a holy dialogue

She again said it's god who is controlling everything.

I smiled.

She then asked me,
what image comes to my mind 
when she says god.

I said no image.

'No image?',
she was puzzled.

I said there is no god for me.

'How do you think everything came about?',
asked she.

I said chemical reactions.

She said its 'Him' who did it.

I asked 'how do you know its him and not her?'

She said the holy book says so.

I asked who wrote the holy book?

She said all learned men.

I said ok.
We then talked about ice cream,
butter-scotch and chocolate flavours...

,..

seasons...

Showing the withered flower that day,

she told me

'You should write a poem about it'.

I just nodded.

There were then more springs

and many more autumns

that passed in this meanwhile.

Suddenly by remembering her suggestion,

she queried

'I asked you to write a poem

on that withered flower?'.

I just smiled

'Where is the poem?',

she was serious.

I looked out through the monsoon window.

There were more flowers and many more poems.

'Oh my dear!

They both,

the flower and the poem

are quite drenched at this point.

Shall we get a bigger umbrella

and start picking one by one?'.

She looked at me

with her piercing eyes

as her eyelids resembled

an even bigger umbrella.

It still rains...

,..

a word a sea

One after another

I pluck the words

that move in the passing wind

and throw them into the sea.

The words that float and disappear

on the withdrawing waves

raise again as light

on the distant boats.

Only the word that reaches

the setting sun

gets dissolved in

the evening sea.

The sea that spills over

in the failing light

puts forth

a small poem.

Then by waking up

as one star after another

the universe

starts reading it.

,..