cool cat rat
Tyagi Uttam and I laughed
It carried on unheeding to its manhole.
II.
I knew my pyjamas were torn but where exactly
Was what I was wondering as I talked about suicide
To avid housewives.
Then I raised my legs
And felt the cold wind tight against my balls
And saw the women trying to look elsewhere.
Why did the fire die
In your eye?
Here are my hanging balls
Baby brinjals
There the little girl’s blue pathetic body –
So simple the crassness of flesh.
“I have to make tea” said one, getting up.
The other, alarmed said –
“I I have some little work.”
III. What the Sufi Said
The Sufi said there is no water in Hindustan
When you ask for water what they give you is piss.
The Sufi said every Friday I go fishing
I wake up early and walk for 14 miles
All day I sit staring at my fishing rod
Dipped in my mother’s bucket –
But who said fishing is for catching fish?
The Sufi said last night I saw the bull of Assyria
In the dark field behind Churchgate
I was looking for a place to piss:
Its hump was high as a mountain
Its horns were piercing the sky
Its balls were crackling with stars
I said to it “Look out, the police will catch you.”
It turned to a statue in the synagogue.
Only then I pissed on it.
