A candid  recollection

Those    early schooldays   are

Like  a  free  kite for   most of  us .

For  the inimitable tag “children”

 Encompasses  childhood  days.

School days are either a   heavenly

Bliss for the innocence and   freedom

They don   and a    simultaneous torture

They  undergo  for  the home work

and    arduous class work

they are   compelled  to do.

To  have  a  diversion,

We  went  for  a  local Fair,

 Colorful shops and  congregations

and  candelabra  the centre of  the

Mall  illumining  the parts

around us.  Groundnut cakes

and  mango  jams  my favorite

 my favorite  and taste in the

Fair. Loud acoustics   and music,

Announcements  intermittent ,

Enliven  the show. Jasmine

and  Rose  garlands  permeate

with  the fragrance   give  a

Divine touch for  our eyes

Are accustomed to these in the

Local temples.  Now, oh! My God

things   are   totally changed and

as we grow we are also changed.

Thank God! For  a while, slate pencils

And  rubber   don’t  haunt  us.

Fair  still  lingers me.

Crab and crane

    Crab   and Crane

Crab  in its  limpid  move,

also in its habituated,

mood of   hide  and  seek

On   the watery  sands,

Draws sketches from its

Memories of  habitat.

Its   static   companion

Ruminating  crane

On the sheets of  water,

doing  penance  and meditation.

The  Blue  merges with 

The Azure. Ideal  spot of

Speculation  for  both.

The  shining  conch, also

A  watery  by product,

 Acknowledges the uniqueness.

Universal  pal  Moon shines

Seamless at  the  sandy  spot.

In the   blessed eventide,

What more do you want?

The Wards are Always Wheeling

    The  wards  are  always  wheeling.

The   repugnant   with  fear  and  anxiety

Wards  are overflowing  now .

Ambulance and   No clearance are

There  from morn  to eve.

No  longer  an  eyesore, but

A customization. Customization

For  what?  To adaptability

Of  man’s moribund , dead cells.

Oh! God  when will this come to an end?

Unabated  fire  of  ire, this  blood  bath

 Fail  The Messiah’s  inspiring   words.

Ego  and    vendetta   and  craze

For  power, can you stop  the  list,

Submerge  the dictum  of  peace

Into  ignoble  tunnel of humdrum

Harsh realities of existence.

What  can  the walls do?

Or the  wards  speak?

They  silently  wail

Along  the victims .

Oh! God ! when will

This come to an end?

Church  bells on  cliff

Blow in   ponderous vain.

      A   Sketch

I  drew  a  meticulously   observed

Long drawn quill of  a  bird

On the  broken white eggshell.

Brush breaths life into

Lifeless  outer ring, wails

For  the loss  of life.

Else a  beautiful chic

Would have turned out.

The running jell

Can you call it?

Spiraling  on the

Pan, dissipated  into

Edible with  pepper

And salt on it. The  quill

Joins  my bemoaning,

Adding  to the sign

On the shell.

              On  Classics   and   Modernity.

         Erudite   Homer   and  voracious  Virgil

       Our  venerable  ancient  Classics,

       Ruled   the  roost   of  education  podium.

       Excelled  in hexameters  and knowledge

       Of  the  worldly  objects  vast  and  wonderful.

       Yet, modern  literature   and  modern  art,

        By  slow  and  steady  growth  took

        the   norms   and  grew  a   clan,

        steady   tree  offering  comfortable  shade.

       But, without  the  label of  ancient,

       Beginning   and  pride  of  Root,

       There  can never be  the  progress

      Of  Modernity or  modern literature.

      It  is a  step in  stages  of   Time.

       Still  we  worship  all.

      

   

     

I am million, million Births and many more.

     I am  a  million, million Births  and  many more.

I am   one   of  a  convoy of  The Supreme.

I am a   million, million opinions,

Shared and debated and united.

This sacred Birth, Feel and pride,

This Body and emotions  and empathy

Are  all preordained, a  dictate  of  karma,

The  rotating, yet sturdy wheel,

Now  the sole  aim  to  become

One  with  the Almighty.

I am  a  descendant of  million  Deaths,

Having sojourned and undergone

Mysterious births and  pangs,

Know not  the purpose here,

Yet pulling on  with  an

Undaunted Will and vigour.

His   Design  is my  privilege.

I  hear at last,  million  voices

 Converge to identify the unseen yet

heard   mostly silent  and  strong.

There  is  an  echo, repeated

It   voices again  and  again,

 ‘“to shuffle of  this mortal coil”

Is  not your choice,

His  is  the  order  and  Domain.

Live  up  the  day, tomorrow,’

These  Silences  are embodiment

Of  aeons,  viable  solutions.

We need to respect them.