In and around you

In and around you---


At the end of the day, when you sit,
On the pyal, your eyes closing slowly,
do not wonder, it is of No meditation;
letting pass your thoughts unscreened,

in a rehearsal of desperate despair,
brooding over the syndrome of sins,
and sinning creatures,
just as a pinch of salt in everything,

Just as the holocaust of tsunami,
and typhoon rocking in front of you,
You are a helpless, passive onlooker,
Can you stop those gathering clouds?

Those Rose buds in the garden still dance,
the other day in the lunch box,
when it is just opened, the droppings
of crow cawing, not knowing the hazard,

those duty conscious squirrels on the wall,
weaning away the half- bitten nuts,
the colorful butterflies saunter around,
my eyes open to view many more hidden vistas.

Me, the rains and the ground!

Me the Rains and the open ground


You are so sudden and shower like,
Springs of water from spa,
you do not appear to come from Heaven
or from the rain bearing clouds,
as we were used to read from books,


I see the parched land of stem and stalk,
felled and spread like wounded battalions,
bleeding red, like thick paints,
no longer their valor solid by them,
for they fall a prey to the soil’s anger and greed!


You come to sing songs of requiem for them,
You undo the heat of the unabated and thirsty,
Nearby play ground, children disperse with dolls,
hopefully to come back to play with sand houses,
I see they are harbor of pearls of wisdom.

we are too small

We are too small!

The green leaves which rustle
under which I sit and read,
Say they might touch the ground soon,

The wind blowing with a shimmer
not seen, yet seems to message
I don’t expect anything in return;

The growing anthill by the tree
and by the steady line speaks
not of dormant state,

The dried pond reminds me those days
When the washer men dipped
and dried their colorful clothes,

Yet we look up and smile,
I am too great and big!

An obstacle removed in my dream.

My drooping eyelids close,
as the gatekeeper closes the main door
unwillingly, for he is a good Samaritan too,
some more last arriving inmates,

Yet, Tomorrow came into my dream
removed the thistle of yesterday,
A static car from the garage came out,
weaning out the rust and dust,

Thank God, I removed the thistle, else
It would have pricked my soft foot,
Who knows it would have pricked many,

My dream itself a fiasco,
A flimsy gossamer, a diaphanous
film torn into erasable segments,

I woke up to see the sun shine,
Somebody was already bleeding
for the thistle has already pricked up.

Rape

Rape
Reena was a bubbling girl of Rose,
having a sip of Orange alone in her house,
enjoyed the movie too, each sip by a straw,
little did she realize her life would be straw,

Two gang men entered the bungalow
to enjoy her youth and beauty with a glow,
She lost her virginity, a victim of rape,
Did she have a hope?

Why God is eyeless on these many- eyed men?
When Lust makes inroads into their den?
Is there no law to drain away the lust
from these outlandish clout of dust?

I saw a bird calling,craving

I saw a bird calling, craving.

On a mild sunny morning, when the rays of the
Global Sun just as if from his majestic cove
Spiraling, aiming escalation of His radiance
And confidence around everywhere,
I saw a bird from its own nest built by
Its own labor and necessity, with the
Sundry sticks and handy picks and leaves,


The bird was calling, calling aloud,
with articulation, wide opening its
orange beak, I could see the symphony
in the open and close,
I could hear the universal Rhapsody
I saw the bird craving for oneness
Of the clan, sharing its crumpet,


The bird is calling, calling aloud
The bird is calling, calling aloud
For the symphony of serenity
Echoes in my mind too.

Midnight Moorings


It was past Two in the Night,
how lucky those stars are in
the blue, still and serene,
I go back to my past days when
I too would move along with the
Stares, high and unaccountable,

I stare through my balcony,
for some poetic fowl and chicken
to be fried upon in the pan of
Undisturbed and unpolluted
imagination, fertility shoots up
in a steady write-up.


When humanity is sleep,
Some snore, some pretend, some toil,
I am awake, my eyes wide open,
There is neither sex nor secrecy,
Only eyes wet with tears, for willful
Suppression of secrecy and tactful
manipulation of it,


decades don’t collapse,
the secrecy is laid threadbare,
on the tree some bird calling,
articulated language distinct,
calling, calling calling
like London calling,
like London calling.

Summer ramblings

Summer ramblings

It is summer receding, yet with usual power failure,
I sit by the door with the bamboo fan, country made,
fanning my face,
inherited from my grandfather
both the habit and the bamboo items,
my left hand turning the pages of
Andrew Motion, still am motionless, for the
Sweat is flowing like what,
running water on my forehead.


I hear the whistle of rice cooker,
After all we should have one eye in
the kitchen too,
as our cogitations burst,
to have outlet,
the sound of whistle on the lid,
gyrating.


I look up at the multi-storied building,
from balcony still in progress,
a high scaffolding and how those
Laborers suffer the heat and weight
of cement and concrete?
For them does life have concreteness?

Yet Life is for all of us,
Yet living is for all us.

Her panama reminds

Her panama reminds.

She adjusts her souwester with her hands,
the blister in her hands in comparison with
her soft silken hands that thrust some sweets
into her popping out bag.

The cotton panama flies in the wind,
She concludes the sunset of her life,
Dusk intrudes, no more brightness,
All pervading sun’s rays straight on her
Sunburnt face, she forgets one moment,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

Hopefully she can feel the sunrise,
Again she adjusts her souwester in her hands,
Her mouth watering, the smell of
Sweet tempts her,

Hope heals her swelling heart of sore,
Hope heals her swelling heart of sore.

The thirty minutes in the Lift---


The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Made me a dead plank, the power failure
ran down a tremor into me.

the suffocation, the sense of my being lonely,
the thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
sent a shock of despair and trauma.


the thirty years of living in this world
with atheism creeping in me,
agnosticism, all shattered into nothing.

I am one with the POWERLESS now,
I am one with the POWERFUL now,
The thirty minutes in the Lift which I spent,
Turn a powerless into a powerful now.

Hope

Hope

Hope sits on the top of a full branched tree,
Green leaved, in the grip of full-blown Spring,
as green as prosperity in a glass vial,
till yesterday, jollity struck
swinging along with the jubilant parrots,

sudden glimpse of a bleating cow,
Hope sees on the other side of the mountain,
environment goes berserk,
hope is slowly melting as ice cubes,
transparent white chunks thaw and liquefy,

do I have a future, where do I go?
Hope introspects sad and bemuse,
Ageless rocks of the mountain, ready to
disband the inhibited tears of hope, say,
look at us sturdy, even mighty waves
cannot shake us, hope! hope!hope!

who needs prayers

Who needs prayers?

Sitting on the broad branches, broad
as big as a drum, though felled and dead,
Still seemingly alive, for the wetness is green
with brownish color, for the soil struck roots
are strewn are here spread idle on the corner,

looking up at the sky at the injustice done,
I too look up at the sky, it has forsaken the land,
the gurgling waters of the pond murmur
we are in the throttles of death trap,
aridity is our slow and frequent visitor,

the horse effortlessly grazing upon the
withering grass, sand and pebbles popping out,
the nearby mango tree has two regular
visitors of parrots pouring in,
counting the life span of the tree, fruitless,


the graveyard is full, people mourn
looking for a burial ground,
the stench and stink rotting the wind,
stack the busy throb of life,
who does not need prayers?

Mother gets a message from abroad.


Mom, when I think of this head ache,
me in my cot within four walls,
this shiver runs through my veins
like an electric shock,
I experience a windy day, ice cold,
chill wind intrude unquestionable,

how often you would knock at my door
barred by my obstinacy, to give a hot
cup of coffee, arrange my assignments,
papers in order, remove those china cups
with left over tea with sediments,

these unwashed clothes in the corner
longing for a washing machine,
remind me those days of your
quick decision of their removal
and cleaning with murmured affection,

these empty plates in my shared kitchen
downstairs mock at my laziness,
for how often I had hurriedly left
food stuff on the plates still held
by your caring hands,

oh! Mom, I miss you for many many
things, the very thought you is
energizing, now I get up and go
close my window for the frost is poking,
Oh! Mom, it is a costly miss.

Indian Summer

Indian summer

It is very hot, here in India,
I sweat, perspire, squeeze my
handkerchief wet becomes
droplets of water, on my handbag,
sweating on my forehead, as if
to shed ego and pride,
giving advice to ego,
as I come out, you too wean ,

I forget this weakfish like,
Green colored, lurking in the
Corner of my bag the umbrella,
as I unfold it, it spreads like a
Cute little girl spreading her
frilled frock, dancing before me,
dancing on the smooth mosaic floor,

I picture my granddaughter who
Danced, dances, rounding, holding
her frock, this is not the age for her
to realize, that life is a mosaic of
seasons and serendipities,
I cool in the late spring showers
Of my London flat, the mild white
Snow, a companion to my bath tub,
Dove is creamy white, with its froth,
Bids adieu to trivia, trivia.

NOW is only time for her

‘Now’ is only time for her.



There is enough grain for porridge,
just for now, just for three,
her eyes reveal no prospects of tomorrow,
her thin wiry hands pumping the stove,
intermittent cough visiting her,
those squirrels jump over the shed,
there are convenient gaps, both for the
squirrel and rats to exchange interplay
in the thatched roof, sunbeams too pass
through as a matter of fact,
the sick nonagenarian,
sits up on the sinking cot, dirty pillow,
the third inmate, the white cat, fondly
licks the plate of porridge,
the grand old woman with a porridge
reaches the old man, looks up,
near the threshold, Now is hers,
she admits, nothing about tomorrow.

Garbage speaks

Garbage says---

From the sprawling mound of garbage,
for it is called so, papers soiled fly,
onion layers stinking, rotton tomatoes,
ooze as if bemoaning their last degraded stage,
looking at the bright Sun, flutter
“you are bright, shining,
we are decayed and decomposed,
man has crushed us and thrown away”,
cock and hen with their
cleft, star like feet, scramble upon,
as if searching something,
the chuckle mock their being
Uncared for, flies feed upon them,
some cleaner gives them protection
gathers to dump in a black cover,
promotion from the corner to van
to the dump yard,
Sun shines there too!

JUNGLE

Jungle

Life is a sapless tree, when man loses faith
in his spouse, poison stays back as a
sediment, dregs vile corroding him,
home becomes a jungle, man
shouts like a wild animal,
Obstreperous, thunder,
dregs of poisonous vasps
stinging all the time,
even trees shed tears in the forest ,
but man is hardened thick stemmed,
ignited by the lion in him,
roaring, roaring he dies from within,
in the unrefined jungle of his heart.

note books

Note books

I preserve the note books of my youngest kid,
Not a record of strenuous schooldays
twenty years back, a childlike and childish
curiosity and transformation of hardwork,

listings of alphabets ABCD, capitals and small,
cat ,mat and rat in rows and lines,
in cute hand carved in pencil
again innocence speaks, speaks,

Mathematical tables written and re written
Sums multiplied and subtracted,
Additions and omissions right and wrong,
Tiny hand and cute workings,

I browse my note books of recent days,
Where day today account is maintained,
Provisions bought, home loan paid,
Paper and milk due and phone bill doubled,

Note books are the same, what matters
Is that the inside difference it makes..

Responsibility

Responsibility

As is the responsibility
of the seasons to spring and flower,
to summer and glimmer the warmth,
to dry, shed and fly, helpless,
to shower and cool in winter,


As is the responsibility of the Gods
To create, care and protect,
In a cyclic process of creation,
Procreation, protection,
Destruction and devastation,



A cosmic process time-bound,
Predetermined and God ordained,
No need to talk about deluge
Tsunami and typhoons,
It is also the responsibility,

of the Gods and Goddesses,
A Cavalcade of continued responsibility.

Creation and killings

Creation and killings

Why should you scan and ban?
The soft fetus within the globe
of carefully designed pouch,
grows with life infused stage by stage
kicks to your pleasure and rotates,

After ten long months of struggle,
Hard labor, squalling, the baby comes
out, peeling its skin,
playing, seeing, around,
smiling, sitting down to fall, to grow,

your only rights are to grow it,
not to throw it, not to abandon it,
if umbilical cord is to give a
new lease or release of life,
new beginning, fresh showers,

why should go ,search another
cord or rope to hang round
to take away your life?
Your precious life, Life
Infused by the Creator,

Oh! Man it is not your job,
It is not your job, job.