It is not the road not taken - a transcreation

It is not the road not taken - a transcreation

It is not the road not taken,
I encounter the same madding crowd
on the same intriguing paths,
much traveled;
I feel the same hurried footsteps
of humdrum men, amidst the deep
Breadth of the blue,
the same food prints on
the sands of time's eternity.

Yet I miss your pearly laughter
tinged with vibration,
craving for a niche in heart's nest,
I am alone here pining and plodding,
devoid of celebration of life.

Hunger, when I was only ten

Hunger, when I was only ten

I was, young, ten, tender, ten only,
Not old enough to know the travails of
Poverty,
Hunger ate me alive,
When I starved hunger ate me alive,
I ran home from the school,
Ran faster than my body could sustain,
gulping water from the street tap,
The speed was breathless, speechless,
Straight ran into the kitchen,
To see the firewood was drenched,
For the thatched roof was leaky,
As if to shed tears for the desperate,
I, helpless, curled up in a corner,
Cursing my existence,
Befriending the cute kitten.

Who was my best friend?

Who was my best friend?

When hunger ate me alive,
When like the mischievous group
Of orangutans jumping from
One tree to another,
My belly was pinching poked
By the insides, when food was
Available in scarce, when shops
Were closed due to blackout,
When I could not enjoy the merry go
Round in the park and the prattles of
The children for my utterance each
Minute was construed a prank
by many wiseacres,
when my frantic phone call
to a life long friend was
turned down with a cold nod,
his being away at once for an
urgent purpose,
when currency urges to turn a concubine
to the much coveted wife’s position,
when kith and kin looked askance
when I retired voluntary, in the
matrimonial markets money alone plays
a roll more effective than the
roll call of many factors,
when buttermilk suffice both my
hunger and anger, I kiss the jar
when the shady tree was felled down,
Unauthorized and untimely,
the axe of the cruel hand was to be
cut off in a scuffle,
Kidneys are purchased and
Bargained and sold it was a
Rude shock for the unexpected,
The negative factor and the
Realization of the reality
To open my eyes in the future
Is my best and lasting friend.

Tonight is an unusual night 136

Tonight is an unusual night  136


Tonight is an unusual night,
for after the day’s hard labor
and the mute witness of the mindless
actions of men over many dumb and
desperate, deviled, my mind questions
my self, why should I be silent?
It results only in the thanksgiving,
to God for this.
Tonight is an unusual night,
for a view from my balcony
takes me on to many sights
when on the other side many
Sightless sigh for the depravity.
Tonight is an unusual night
for the land is wet and the
breeze carries the dampening
aura of the soil and pleasant
augury for the passersby.
Tonight is an unusual night
for I could view the aircraft
playing hide and seek and the
wink by the wheels, make me merry.
Tonight is an unusual night
for my pen records how the
Small and silly think they are
Good and wise in this generous land,
for the land which they tread upon
bears them too with patience

My glasses

My glasses

When I see through my dust-laden looking glasses
For want of a soft, hand kerchief, handy and embroidered,
Not the libidinous one playing havoc in cherub like Desdemona,
This cloth was dropped in the moving bus, how much of wants
and wishes to be fulfilled, I see, men and matter are
Sandwiched between what not and where;
Nearby a bunk a lanky boy in rags selling a lottery ticket
To recharge the battery of his living, lacking the education
even minimal to blame the society or discreet enough to
convert his birth to his advantage, not vile enough to
blame his parents to have brought him to this soil
of adversity and bonded lab our, cannot but think of his
sister with myriad dreams of her future but scratching her
hair domineered by lice and dandruff, soon a stern call
from her step- mother to fetch a pail of water from the
adjoining well, failing which not a drop of tea to quench her
thirst, I bend down to pick up my spectacles, fallen on the
mound, only to see the scratches, so much more to see through
the distorted lines, somuch to see through humanity
so profound to understand the living space.

What mythological creature are you?

What mythological creature are you?

What mythological creature are you?
Are you born with siblings, meant to
lead an ordinary life of marry and tarry,
or preordained to be a sage to preach and protect
the prurient and purblind and purvey many,
unseen, yet seeing and shelving,
just as the roaring waterfalls you are
Uncontrollable and warring and curing,
Is your birth ordained by the divine?
or disdained by the growing, numberless,
or the summing up of all heaven’s blessings
slated for this earth, you can be roped by the fire,
Unaffected, unscathed, dive deep into the water,
Redeem the one from sinking and submerge,
Sing the songs and shrink and shrivel
Yet move less as a stone, making miracles,
Like the revolving flower of rose petals
On the God head are you the trinity
The creator, protector and destroyer.

(135) In the stillness of the night

In the still of the night  135


In the still of the night, when the stars twinkle,
In the permanent residency of the blue horizon,
when the moonlit rays come through the balcony,
as if to spy if the madam is fast asleep,
to steal her ravishing beauty,
or like a good sentry to prevent any seasoned
Conman with a mega plan,
In the still of the night when the college student
closes his books after being hugged by mother sleep,
The cat with its paw soft and silent comes
To prey upon the rat, rattling in the kitchen,
In the still of the night romance is at peak
In the not nearby cinema theatre when the hero
confesses his avowed affinity for his partner,
in the still of the night, when the concubine
to give vent to her disturbed moods disturbs her man,
to be away from his wife, a sadism and urgency,
in the stillness of the night, when the two figures
in dark, covered robes to cover their sinister plan
of runaway marriage in a far-off cottage,
in the stillness of the same night, don’t get to
Sleep only to remind myself how all seeing God
was good enough to wake me to see the life of
fake and fraud -- soon would have engulfed me!
In the stillness of the same night I close my eyes
Timely opened to thank God for ever and forever.

Togetherness (119)

Togetherness  119


We are together in the self same house, for years
not rolling in the dunlap bed,nor jumping on those
pillows,colorful,cushioned comfort of seeming Paradise,
neither  living a physical life of mundane happiness,
nor loving a physical  life of mundane happiness.


In total pitch dark and long power failure sudden,
our eyes are closed, praying to the God and chanting the divine
the darkness is light enough surrounding,
the knowledge of Vedic discipline is encircling,
unyielding even to the mean desire of punishing,


punishing those pugnacious,petty and puerile
putting into fixture those gritty and vile,
is not in our blood, our mental plane coagulate,
though the salacious determined to operate,
we will not our principles deny and negate.

What is special about her?

What is special about her?

It is not the salad she meticulous, prepared for the kids
for the lunch, nor her hurriedly packed food
devoid of salt: how often she feels the life is without
pepper and salt, swallow the salad, she tells her ward,
she swallows many an injustice yet to digest,
there is a knock at the door by the gaunt man
fetches the cylinder,
the full weight on his shoulder,
he is overwhelmed by the reward for his
burden and service for he is used to
only pittance, she places herself in his position,
in the Almighty’s creation, the business about this
disparity and dignity is a continuous conundrum,
in her kitchen the milk cooker whistles beyond
the boiling point, pitying the enslaved,
what is the thud in the bedroom?
the wardrobe as if with a warring note pushes
the garments to be rearranged, with the same folds,
the deafening noise of the crackers
getting on her nerves, the mismanaged accounts
beckoning her calculating brain, the food particles,
on the teakwood table strewn, inviting insects
the flawed milk satchel to be replaced,
the reprimanding school reports of her ward,
it is too much for the little brain to assimilate
the listless list, yet her thinking self reassert
“thank God! You have given me a roof,
think of the roofless who mourn their grief in public”.

slow poisoning

slow poisoning

When she came to me with a secret quite casual,
tantalising and provoking my curiosity,she poisined
me heart, my faith and conviction,it was a slow and
steady manouvre,more venemous than that of Hamlet's
mother for the king was done for gain. The news was
itching and and she saw me dying everyday,yet
nourished me with her flavour,her flesh, just a mutual caring,
unseated my heart and secured she was,
her heart more and more willed by tenacity,
stony and stubble :
the secret was to be a secret the wretch amd wreck she was,
for the gnawing secret was a sin falsified,concocted,
she is just happy, doubly happy, remorseless,
the leaves in my tree are gone,she offered to water
the tree,still the roots are gone,
waiting to be strengethened by the
waters of the heaven.

A rumination in the platform

A rumination in the platform


A rumination in the platform
you sit your eyes closed in the busy platform
of the railway station viewing the busy humanity's
throb and bustle,dragging the children on the right,
along with the luggage,sometimes the pressure of
time bound programme is such,I cannot but wonder,
the luggaage and children as if baggage on equal platform,
nearby the weight machine is out of order,perhaps
somuch so, on the wornout stage,
so many sequential views on your mind stored as if
in a pen drive, automatic doors bar the passengers,
I recall the buses packed and half of the bus almost
on the ground touching,in India,amidst touching scenes,
a mendicant woman in rags on the road,near the signal
projecting her child with the uncouth calls,quick nod
from my memory if the gas cylinder is switched off,
if the greenleaves on the fry pan is overboiled to the black,
whether the windows have been closed:
the telephone bill is paid or to be cut,uncertain
queries like the failing monsoon throng me,
my train comes to take me unmindful of my situation.

Blue blue

Blue blue

I am bubbling blue in my buoyant,
walking by the beach,blue by the blue,
simply blued by the blue colour of the sky
touching the ocean,
like the magic wand of the supreme,
measured beat of the creator,
the mighty,uncontrolled waves of the deep
waves roll up and down and up and down,
I stand blooming blue by the blue,
stretching my imagination with a wide
ambience,my neatly tucked
blue bordered saree serenading
with my expectations,dispelling my
belligerent attitude surging on my baser instincts,
I sing along by the blue,blue,blue.

Identity

Identity

Here I stand in my kitchen,the shelf ill arranged,
the rotten tomatoes and coriander inviting the tiny
insects a,mockery on my carelessness,I search for
the knief hidden in the bunch of green chillies slowly
changing the colour into red, half visible,like the woman, totally
in contrast with the deep and as changing as
the chameleon not visible to the plain and open,
the woman has many followers,
the water does not flow for the rust and mud blocks
in the pipeline, by the time the plumber decides to attend
I go berserk,
I prepare ' Whitsun Weddings' for the next class,
the bread crumbs in the pan go black,
a hurried jump from my table is only to remove
and empty the vessel, the sincerity I pay,
I learnt a lesson,the book and the pan
hardly ever go together.

why I was born?

I would be silly to ask
why I was born and
it would sound as
meaningless and dogmatic
to question the very
design of cosmic
mystery.why?I am
perfectly happy and proud
to counteract the people like
you,to pose a question why
you were born?like thorns to
be brushed aside,
I ask my mom who sings a
lullaby to my little brother
in a pram,the very same
question,she replies
with a smile that it is the will
of God that we are born
so that a few are torn out of
jealousy to sling arrows of poison
and calumny,to drive us more
mature and poised and more
pious and devout.

128) salt

Salt(128)
You cannot relish the sweetness of your life,
without the savor of pepper and salt of toil
and sweat after struggle and grinding,
you must wipe out the salted sweat
but the kitchen needs to start a pinch of
salt in every dish. The ancient habit was
to brush the teeth with salt and to
arrest the bleeding wound,
the doctor’s prescription salt less
is an inevitable punishment and remedy
you serve me the salt to kick start
the day with breakfast and boldness.

An appeasement by God (120)

An appeasement by God( 120)


My hasty, unthinking self
murmurs its predicament,
Why not shake the God
Who has granted the boon?
Who has given me the boon?
Taking those sins and salacious
Of those deliberate and calculated,
I wonder why the bestial in man
And woman, apart from
The sins primordial,
Passing calumny on the God and
Even the God sent
Perpetuate calumny countless,
Reason quells my angered tone
it is ancient and hierarchical
else how could you read the fall
of Adam and Eve and myths,
miracles in fables,
while the omnipotent watches
in silence, the all-knowing
heeds, stays as move less as stone;
Crucifixion need not be
Body chained and nailed;
Crucifixion could also be
Slings of arrows and scum
and mud of words of calumny
thrown and reviled,
the dictates of my conscience
rules like a prince crowned,
‘You are ignorant of the situation,
Those are ignorant of their of predicament,
it is not your predicament
Endurance is your treasure’

The baby

He, cute and tender in the cradle moved,
when the wind rustled past as the music,
through the flute in the wooded forest
touching the innocent and fragile,
thought that the worldwas all too good
a place to live and in his sleep smiled,
that all his needs would be taken care of,
with an intermittent twitch of his lips
showing his desperate anger why he
was thrown out of his cozy protective orb
for the angel that lulled him to sleep
Sometime was away tending other infants
May be the wandering angels are also
Targeted by sinister looks and naughty, bestial.

I have hugged her –


I have hugged her slender, soft body in vain,
pouring hundreds of kisses of warmth,
promising all wealth and a life of luxury,
frequent flights and delicious food at
expensive restaurants, cuisines and comforts,
no perfumes nor make-ups nor any
artificial application of skin care,
kisses of regret and remorse on her
fragile body, regret for the loss of
Spring, sprightly days, tender, fragile
no responses, no movements,
no understanding, no romantic sentiments,
I have hugged her in vain, for her life
was made null and void,
vowed to whet my wounded pride in the
hug of a concubine, belief and faith falsified,
I have hugged her in vain, for what I hugged
and kissed was only a picture,
hung on the wall, my lady of the house,
no more.

Brinjal not in my kitchen anymore

Gone were those innocent days when my grand mother
took great care to prepare spicy brinjal in deep fry,
stuffed by spicy coconut and dals pounded by her deft hands,
oil oozing out of the fried brinjal in fresh shining bowl
would my grandmother serve with affection and care,
chide me if I put my fingers into my mouth for full taste,
those were my innocent days when little did I realize,
if sufficient fried brinjal was left for her in the pan,
when she had fever one day my pride experimented
the brinjal in her well set kitchen, agog I began,
a sharp knife to cut the spongy brinjal into pieces,
first cut was the worst hit to my pride, for the sleek
knife cut not the vegetable but the wriggling worms inside,
it was an eyesore to me and I felt the worms inside my stomach
teasing my experiment, and vomiting sensation forthwith
my fingers nervous became and I held the brinjal by the tail
with a shriek, out I Came and threw it into the bin,
my grand mother in feeble voice queried, if the deep fry was
over.
I replied that the pan was dry for there was no oil to fry,
the glass container fell to the ground and broke
never again would I dare to relish the brinjal,
gone were those innocent days when my grandmother
took care to prepare spicy brinjal in deep fry.

Google

To google every morn with eager eyes
is serendipity dawned on you,
each new item enthralls and fascinates
a pleasing exercise for your mind and eye,
a delightful delve into the river of information
and knowledge, a pastime and perfect
diapason with the computer:
I browse, talk, chat and sing
and sing along the music of cd
to ward off your melancholy,
I google, google with a gleeful gain.

Intrusion

When you made intrusion into my much
guarded garden of lovely roses and boughs of
Chrysanthemum, coupled with aromatic jasmine,
the parrot, the bejeweled queen
Pecks and pours in a note of clairvoyance,
the coming seasonal torrential rains flooding
the farmers and ferrets rising to the balconies,
the inundated roads with playing water reptiles,
agonizing the invested landlords,
I see a hooded snake in the corner,
out of sheer frustration and anger
lost even the last bit of venom,
biting the snake charmer chanced by,
To befriend the serene and sacred;
The prop up dancing rose buds
As if to nod, a welcoming yes,
Many a nod, many a nod of approval
for upcoming positive signs.
As if new born babies yet to open their eyes!
When your not deft, yet rugged fingers plucked
those colorful flowers, those smiling ones
I had the feel of the crude sickle in my hand,
to fell the roots and stemmed trees
I had been accustomed to play under,
near the wall somebody pours the peels of the yam,
the black colors of those discarded skins
try to steal into paradise,
amidst these creeping rummage ,
Those lovely flowers dance, those flowers,
embodiment of creator’s excellence,
dance, swing and swing.

Water is warm
In this hot summer when you aspire
near the computer at the loving dictates of
Your Muse, you abominably perspire,
wiping your cheeks on which not the
drops but rivers of sweat flow
Very very hot, you take a break
to take bath, the pipes too are hot to touch,
the waters are meant to cool you
your skin reddens, the color changes,
bubbles form, itch on on the skin
You wonder why this summer
it is extreme like this,
Creativity ponders, hot water
in hottest summer to arrest
your thinking and writing,
Nature’s wrath and fury
In pipelines and taps
tapping our patience.
may be it is a mockery
at his man's stony heart,
When he is cold and arrogant
The summer waters simmer
Showing their anger.

To forget those days of dilemma and injustice,


to forget those days of excruciating pain,
to transform these cruel experiences into print
to greet yourself into the rose garden of flowers
and to imbibe the aura of peace and cheer to the
anguished soul and body, I log on to my computer,
to my personal computer, my friend in distress,
a prurient philosopher, a right palm to donate,
freely and immeasurably and even unasked,
I log on confidently, careless, due to custom,
my friend opens his window of warmth,
slow and steady, teasing my patience,
like the wavy curtains raised up for
the theatrical show for the audience eager,
My fingers are typing fast amidst
Sprouting spasms and pop-ups,
which dominate like the flies on neon lamps?
thoughts spontaneous overflow not only,
pent-up emotions, springing from acute
observations, getting converted from
Pigeon-holes to printed versions,
Suddenly stickiness, a slow movement
creeps on the key-board: I recline on my chair,
I resume a poetry website with a screen
embellishing cherry tree and a playing
child underneath enlivening me.
m fast fingers continue type to
Contribute to the site.

A temptation

Yesterday you tempted me with a peculiar arrow
Not of Cupid’s but of ambition to reach to
Dizzy heights, loving the Muse,
Inhaling the aroma of knowledge
From books piled upon like pillows,
hugging with a warmth of knowledge,
Knowledge to learn many things
Of the world,
Suddenly an electric idea dawns upon me,
What gained by me in time
not only of books but also
observations, cautioning me further,
life is a rich tree with big branches,
this cannot be uprooted,
I get up and go to the balcony,
Still humanity is active even
at one’clock for the first show is over
Just now,a clandestine affair
behind the milk –booth
followed by the speeding water tanker
hitting the road side garbage slits
and frightened dogs runs barking by.
Iam not getting sleep and go back to
Andrew Motion and Gillian Clarke
Allen Ginnesberg and Walt Whitman
and Emily Dickenson to browse.

Silence

The breakfast in the stable became stale,
even I the duty-conscious made the breakfast
burning my fingers in the stove,
rushed to my work spot,
stunned to see the flies
around the vessel kept half open,
he thought he was wise, for he slipped off
to sleep by a woman, a nasty bitch
who poisoned into his ears,
that his wife was infidel,
somebody made nocturnal visits
for cash and flesh,
thirty long years of his living
was marred by three years of stealthy slips
only to know that she made beds with many before
he came back to me with defeated fake smile
not knowing I know the world afore,
only to continue my silence more.

Who is this nocturnal visitor?

Who is this nocturnal visitor incognito?
Is he seen only by a few, or naked eyes?
does he slip in like a cat for kind or for cash?
or for both, or with pseudo-kindness,
like the itching dandruff, creating a bald,
Bugging all the time, draining your purse?
People with all devious thinking imagine
That the visitor is fond of my house,
yet till today I have not seen the mysterious,
nor I am inclined to catch him red –handed,
when the imagination runs devious,
when the devious thought takes
further a crude sinister turn,
when my guardian angel is vigilant,
this acrimony would only lead to acrobatics,
Undoing all nonsense and hypocrisy.
you can wake up a sleeping dog
you can not infuse sense and sanity
in a seemingly deaf and blind
man and woman who are no less than
conmen loitering the premises of the
easily gullible, causing havoc
to the good and innocent.

118 Stillness

Stillness ( 118)


It is not mere closing your eyes,
your mind wandering in search of Bliss,
socalled attention distracted by so many calls,
of phones eagerly awaited from business,


nodding of your head in rapt admiration of songs
recorded in tapes and compact discs,
nor admonition of children making a mess
amidst of noises and tumbling of vessels:


Stillness augmenting stillness
Simply allowing things to happen even in chaos,
Pampering calmness even in distress,
Stillness smiling at stillness.

(114) Who is by my bed?

who is by my bed? (114)




What is this feeble voice by my improvised bed?
whose voice is this at this untimely hour?
Do they wonder? Are they curious?
Is he a man, tall and handsome?
or dark, ugly, covered
or curled up underneath a blanket?
A cherub with “light fantastic toe”,
with a magic wand doing jugglery,
is he your legally married husband?
or nocturnal visitor incognito?
A playboy to saunter about?
He is cutely curled up caring me ever,
Not phony, a pleasant bug,
who expects me to be at his beck and call,
commanding and demanding,
He does not care if you are in the kitchen
or at the dining table, or at the bath,
makes me irksome at times,
Curious and eager to attend to him betimes,
I even drag him where ever I go,
sometimes he is ignored by me,
Does n’t he sound a conundrum?
He is my phone, my telephone,
Bridging the void from afar,
For time and distance
Between east and west
Set right by my handy set.

(112) An observation by the beach

An observation by the beach (112)
It is not the usual white-coloured, soft,
oval-shaped pebble, nor a shell,
but a thump bone of an infant,
My eyes can see the merciless
waves washing ashore,
the tsunami-hit victim, innocent
distorted, premature and caught up
In the debris of time’s disaster,
the brown color which merged
with the color of the sands
speaks out silent volumes.
If alive might have shaped
many stories life-like,
or might have ruled like a lord,
or assuming dogmatic position
might have pointed out many a flaw,
now pointless and a pittance,
picked up by a hungry crane in a swoop
Oh! the lifeless thumb,
I sit by the shore helpless,
I weep by the shore helpless,
To see the bird take –off.

(113) The thought of the school stings

The thought of the school stings, stings  113


When I was a nine year old girl,
upon my refusal to the school
my mother then sounded rude,
held me by the hand put on the first bench,
as if to cover the chicken by the basket,
ran fast home to sing lullaby to my
weeping sister in the cloth cradle,
a good pat on my cheek
by the English teacher for
the well sung nursery rhyme
is only short lived:
for the bell beckoned the terror,
the arrival of the Math teacher
with a cane multiplied my fear
only to make me forget my
Equations and mutiplications,
My eyes curious not on the board,
but on the clock for I feigned
to put the clock fast, for a stop
for the maths trauma,
the play time or P.T is
full of stress for the eagle eyed
monster would command a
kneel down for the ink
dot in my white uniform.
A surprise walk or check by the
Head master many a time
Made me tremble with a salute.
Today me a school teacher
Impatient and imbecile.
It stings, it stings----.
My conscience stings
Me badly to the root of
My heart, my bleeding veins.

clockwise (111)

   (111)        Clockwise
Everything has been going on clockwise
as long as man was innocent and obedient,
in the well planned garden of God’s creation,
replete with aromatic flowers and scanty weeds,
both the hands were in perfect diapason,
when man was caught up in the medley
of the selfish motives and defiance of His Will,
he grew cankerous and gluttonous
devouring all that came by.
when man fell a prey to the blind
spirit of questioning, a malignancy
he did not spare even the higher order,
things have to move anti-clockwise
crippling the pattern well set
I know not if easy to heal the malady
or to submit to the rut.

122 On a themeless artifact

On a themeless artifact( 122)


Why do they clamor for a theme less piece of poem?
Or fiction or writing, like “to be or not to be”?
a theme is as must as life for a body,
a cloth to cover the sense of shame,
a theme less is uncovered food exposed to flies,
it is tumbling along the staircase
to reach the tower, to capture to dizzy heights,
like we monopolize the whole universe,
a mad desire to achieve the impossible,
to abrogate the essentials of life,
to build up an empire of sands sans brick and lime.
A themeless is like a nomad drifting away
Aimless, unwilling to fit within the framework

My diary of significant dates

It is not a blue-colored book,
Of nursery rhymes,
nor a moving tale in black and white,
Secrets of romance and dates
offered by a silly flirt who
plays with life as we play with
dice on the board, casually yet
a sense of belonging to it,
The diary lies there abject:
Scribbled figures of
Ration card consumption,
Children’s school fees, the
launderer’s list, newspaper
cuttings and illustrations,
The blue print of mindset
figured on the papers,
my meticulous household
budget of provisions to
Paper bills bother me,
The diary steals a place
In my shelf of safety.