I: The mask
That a clot of moulded clay is enough to ward off
The unwanted gaze: let it transpire and the forest
Air will gnaw at the fabric of the ground of all being
Till wrong is righted or till both mother and brother die.
II: The bath
The rules of proportion collide with rapturous dance
Precipitating unveiling as if time had nothing better
To do, nowhere else to go, but to persist in the void
Accumulating evidence of want, of balance of want.
III: The holy man
Antics of brahmanic indolence will get you only so
Far: what remains unrooted remains so; what speaks
Of being unmoored keeps the syllables of discontent
Heavy with unrepentant, unholy dollops of distaste.
IV: The mad dog
It is not the box that can contain the rabidness of
The dog; it is not the box that can reveal the inch
By inch failing of the yardstick of faith; but the seal
Of containment, the slip of tongue, the lost rhythm.
V: The sweet rice
A sugary aftertaste is the reminder of the arsenic
Undercurrent to follow soon; the lull is only as good
As the storm that will ensue; for here is maya, the
Guarantor of false positives, intended misoutcomes.