Sullen, I walk from room to room,
window to window,
bored after reading a book
I couldn’t get into all day.
My mind is scattered.
The maid is swabbing the floor
of the corridor,
the steamy staleness of my father’s room.
From the dining room window
I see the red roof tiles of the chawls in Mograpada;
they are hardly red anymore.
A flock of white pigeons have settled
on a roof near the mosque…
a man with a big stick appears out of nowhere
and they scatter away.
In the hall, the floor is wet.
It has been wiped clean.
Outside in the patch of lush green trees,
two beautiful white pigeons sit comfortably.
A small black bird flies across
a cable between two buildings.
A little farther away
seven or eight white pigeons have gathered
in a circle in the air.
Like the petals of a flower opening…
Like waves in the sky full of light…
And as I watch,
they are not there anymore.
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).