They don’t mind/ Don’t mind them

Smooth glossy skin

Uncovered head

Pant-encased legs

Unhidden bosom

Eyes that meet

Lips that speak

What a creature!

Touch that skin

Pull that hair

Stroke that bottom

Pinch that breast

Bite those lips

She doesn’t mind

She likes it

She’s a siren

The black ebony skin

Straight backbone

Thick curly hair

Big black eyes

Strong backs, long legs

What a creature!

Lower those eyes

Load those backs

Work those legs

Tame that hair

Flay that skin

Break those bones

He doesn’t mind

He’s made for this

He is a beast

The filthy clothes

Grimy face

Hungry mouths

Runny noses

Cunning eyes

Smelly babies

What creatures!

Push them

Shove them

Hug them

Thrash them

Evict them

House them

Throw them some food

They don’t mind

They eat off the ground

They are animals 

The ill-kempt body

Matted hair

Suspicious eyes 

darting back and forth

Blabbering mouth

Shouting now, sobbing next

What a creature!

Poke them

Tease them

Chase them

Kick them

Feed them

Lock them up

Throw them out

They don’t mind

They’ve lost their minds

They are mad

April 2026

Photo by Kunal Kalra on Unsplash

Those who inhabit

I take my car out

a couple of late walkers 

striding with determination to nowhere.

The ubiquitous phone in one hand

blaring packaged spiritualism.

A stick in the other,

that gives an air of purpose

is also useful for hitting out

at the strays that inhabit

the same roads they walk on.

 

I turn into the main street, and merge with the traffic

The road is two lanes

but cars decree four,

the cars, the scooters, the bikes, the buses

The footpath is decorated 

stacks of pottery for sale, 

a barber, a sprinkling of urine 

The car and the bus honk in unison

at those who inhabit 

the world outside their windows

the school-kids trying to cross the road

the men and women rushing to work.

 

I arrive at the intersection

The garbage dump is strategically placed

as if an exhibit 

of the innards of our life.

The ragpicker is elbow-deep

sifting and sorting

to resurrect to life

the dead, condemned, discarded.

He shoves at the cow

that inhabits the same space

relishing a plastic bag, flavoured with butter chicken.

 

The light turns green

I rush not to be left behind

A delivery tempo catches up

Hundreds of hens slouching in the coop

eyes darting about, the only part that can move 

the bodies, are packed cost-effectively

the meat showing through the bald feathers

dirty, dried, matted.

Perhaps they inhale in turns

to conserve space.

A crow lands on the coop, curious 

of those who inhabit unfreedom.

He pecks at them, through the net

not to eat

juicy, live meat is not his taste anyway

 

I turn into the campus

the lab gates close behind me

I am home 

with those that inhabit

the ivory towers of knowledge

 

March 2026

Photo:Anipixels.com ID: 005381

....and the sun set

The woman sat in the stuffed chair

The stuffed chair sat in the cold corner of the room

A prime spot when the day is young and the sun is pouring from the east

But as the day ages, the shadows lengthen, the air cools

It still sits there, in that cold corner

The dog positioned himself on the floor 

In that patch of sunlight 

That gained entry through the open door

And with every stretch and shake of his body

He moved a few centimetres, with the sun

The story began without much ado

Setting the pace to slow and predictable

The woman read aloud and the dog listened with eyes shut

Perhaps to better picture the scene set by the author

The story took a turn

The dog sat up

The tale heated up, the plot thickened

The dog gravitated towards the heat

Alert and captivated he sat with his eyes glued to the woman’s moving lips

That is when tragedy struck and all was lost

The book came down slowly

The dog found his head resting on her thighs

Her hands tired from holding the book up

Too rested on his long forehead

She let her fingers feel

Their pulse synchronized

And slowed together.

The image is AI generated