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.

My Body,My Soul.

   My Body, My Soul.

My Body, this cascade of

 Emotions, desires,prayers,

Meditations  and sanctimonious

Cogitations   and wills  and

Storage of  wounds:

Is  an  asylum  for Soul,

Or  The  Soul  according 

To  the dictates of  its

Previous Birth, rests 

For  a while, a  sojourn.

Utterance of  Love  and Language,

 Speech  and  Serendipity,

Serenity  and   Soul’s  anguish,

are  all  admirable dwelling  in the

body,  Soul’s  sacred  parts  too.

Soul, this  unseen enigma ,                                  

Acts  upon  the   visible  Body,

Volatile    and vicarious.

Both of  them are intertwined,

Both  act  and  react.

Dividing Wall

            Dividing Wall.

It  is  not   the  Great  Wall  of  China.

A wall of  brick  and mortar   and  sands,

Two families   made  a  demarcation  line,

A boundary  line  for  their  moves and

Mixing desires   and maladies too.

Wall, silent  witness  for  the  happenings.

Crows  and  flies   and  crossing  cats

Don’t  make  any distinction  as we do.           

 Jubilant Festivities   and   painful farewells

 come and   go. Citations    that come

out of  calendar   and  visitations   that

occur   do   their  missions   as  ordained.

Buoyancy  and bitterness ,  brick  carries,

Stories   and    age long angst   are  there,

And  adamant  ruthless ,unprotected

Measures it  has  seen, what   for.

Perchance it cries  within, endlessly,

Who knows the fiasco  or  grand   outcome,

I talk, think  and  cry from within,

My only listener , the wall, is the  friend,

Living  in the  land of  grand sires  and

Storytelling ,cradle rocking  grandmas,

Vedas, Seers  and  visionary  sages,

What  did  we achieve?  Perhaps renting,

Relentless, ranting   and plundering.

      

     Now  comes  the  Baby with  the  Boon.

After  painful labour for the expectant  mother,

It is equally  a  labour  for  the  new  arrival,

For  it is  entirely  a  new world it is going  to see.

From cosy  to cruel, from  calm  to cantankerous,

A  new  entry. A table  or  television it beholds,

What does it matter? All the same. The   nurse

Holds  in a   spongy  cloth, the  chubby spongy

Baby,  blessed , Boon comes  to  you,

Transforming  all  your  worries.

A  smile, a cute  caw  or coo, the baby language

 Is    the predictive verdict of  your  future.

Its  carefully  folded  palm, tiny  and fragile

Forays more of a broader perspective

Of  this angst ridden world.   In  the  eventide

It  is  the  Moon, shines  and pours

With  the benign assurance of a   Seer.

It  is  the pot of  luck.

We are in Good Hands

    We  are  in Good  Hands

Looking  back, now  at  the  moment  too,

Of  uncertainty  and  loss

Domineering   us  with  a  grin  of

Holistic  approach.

Holding  our  hands together,

We  feel  we  are in  Good Hands.

Hands  that  ward   off  all  sins,

Dowse   all  cinders   of  animosity

We  are in Good  Hands.

Miraculously Love from Above

Has  appeared to  us,

Redeeming  the  lost  generation,

We  are  now  Gifted  for

We  are  in  Good  Hands.

Swan sings

        Swan  sings

Come !  My inevitable   end.

Ye! Shores, blow with  the 

White surfs, I cannot  battle,

For  my  days  are over,

I see   the   flora  and  fauna

Gyrating    for days  and  months,

Don’t desire   to compete  with them,

For they  are God ordained.

limpid   is   my  mind,

When  I am  done, fragile

Wings  reach  ashore,      

Pray, give me  clean  burial.                                    

The River Stood Still.

      The  River  Stood  still.

Between  the   hurried, vivid,

Voiced  notations  of 

Mutual  cries  of  Stop  and  Go,

Blossoms  of  ambitions  go .

Silkworms   remembered and preserved.

  They  Glow,  also   warp  and weave of  threads.

I did not  sleep, for peeping  through

My sill of the window,gives me energy;

Stars   and   sun always  shine

To assuage  our  grievances

The   azure  also  unfolding  its umbrella

 always  holds  The  key  of  cheers.

I recollect, when  I was  hardly  ten,

You  held  my hand   and  walked  together,

The  river  stood  still, 

Now  also  stands  still,  for

Things  are  changed.  I  hear  a  Voice

From  Nowhere, “ I am  ever  by  your  side”.

Struggle to Serendipity

                         Struggle to  Serendipity.  ( Free  Verse)

  Inter twined wedge  of  locks  on  Shiva’s

  Head  and  Sacred  ashes on  His Forehead.

  Assuage  my  tormented  Soul, for   all prevail

 From  ancient  Time Honoured  Tradition.

 Rule   our  cosmic  Universe. Water flows,

Sanctified  water  it is, call  it  Ganges.

Why? It originates   from there?

 you  call  Sacred,  purgatorial,

it  cleanses  all our  pitfalls, sins.

A drop, a pinch is  enough .

My cloud  is vanishing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

The Four Lettered Word 'Love'

    The  Four  Lettered  Word  ‘Love’

We   all cry/crave  for  Love,

The  word  has  myriad  moorings:

Conjugal,benign, human,humanitarian,

All   stem  from  a genuine  care  and affection.

The  whole  universe   believes

In  propagation/  obstreperous   mankind

 in Multiplication. Luminous  stars

 and galaxy  shine   as  if   pouring 

a  Benediction. Love  brings  both

pain   and  pleasure in its own

inimitable  way. Whether  it is

a  matter of  integration  or  disintegration,

Love  has  its  charm, sacrifice  and serendipity.

It  has  its  own  Space  and spirit.

This Space

        This   Space.

This   Space, this   phenomenal   grid,

Ageless  aeon, impartial  container

Sets  sail  and   time its  anchorage.

Love  and   lure  in  abundance,

Yet, man  pecks   at  the hard,

 Savourless    Fruit  of   hatred

To  his  vantage  and destruction.

Read   the   prima face   of  the 

Heart  within  its  chambers,

Can  you?  Luptub,  subtle  and  steady,

the   rhymed    beat goes on, but,

the  beating  of  emotions  lurking

beneath   don’t  come  to  the

surface  until  culled   and  wrought out.

You  and  I loll  into  this  unique space,

Seeing   how   many  different faces

Out vying  the  spatial  nudge.

The scars, skirmishes, scabs -all  these

Are there. But   the  deep  wound  cuts

Stay  and  distil  a  vehement  mark

On  you until   we merge  with  the  soil.

                   I want   to change  my life.

Galvanising Agent, my Will power, sturdy   as ever,

Propels me.  I come out to meet  up  with  people,

Without   crossing the boundary line.

This cursed Age, or Blessed, Age factor

Restrains  my move. Now  I can  break out  all

Strong boxes and wheeling   obstacles

Only  with   Seer’s   Grace. It is  He  who 

Serenades  the  time  honored  custom  of

Patience embedded  in  Value.  Observe

The shared  feelings of   Share  autos  and

Mini buses.Water,drought, stars   and celestial

Are always there. But people want listeners.

Before  we vanish,  so  much  to learn,know.

No Mourning,they are still alive-(Broad theme-War and Death).

)  No  mourning, they are still  alive. –(  Broad  theme- War  and death.)

Those  historic  skulls, bones,

Deadening, as they  appear,

Yet, evoke  a sense of delving into

That warring  past, alive in

Our  thinking  mode,

Blood and baton warn

Us of our  cursed  doom.

and  meaningless  living. 

They admonish those inhuman,

What  did  they  achieve?

Left us ,remnants  to beguile

Ourselves,  to  preach you,

Warn you, we  are not dead

We are  alive here. To perpetuate

Some sanity in you.

Drawing Waters( Broad Theme) --Human Values.

Drawing  waters--  ( Broad  theme--  Human values.)

We  have  been  drawing  waters,

From munificent wells  that  don’t  fail  us.

Drawing   and drawing till our

muscles   and  hands  decry  for  a while:

At  intermittent   breaks, only when

We   got  exhausted . It  is just to   

 nourish  our kitchen  garden,

Watering is  pleasant and productive.

Gain  for  the roots   and nourishing  plants.

I came for a  while  to  rest  on the mound,

How  they  have been  drawing, drawing

On  the  sources, those  hard-earned,

Coffers slowly  wail  a bitter  cry

Of  emptiness. Bundled  received  are

Toil  of sweat  and blood,

insatiate   those  that  draw  still

and steady   and seeping 

into  madness. Drawing  goes  on.

Take on Breezeway.

     Take  on Breezeway.

I  feel the cool, salutary  breeze

That  blows  from the trees  and  afar,

As  free  as Freedom  itself,

Breeze  piercing even  the  conch

Of   Devas   and  Seers.

Breeze  passes   and    pacifies

My  dull spirited  self,

Seamlessly  going  through

The  deadwood  of  my  body,

Serenades   Only  soul

Which   is  alive.

We live  to  execute  our

Carved out  experimentation

And  expectations  too.

Until  then no  dying.

Breeze blows  out .

A Take On All Day It Has Rained.

      A Take  on  All Day It Has Rained.           

Rain! Rain!  Splashes of  Rain

We  construe, as unbounded  Mercy

On Humans, on Earth. The energizing

Touches  on quay, construction  sites,

parched  fields, staving  farmers,

dry wells, hospitals   and   charities,

pray  with  Mantras worshiping 

God of  Rains, propitiating  all  the Times.

Oh!  Firmament, when you  too  become

Hard hearted, like  the stony man’s undulating

With  pride   and   greed, where  can  we

The  needy  go?  Pour  like   Cleopatra’s Love,

Let   the cups of seeping  earth  flow,

Overflow, with   your   gain   and  go.

Assuage   summer’s  heat  and 

Abate  our  sweat.  Rain   and  rains pour.