A few ramblings

Folding the teguments of groundnuts
in piece of paper, once very useful,
both now crushed as waste,
I throw them into the stream,

In a stream of conscious mood,
Sit on rocky stone, a stand by,
let them go, allowing your
Vagabond ideas limited freedom.

Nearby a tent, the playful urchins
enjoy burning up all old,
on the one side paper boat,
burning up, the other side,

Bonfire engulfs all old tattered clothes,
a vow is taken new roots in my pages,
it is difficult to erase old memories,
Promising, they usher into new vistas,

a facelift for the old,
the plastic is recycled into
a new silver wrapper,
the bonfire still glows ,engulfs,

painter busy for his livelihood,
sturdy brush coats the scribbled,
the painted wall, still is wall,
Yet New year booms with messages.

Seclusion and silence

Silence after the intrigue,
What can you do philosophy followed
by the pelican monsters of king Lear,
after the battening storm, there is silence,

when you look at the canopy, the galaxy,
your neck racking, countless stars,
still the planes pierce through
puffy clouds, silence after the

unanswered mystery of the universe,
how life is instilled into the embryo,
the unborn in the cozy womb,
‘child the father of the man’

Cuddled within four walls
absolute silence till it
comes out into this uncanny ,
drum beating silences the

Resilience into silence,
after the last breadth,
silence in the congealed blood,
closed eyes, silence accompanies

to the disrupting graveyard,
but the ashes and the bones
weep for the charred, wailing
coupled with silence.

Bath tub's wailing

You make a monopoly of living
in my oval spaced white shiny
construction, you rub the tub,
time and space beyond your
jurisdiction and limit,
surfing blocks my head,
your degraded shampooed
hair lines spread their
wings to spoil my glow,
they coil round and round
to move not further,
I know not how long this
Serfdom to endure.

Their survival

Staring at the prominent four
corners of the walls of my
un frequented upstairs room,
for it is a lumber area,
but the cobwebs lumber
Not, they have to meticulously
build their web of survival,
for me it is a rejection as waste,
yet how much of purblind
plan goes into weaving and weaving,
their white layers, flimsy abode,
one stroke of firm brush to
undo their artifact,
for some it is a total rejection,
while for the weaver,
it is a survival.

She thought in a different way

When merry bells of Christmas jingling,
trees glowing in bulbs and plants,
Pave way for rejuvenation,
Singing in Carols, keep her spirits,
high and glowing,
there is the other side of her
thinking, as always the other side
of the coin, how much of
Crucifixion, struggle on the
Cross, incarceration behind
this celebration, thought of
Cross made her cross.

Holiday

Holiday

You came from a village,
Sari tucking up,
Oil oozing out into
Your forehead,
Your tightly hung pigtail

with a ribbon,
bath by the well,
a relished custom,
now a shower
is ever once you

stepped into the city,
a lavender aroma
you imbibe in the
oval shaped bath tub,
for hours together,


I made a Holyday of my Holiday
assigning the task of cleaning
and wiping the floor, to you,
which you refused, for you are
a totally changed city girl.

forgetting your roots.
I sit before the idols
closing my eyes, while
the TV is on with full
volume before you,

for you the Holiday,
for me the Holyday.

God too, the pretender.

God at the threshold of
His unique mansion, sits,
reclines , for it has to be
Eternal watch,

Spreads with His
ever vigilant eyes,
don’t you ask me if He is
short sighted, or long sighted,

He is inarguably, Omniscient,
innumerable transaction in His
market place, buyers and loosers,
amidst incessant sinning,

giving a nod or go by,
God does not grin, but saliently
Smiles hoping against hope
that man would correct one day,

He can never be Myopic,
but only extending His long rope
of forgiveness, extending many chances,
we pull it fast and soon,

He watches, waits, sees, the
Struggling humanity, of its
Self inflicted pain of
Thrombosis , applies the

Balsam of remittance,
Man ,again revokes his
addiction of sin and mischief,
God pretends not to take notice of,

As we pretend, He too pretends,
how long this charade prevails,
we know not, too high He is,
how far, beyond our ken.

Time still ran out.

In my childish curiosity,
thinking I was at
Wonder-work, lockedup
my watch, a precious gift,
double covered in gabardine
in a beautifully painted,
floral decorated box of iron.

Times ran out, I grew up with
the maturing times,
the rusty box started peeling out,
the incarcerated clock
stopped, no tick tock,
but time runs on, on,
my wall clock caringly,

destroys the eerie silence
of the house,
Time runs on,on.

It means much to me,
hope an undeniable fact it to be,
living within a square,
life within four walls,you stare,
breathing and moving
bereft of business and potboiling,
an empty space, outside
of it,a large gambit.

Space less still?

In my single room apartment,
much hue and cry about space less
adjustment and making space saving
Cupboards, all over again,
I sit in my own corner, my own
Space, balsam to my aching heart
Comes from parrot green twittering,
repeating viola, pet cat’s silenced paw,
white puppy sauntering around,
Morpheus shies away,
Copious space in front of me.
New paints from empty cupboards
Varnished ask them , space less still?
marble floors look askance
at the empty walls bereft of resonance.

Monday

Monday
Monday comes after Sunday,
Sapping away all energy,
Monday is a thug of nuisance,
followed by charts of events
bugs, pains and domestic chores,
for some Monday is a rubble,
a fall , not a spring,
a parrot in a cat’s paw,
Monday makes us run, run
for no point of return,
Monday is bully, a monotony,
Not a fresh beginning but a
brutal start with a poignant
lore of past happening.

Trees.

It is the sapling that goes into a broad
branched, green leaved tree,
the tree, that is mercilessly felled,
both in life and death, the tree
serves hard humanity, hard timbre
from timber, a magna lesson
for the man, for the dearth in
living man, a deadwood,

it is under the tree the Buddha
imbibes revelation, enlightenment,
for the afflicted soul,
it is in the roof of a tree many
shelter less construct a haven,
it is beneath a tree, that many
siblings play and pick up cherry,
it is the once upon those tall trees

now are homes and floating boats,
it is the log of wood that douse man’s
dying embers , pounding him to soil.

it is the barren twigs that crave to be green.

Showers

Showers

When the surrounding is in
drought, she sees eclectic
exuberance in showers,
at eighteen, blossoming

romance, it is like holding
a rose fully blown with
fragrance, thrills her
hobnobbing moods.

In early thirties
limpid and progressive,
Luxury it is for her,
Showers like lavender

in her wardrobe, ever
radiant, glowing,
vibrant and renewing
perfumed and glorified,

in fifties and sixties
showers spell discomfit,
release unease,
jug displaces flowery showers.

I meet challenge in this challenging world

I too meet challenge in this
turbulent, challenging world,
I drink not wine in London,
Ice-creams do not tempt me
any longer for cream of
ever flowing creativity
flows by river Thames,
I only imbibe essential
Goodness of humanity
Seen around me in west,
East is terribly demanding,
Sin is snowballing,
People pledge and pawn
their conscience to devil,
West is soothing,
beckon me to world
enriched with hope
and cornucopia of success.

Thanksgiving, thanksgiving

At the end of the day,
when dawn and dusk
have been duty conscious,
performing their meticulous,
parts, without failing in their
steady paths,
a certain section
bent upon pushing you to the corner,
Improvising all impossible,
even these are duty conscious,
in their own way,
even this certain section chosen
by His design,
You tend to sit,
face heavy in hands,
absorbed all the tirades,
volley of venom aimed
at you, yet another mode,
this was all in blood,
sugar coated pills, your
inborn, open-minded unable
to bear this topsy-turvy ,
no longer questions why?
why? but to proceed to
conclude, this is so,
your heart overwhelmed
with thanks to the Almighty
for sustaining you, by being
with you, you draw the blind
curtain, an end to all blank,
only thanks , thanks thanks
to Him and ever and anon
thanks to Him.

True love sparkles from where?

True love sparkles from where?
It is not in the meeting of those craving eyes,
love sparkles, it is not the yearning passion for
flesh which eats alive flesh, love sparkls,
it is not in the apparel, scented ,serves as
an extravagant foppery ,love sparkles,
it is not in the comfort of the cushiones,
luxuries that love takes off,it is not in the
compay of constant kisses and hugs that sprkles,
it is in the craving for the longing soul, for the
oneness , it is in the unanimity, it is in the
unique feel where no insidious elements intrude,
that true love sparkles, shines, sustains for long.

There is rthythm evrywhere.

In the cosmography or the study of
His Creation, the unique, mystifying cyclic
Process of destruction and devastation,
There is a glowing rhythm.

When the brakes of wheels move forwards
and backwards, the commuters move
across the vestibules, in tune with the
wheeling mobility towards a destination,

when the colourful buds of jasmine and
rose blossom, aroma casting a divine spell
around you, cicadas sing in shrill sound,
covey of birds in moorings towards migration,

in the lullaby of a fondling mother,
in the proper intonation of English language,
when the vocal chords vibrate and in the
sound s of vowels , diphthongal glides,

in the chiming of Big Ben, the lights
glowing in the wheel of London eye,
in the chanting of Vedas by learned
scholars , in the expanding Dawn,

there is rhythm , there is marvellous rhythm,
there is rhythmic rhythm.

Colour of the colourless

God ,holding the big amplifier
Proclaims HIS message, loud
and emphatic, to reach the
deaf ears of the bawdy , arrogant,
blue is the vast firmament,
The deep blue is blue,
The unroll able bed, my creation,
which you tread upon ,
viewing with your prejudiced eyes,
Is vast and wide and invincible,
You solidify your clean conscience
Pure Dove like white , convert
into blackish hellfire ,by your
Decoloured thinking,
and red blood into depowered
cells by artificial immunisation,
Frequent and imbecile play
with syringes and drugs,
I gave you greenery,
But you made it into
Dry and wry by your
bedraggled methods of
Deforestation, molestation
of the flora and fauna,
my colourful creativity,
now a spasm of vacuum.
Colour and colourless
Is in your eyes and acts.

God in coco cola bottle

God in coco cola bottle.

Miles and miles away from India,
my country of birth, my home town,
the ancient soil where people heard
and saw divine voices and visions,
penance in Himalayas’,
myriad mythological gods
and godheads much to our
Stupefaction, scriptural dictums,
Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva,
Creator, protector, destroyer,
Three in one, all in one.
Trinity in one and only one Avatar.
Redeemer and Saviour of Humanity,

What convictions, what undeiviated beliefs,
held in traditions ,now converted into questions,
questions after questions , nimbi- pambi poking,
convictions all crumbled into pieces,
the hungered and hungry in their vile looks saw
the life in coco cola, whole life in wine and flesh,
what trinity, what affinity, only nitty, they opine,
I see a presentiment of diluted umbrage
Here in England, the sun straight into my eyes,
the beams straight into the lab and library
as straight as the thinking many,
weaving in dew drops, a symphony.

November is no longer sober...

November is no longer sober and sombre,
here in England with its wintry morn,
Straight sun beams, in egalitarian mood,
Pop up on the fields, the slanting grass,
Weans away my fear of shiver and cold
brambly roses, barn and brooks,
rabbits run races, cicadas bring peace,
the shed leaves , a loose garment for the
much plodded fields, and my paced steps,
November is no longer sober and sombre,
Merry bells of Christmas already in tunes,
November is no longer sober and sombre.