Window

      

          Window.

What if nocturnal or diurnal,

It  is all the same for  the

Window  and you and me.

The frills  are  dancing

embossed  by the  whispers

of  soothing   lullaby of

cool  air. Showers   and

 mild  Sprinklers . Outside

the window  jostle  and 

business  throb, this  side

you   and  me  are  the  same

except, each in  our own

expectations, our morning

cup of  coffee  and  noon siesta

waking  us  or  knocking  us

don’t  know. Window  is   same.

His Master's Voice

      His  Master’s  Voice.

Tied  up to his  ancient  cot,

Cloth  threads   criss  cross  the  edges,

Age’s misery speaks   a volume in his

Wrinkled  face .The  sturdy  hands  that

Wove    yarns  in  the  looms; ere also

Wont  to spin the threads in the  hand

Machine, now sinking, partially

Conscious .  He   beckons   to his 

Son, caring, reading newspapers,

also reading   hard palm of the

Dying  now.   Son  takes  the cue

Of  his  father’s  hereditary profession.

He  identifies, ruminates, lengthy yarns

Which  dominated   and   shone

Many  a  cloth shop.  His  mind

Is  a   repository  of bundles of 

Yarn  and  cloth and  showrooms.

 Some  neem  leaves  Supposed  

 to be medicinal  lie  by the cot.

His   last  cardinal, low voice

In  a feeble tone, mutters

“my son take care  of the Cow

Serving us for years, it is

Another loom  and  Gift.  

Loosening Knots

  Loosening knots.

  I  have heard some  say

‘Like  a meteoric  rise.’

But  they  cling  on the

Rope of constant question

and Query, dreaming  in

mid air. Loosening  knots

forsake  them . “Hare Ram”,

“Hare Krishna,” from  their

Helpless   self, but of  vain.

Failing  rope is  twisting   and  twirl.

When Wind Blows

     When Wind Blows

In December chill’s   Morn

When  nestled   birds  stay

Cosy in the  self  made  shelter,

Dark  slowly recedes,  while

Dew  drops  Rivet   and  stay,

on Rose. When  the petals fritter, 

 these  hanging medals

 glitter,  glide   and   drip  down,

Chicks  dare  not  come out,

Speedy gales  spring  fast.

 Crow  in Dove’s nest,

Chicks pick crumbles within

Without  any   disparity

 Necessity and  Care make

them   forget their genre.

Unity stays  forever.

I am Broke

        I am  broke.

 Me thought I am empty,

I am broke absolutely,

Beyond redemption,

Conspiracy for  years such ,

 Escaped our  notice.

After  the  devastation   and  fury

Of Floods, streets  marooned,

The  road is  calm   and 

No  normal  traffic today.

Yonder  a  Parrot call

Chirping  and  repeating

A  Voice, “peace, peace”

A voice of  soothing  and

Comfort  and  Confidence.

Parrot  on my Mentor’s

Shoulders  chirping  again

Again, a  redoubled  assurance.

Now   also  I am broke,

For overwhelmed with

Divine  Intervention.

The  road is rising.

What Is A Home? Introspection.

         What   Is  A  Home?  Introspection.

Though there is not much difference between the terms  Home  and   House,

There is perceptible definition and demarcation line between these two, I humbly opine.

The question always rises in many a people’s minds and raises too many queries .

 It  has too  many links  and reservations too. Yet, I personally feel to be at home

Is to be more comfortable,   not merely cosy  with warmth  but a    personal longing 

 With a   Sense of  belonging too.   I humbly feel  that a  home  is  a place where

You  are not housed simply with a  mechanical take. A home is a place where you

Have your own likes and dislikes, remember and adorn that  every corner  and  shelf

Of  your choice  and veneration, more of  an abode  of worshipfully pertaining  aura

Permeating you, yourself, around you and the persons you interact with. Every plank and

Panel, nook  and corner, shelf  and seat  move with a  serenity   and  sanctity; for in your

Home of your stay  and live and life, there is an affinity  and security; exceptions are

Always there. This line of argument is only with respect to the demarcation between the two.

 For instance when we say  that Soldiers are  housed  or accommodated it is with a  specific purpose. 

In our day to day life, it is only with  a  common purpose. In our homes we move with freedom  and

Warmth, whereas  ‘house’ forays with restrictions of movement   possibly. Most of us live in our homes,

Where there is care  and consciousness, give  and take .   Home is home.

If Hate Killed Men

If   Hate Killed  Men

Why the past tense,

In   the present  too.

Hate  pours   superfluous,

No reason or  rhyme,

Except   total  annihilation

Is  the only crude ending.

 Hatred  is  the  cascading  sheet.

Pray   for a Time, when

Hate is erased in the  pages

Of  Dictionary  and Books;

But   man   advocates and

Proves, it is impossibility.

Giggles ,says,  live   and die

With  that impossibility.

Hatred   is the cascading sheet.

At  the dining  table,

They preach    Harmony

And selfless sacrifice,

But    sudden eruption

Like a volley of armaments;

Defeat   and ego cankering their pride.

 Hatred is  the cascading  sheet.

I watch him water the plant,

 Pluck   radiant flowers  and

Offer  in the altar  with  lips

Chanting mantras, rosary

Beads adorning his hands,

Sudden  irreconcilable

Outburst of  mood,  know not why?

Hatred  is  the cascading  sheet.

Some  believe vehement.

East is east, west is west,

The twain  shall  never meet,

East  and west  will

Certainly meet, if your

 Heart is at rest and in peace.

Hatred is the  cascading sheet.

Journeying is Hard.

    Journeying   Is   Hard

I look  up  at  the  cool, soft Moon,

From this  hardened  Earth,

Wonder if the River of Life is gliding

With   souls of our ancestors,

Dead   and gone!

What  is  it? Where are they?

Scorching  summer’s heat is bearable,

Tolerable, it seems  to be.  

but the journeying  is hard.

From  sunrise till  dusk, each  day,

Journeying is  hard.

The  carriage  plods  on its

 corrugated  Wheels  rusted .

“Ganga  was  Sunken”

“Ganga  is  sunken”.

 Parched  land is not parched,

 real  aridity stems in

Man’s heart. Journeying

Is  very  very  hard.

Shift

               Shift

A  Shift in  mind, like  the speeding

Quill  of  etherealized  Bird  on  the 

Azure Blue, dreaming   of its  unfettered

Freedom ,wishing  the same  for  all  below.

It  has  no  time  to  wander below

 The pandering  pulp of dragon group.

It soars  higher  and  delighted, enjoys

A shift, the  need of  the hour.

 Does   contracted   mankind   think 

In  the same line? I know not.

Rather  breaks  the limbs and

Pamper  the  ego  corroded  for  long.

 A  shift is the travelogue

 of  perpetuated  Memory  and Meaning.

 A   desired  departure to  Moorings

and  venues of your tastes   and likes.

Every now  and  then the Etherealized

Bird, looks below, the ebb and flow

Of  waves, unfathomable gyrations ,

Of  whales   and  fish dive  up  and  down.

Wonders, for  them  living  in  water life

Is  Flow, But  for  unthinking, unaccepting

Man, Life is a  deflated Balloon. Prideful,

Flapping  it  sings, Shift  is my  Gift.