Here in this part of Delhi, I look at crows long enough and am eventually beginning to recognize them. Some have an oval head, some have a little-flattened-but-still-oval head, some wear a cloudy grey throat with richer iron black crown, some when stretch in sky show a slit like ‘v’ in one of their wings. Invariably, they all make sounds other than caw caw caw. Some are thinner, some are larger, some swoosh on my walks but then swiftly turn another direction (perhaps some can even smell coconut oil in my hair), after drinking water some wipe their beaks by perching on dish antenna, some on bare-branched tree of Mango, some on a parapet wall.  When I see crows my senses sharpen. It is said that crows retain memories of human faces. I wonder about this possibility of being recognized while not giving up my own thrill of becoming familiar with nature.  . In June evenings, which spread like a butter yellow of Amul on golden brown toasts, this intense sun also partners with white c...

In response to Birds of New York by Francisco X. Alarcón     dear Birds of New Delhi, look how I began with a small letter no, capital worries! Just capital jokes from the colony.   this is about ants of New Delhi living a bit below in elbow of a house, channel of a tv, just casually ducking a common career.                      can you see them? they are too many. too many. divided by labour, united by communication.   they are whisperers alongside cabinet filling up voids of city even on top of India Gate.   every morning these ants find a fallen tree in New Delhi pierce mandibles through a busy mango and its bee.   they miss the fallen barks of Madhav Rao Scindia Marg the ants of New Delhi drop from Mulberry leaves in March and show up in the middle of my homework. They show up during winters, while writing ‘Trees’....

A girl full of headache comes home To a room made of cream walls She puts her earphones on the table On the wall behind the table is a rainbow-coloured cycle sticker The girl puts her blue pens in the racks of the table She puts down her imbalance with a sigh on the table Rolls up her anger from speaking to her mother unkindly She puts it in a pouch inside the drawer And caps all the red pens writing mystery The table records a jangle of keys There is her softness, her large handwriting Her laptop in red, a worry, three more worries, a 2 + b 2 = (a+b) 2 -2ab, a maths teacher’s memory, a hairclip, some sound of life and her friends in her mind. She puts everything on the table And it still looks like a pebble. She now takes off her spectacles And puts its dust on the table She puts her cough on the table Puts paracetamol on the table She reaches out and touches the pile So many days she had wanted to rest on a cloud And now the thunder ...