Saturday, May 28, 2016

The Glass Factory

In the middle of the desert
the furnace burns steady.
Globs of molten glass
fall like drops of gold.
Hissing and spinning
they take the shapes of
the moulds they are fed to.
Skylights let the sun in
through the corrugated roof,
beams bouncing off
the rivers of white opal
flowing through the factory.
He sits at the shore where
one such river finds its end.
Another cog in the machinery.
Every single day he wakes up,
ties a cloth around his head,
packs a lunch, takes a bus,
sits on a high-stool in the heat,
and looks for small flaws,
chips and chinks and bubbles,
in the glass, fragile and white.
His hands never stop,
picking a plate off the belt,
and then another and another.
His eyes, now accustomed,
scan them quickly for faults.
The good ones go into a stack.
The bad ones are discarded,
shattering at his feet, in a heap.
I wonder, if he takes any pleasure
in throwing them away?
The sound of breaking glass,
breaking the monotony of his days.

Friday, May 13, 2016

At the Chowpatty

It reminds me of the time
when I had a dog.
And a disobedient one at that. 
He'd pull on his leash,
taking me wherever he wanted.
Through mud and muck.
Through puddles and slush. 
Through grass and flower beds
nonchalant he would tread. 
And he'd also pull me  through 
bad days and tough times. 
May be that's how 
they ended up here this morning.
Into the grey water across a sandy beach.
A wagging tail, a hanging tongue,
four wet paws and two wet feet. 

Inspired from a photograph by Nasar Husami

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Play along.

We are
falling now
in the kind of loves
that allow us
to like ourselves.
Just a little.
And all our dreams
are being dreamt by
wakeful, watchful eyes.
And so,
what we are living now
are mere travesties
of what could've been
our lives.