This    One  Moment

This  one moment  is so precious, so vital,  more tense, of  anxiety  and concern. Do you wonder

Which moment  and for whom? Yes, this is precisely  for  the students, whose results  are announced

Or  going  to be announced. After months/years of  diligence and perseverance and burning  the midnight oil

It is but natural, students wonder as  to  the declaration  of  their  sum of hard work  with  a  tinge of  more and

more of anxiety  and concern. I have seen students getting panicky, why even   I was like that when the

Results  were  announced. All  the more  for  the parents  this  is a   moment of Life and  Death.

 Their care, concern, Furthering   a  move for  the  future  is  one reason: but more than that, the susceptibility  

and  sensitivity  and reaction  for  the neighborhood,  for  the  society  and for  the environment  both   critical

and  acerbic  censure   and  some  with a  wounding  remark.

What  if failure  occurs in   academic  life? It is  not  the question  of  Death. My point of emphasis is that it is a

Matter of concern for  the failed candidates  that  they go to any extreme,we  see in media  and newspaper reports. Life  is  gone  for ever.     Candidate  can take   up   re  exam  and   get  back  the  score and  hon our, but

If  life is gone can we redeem it?  Is it  Not  the duty of parents   and responsible wards to take care of such 

situations  and  instil  more and more of  confidence   and  not  to  blow their( students’) hope  and  energy  of life. 

Finally  my humble  appeal  is  that  benefactors  and   munificent  organisations  with   humanitarian  concerns,

Preferably  government  aided  institutions  specially  designed  and  motivated for this  special purpose of 

Training  and counselling   should  be  set up ;significantly  with the motive of  boosting  confidence   and  instill

The importance    and immediacy of Life  and not the NEGATION. This is  the Moment of  Achievement.

  

War Experiance

Ashoka, the great   Mauryan  emperor   supposed to be   a  very war thirsty, changed  drastically  his  outlook

On life, after being  an eyewitness   at  the  gruesome  realities of   warfront   and mass killings, Asoka

Took an oath not to touch armaments   any more. The following is based on  one such experience. Also

A  gentle  take on  “Combat Gnosticism”

                                     War   experience

                    So  much  of blood, So much of  human warfare,

                    I am  immersed in blood  bath, the corpses

                   are  now  sacrificial  ire. I could   hear the 

                   wail of the  widow, the  son’s angry  pitch

                   against  the  crude  artillery , a mother

                  in front  of the dead ward, wishing God

                 could  have  changed the  ordeal, reversed

                  His  dictum. Many  patriotic   soldiers

                 Mangled   and  muted beyond  identification.

                It will  take  ages  to  revamp  the  scar

                and  scene. Is  my  Booty  real? Is my

                Victory  a  wholesome   Gain? All   a   mirage/

               Fie upon  my  diadem, my  state, my region.

               I take   a vow not  to indulge in   battle anymore,

              On to  pilgrimage   and  pray  the  word “ war”

              Be erased in the pages of History.     

                   

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.

Clay and Stone Stay Longer

   Clay  and Stone  Stay Longer

When  I  started  revamping my  loft

Containing Brass, and  Silver utensils,

Also  a  Clay pot,  memory  revitalizes

Past   and  ancestral lineage. That  specific

Pot  was used in   musical  orchestra  as

A  music  accompanying  artist’s instrument.

 The Chiseled  clay sang  tunes  and rhythms  

For  the Great  uncle  used to play  with

His  dexterous  hands, his  fingers  spoke

 unique  language . He  gifted it to me

to foster music  and melody. Until I find

a suitable player, I preserve it in my  loft.

  Now,  a  shift  to my grandma’s  mansion.

 How  often   I recollect   my  grandma’s

Home, my pride ancestral lineage, the

Stone  slab covering  the  main  entrance,

The  numbers  engraved still stupefy me,

What does it signify? You delve deep

Into  the past. The  inmates, the dwelling,

Their  mode of living. How oftener we

Have walked over it, erasing many a

Spilt  scar, tar and  tin, but  nothing  can  Erase 

Memory of them whom I know,

Their  habits  in the habituation .

They are a Batch

 They   Are  a    Batch

Fallen ,dry leaves loitering aimless

Gather  pals  on  ground.

There  are   dead  bones,

Plastic  disposables ,disposing

Our  hygienic and  calm.

 Like  nomads,desperate,

Go, curled  into  a  corner

Of their own  choice.

They  are Frisbee  like.

 In  dark,  they  are like

Threatening  heaps, ghastly

Ghost like. Yet  again, blown

By a  whiff of wind, roam  and romp,

Off   their stems, they are in doldrums.

Rattle within walls

      Rattle    within walls

In  the  garb  of  mechanical,

Duty Conscious act, also

 a mad, inhuman Drive,

those  in  power hang him

upside down  to  wring  out

truth, beat him up merciless.

Real  culprit as  a  feline

Is  loitering  elsewhere.

The  roof  is   the  silent witness

Helpless   as  the  victim.

In  the  day  time, when  sun

Beams shine, he is restored

To normal position; a Rattle

Strikes  his conscience,

His  being. Mirror  on 

The wall   cannot reflect

His rattle, only his face .

   

Mother's prayer and concern for her siblings

Mother’s   Prayer and  concern  for  her  siblings

 Fruits   and foliage sing  a  lullaby

 For  the twittering  buds of blossom,

 Mother Earth is for propagation

And  growth to foster  humanity’s

Needs  and nuggets of  survival .

Our forefathers  believed in

 Concept of ritual of marriage

A  time honoured Tradition

For Progeny is very vital.

Ye! Children,  your beauty, wealth

And  estate   and shares should be

Shared by your offspring

When winters cold bites us

Pushing us into  a corner,

Your care  we need, for the

Womb  to be blessed. Sooner

You all ring  the bell of

Matrimony for a pleasant

 Lineage of  patrimony.

My Companion

      MY COMPANION

The  saliva  dripping, rosy  tongued

Wagging  till now  briskly,

but  now  twirled around

as  if  on a   band of  coils sit

and  speculate  the  world

with   the spy’s  breath .

When  alive  life  is  in

Full  force  and throb

And   a  vanguard   to  police.

A watchdog  for  a house

And  a  fierce companion,

Faithful  life long friend.

In  real life stories,

Many a  dog   has died

To  protect  its master’s

Prestige  and precious life.

A t the same time

What is this coinage?

I oft wonder what it

Is  to  die  a dog’ s Death,

Uncared for, trampled  upon

A  bundle  of  bleeding  flesh.

Every night its bark is  a

Wary  call  or menace for

The commuters. My dog

Is  my   Console.

Skin's hairy pores

Skin’s hairy pores

From the soft  film like,

Hidden, secretive hairy

Pals  of  skin, pores

Gloat  over  the gloomy

Area. There  are the drops

Of  sweat. Sweat drops

Flow  sequential  to  the  

Labour. The possessor of 

Skins dispossess   and disposes

Those  drops .Sweat feels  uncanny

And unpolished   and unethical act

This is .Representative   sweat

Opines  ‘we all  belong to same  area’

Why  this  animadversion?

It  is  not  Love’s labour  but

Labour’s Love  is  emitted.

Skin  responds “ you  are not  static,

Moreover, we  abrogate your

Saltish  move. Sweat  mocks 

“if  we don’t  come out, you

Will go down by obese.

Skins

            Skins

All   the  skins    and genders

Under this  Sun, have one  common

Logo  of  touch   and   go.

Nothing  stays  ever ;

Endure  this logic  of   pathology

Skin plys   skin, touch  and  feel.

Affection, affectation 

Genial  warmth  and gentle

Aura  all  permeate.

No major  souls’ play there.

Soul stands apart  and

Watches  there.