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.