Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-17

Days of road, hotel and strangers,

of contrasting skin, voices, stares and colors,

I think all are over.

On the smooth highway swift feels smoother and softer,

with morning dew sweet in my mouth I pass some hundred kilometers,

and another a few hundred after,

leading myself home,

for it has been time that has been to me,

and space I gave to you all.

Unless I decide for a detour,

snap out a turn of a tiring moment,

and rather than south find on the road east,

old civilizations anew living the moment,

their customs, houses, clothes, colors,

it can be seen through the road,

through the grains of dusts,

dazzle of the heat,

and thorns of the desert.

Though their brothers are laying bitumen,

on the sides is sifting sand,

containing civilizations within.

Small cities with fresh vegetables,

has colored bangles buying them,

the same railway track I cross,

bus stand next to it,

chief engineers and collector’s homes I pass again.

New roads new signs but still they confuse,

and in India you ask even if you are not lost,

and sometimes in exchange you have to give a lift,

your time it can be to you,

but you have to forego a little space then,

simply you cannot refuse,

a full happy family loaded behind,

they are to see a new temple of the creator God,

the temple this one they say is the only second,

in the whole wide world,

recognized, by men,

armed by retired gun-men,

who won’t allow cameras, only faith on your face,

and thankfully reminding,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-13

The rail track crossing seems I have seen it elsewhere,

risen embankments people they cross and many appear,

dark face wrinkles, sweat on them, stooped on their shoulders,

with bicycles carrying gunny bag, and arrears,

I turn left, and soon the rail track disappears,

well I know still it goes to another city ahead,

so on a lonesome faster parallel track I tread.

To a destination that has nothing but hill and history,

they say it operates with help of tourism ministry,

A phenomenon that to me is a mystery,

villagers commuting next to my car flying free,

‘therwise nothing except landscape on the road to see,

the road looks lonely,

so I say to its unhearing village folkey,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.

Shameless Broadcast of a Road Trip-12

This oasis city Badmer easily it lets you in,

a small radius as it always has been,

should have some craft the guide books say are genuine,

but the city is dirty and dusty no one knows what they are building,

can use a government guest house to live within,

just for a night and I will have seen it all in a whim.

Couldn’t find any artisans the guide books tell of,

only crazy gay youth couple drunk at station looking to go home far off,

paired in groups you have sometimes hear of,

hospitable bars, good for writers, loners and drunkards,

and discards,

people focused going home, watch sellers, air force officers and mining company employees are,

I only can talk of.

Thriving village with glittering shops in lines,

youth sitting in groups,

nothing to do, thinking to join some great college,

Get a qualification get an edge,

a future there then to dream of.

Day light in static town,

even more static the guest house and around,

various men sitting turbaned,

pulling bidi puffs good for lungs,

broken or golden tooth grinning in clean air whistling,

morning dew of the desert morning,

seeing all static space with them all, I tell them all,

Time it is to me. Space it’s unto you.