One-act: A tree on stage. Else bare. This is a monologue by Godot.

Godot (aloud, stage whisper): Goodness, I am so afraid. What if they do not come today? I have waited and waited. I read somewhere that they had people to come and meet them, games to play, books to half-remember, life's chances to ponder. And they worried about passing the time. Worried about me coming! I am as punctual as good ol' Father Time. Which reminds me, what had they said yes, qua qua. More like quack, quack. I heard (leans forward, still in the stage whisper tone and volume) them debate my moments and movements. God they thought I was. God, oh lord! I would have been dead if I was God. Where is he anyway? Useless creature, does no work whatsoever; leaves it all to the mortals and they wonder about him. Pray to him, ask for favours. Or they wondered if I had any canine relatives. I may have had some I suppose. After all, Lucky was practically family. Ssssh... I hear someone coming. Or are they? (Looks up expectantly)

(The camera recording this, pans around an empty auditorium. No one is allowed to be there except the cameraman and the actor playing Godot.)

You, in this letter,

different from the car-horn that blared,

slicing the stillness of the evening।

That is where you have slipped in

between, the rythms,

like the sheets of the bed

and my legs tonight।

You, and not the sadhu,

alms-bowl and arm outstretched,

standing in plea,

You, and not him or me।

आज कहाँ कहाँ गए न पूछो

यह कदम

लौट कर फिर आगए

यह कदम

घूमते हुए घुमाते हुए

यह कदम

तुम्हारी तस्वीरिएँ

आज इन्हे रोक न पाई

मुस्कुराते हुए, गुनगुनाते हुए

यह थिरकते कदम।

Scenes from a starry night

Lyrical moods and moments. A little note that send us flying high. The saxophone sounds, the velvet-alone voice and the couch beckoning. Or maybe it was the words. The little dance they performed under your command, the pictures they painted, the worlds they showed you. How you took this, our language, our tongue and twisted it to include the corky-casket fragrance of whisky, the touch of the plasticky keyboard. The delight of the eye as it looked through the camera's lens. They made me travel, all of these and more. I used this to move, to escape, now here, now gone. Now missing and now found.

I wish I had tales to wrap around these words, to be able to sing the song of the old man journeying down the road; to tell you about the woman in a red, shining polyester sari. She and the baby she held in a black, flowery dress in her arms. The dress and a towel all she had to fend off the november chill. I want to be able to tell you that I know. That I knew she was taking her baby to the hospital, that she was alone. That as she sat next to me, her mouth moved to feel her child's body. She was relieved that the fever had broken that morning. The jerk and halt of the bus ended our conversation and the vingette.

A man in a faded black kurta and a briefcase sat down beside me. I know not the art of the raconteur. On a graph I plot different shapes, sizes and photographs. A dash of lime and a man. The mishti-doi effect of the woman I lay beside last night. The sound of the car horns in the roads beyond.

Something passed me

It was an old man with

A toothless smile

Muttering to himself

Telling me of

Lonliness ahead

It was a butterfly

That had just left

A fleck of golden pollen

Against your brown skin

I looked

It was the bus

I saw, that

Carried the crowd

Of strangers

To destinations unknown.

The Object of your Affection

For what do you do when
the object of your affection

likes you less than you do?

For what do you do when

he walks by
lit cigarette in hand, the
winter sun
lighting his face as he swings
his hips so casually

For what do you do when

the laugh that you share
is dissolved in the
morning mist
over the chai cup

For what do you do when

the half-glance in your
direction, makes you want
you, the mouse
living in the dark
and he the demi-god
who does not return your
look.

I decided to ramble about love

It was a walk on dusty roads

There were returns, occasionally.

I registered the cigarettes first

The language second

Hesitating, I tumbled

The laughter followed wonderingly

The lessons were tough

Stories stuttered in between

I moved about the spluttering mustard seeds

Notes from a melody played by a boy

You stood there

I wished to touch you

Delhi's own

Claimed, a denial no more

Loved by you a dream

We awoke, on the same bed

A slight nudge

Chai was the call

There were no tea-leaves