a night on the Indian plains replays familiar movies

snorting Tata trucks
twisted ramparts
mud-encrusted cows,
dust and burnt souls
engulfed in karma,
past lives packaged chaotically
in crumpled plastic handfuls

on the grimy, cracked walls
Shiva’s abode is resplendent,
the tantalising dome of Kailash both mythical and real
on these fluorescent plains
mostly mythical

the power fails again –
plunged into pitch black excites a deep triumph
a liberation of gratitude for this darkness,
for this silence

memory resonating quietly like an unborn child
the umbilical cord slithering over the shoulder
like a cobra