Holidays are anyone’s love.

For me they are to a place,

a hill station, Coonoor

year after year.


Nothing can I say

to mom and dad

they being known

for strictness to the end.


The annual school year vacation,

two months of  April and May,

I spent in the quiet town

punctuated by walks.


Mom’s soups and salads

trigger the appetite as the

vegetables are from

the kitchen garden which she nurtures.


Enjoyable  in a way, I admit.

My cheeks turn pink, a welcome outcome.

The weather is salubrious

the environment appeals and appeases.


Monotony  does exist at times,

but the pleasantness excels.

The break inspires and the joy

I experience  knows no bounds.







Listening To Silence

Silence is noise,
sweet and pleasing.
one of awe,
one that inspires.

Silence is an exposition
of impressions, live
and bygones. Gold like

The trees and flowers
expressions of fecundity
and beauty, display

The buildings tall
and small deliver
the sighs and cries
with subtle reference.

Places of worship,
command a sanctity
telecast the aura
of divinity.

These turn prosaic
in their placements
when noise permeates

They imbibe a poetic glow
when quietness enfolds.
turning into a transparent
and translucent stillness.


Happy Mother’s Day

a spirited wish from one 
afar, greetings flow 
uninterruptedly, messages 
flash with quotes.

Returning  each with gratitude,
 I stay  overwhelmed with 
joy.  Honoured, by the near 
and dear, I feel elated.

As the day passes,  a friend calls.
She asks me did your sons’
express their love, I pout, a gesture
 to indicate they did not.

She  waxes eloquently of Corona, 
the second wave,  the disaster,
 lockdown.  I listen to her lecture
 My mind elsewhere,

Have I not been a good mother?
 Been strict in their school days.
making them work hard. Perhaps.
 they hold a grudge.

The mobile rings., my first one 
is on line, chats for an hour hangs up
Dismayed, I go back to my work, interrupted
by the second, who asks me  

about how things are progressing  
advises me to slow down. The youngest 
comes in between, chides me 
for exerting  beyond my capacity.

The three musketeers  leave without 
a slightest thought to wish me. 


Unenviable Anyway

Overlooking the faults
 as slips, errors as carelessness
 I go with a spirit indomitable 
 not to hurt others  at any cost.

I do not  lose temper 
with my staff nor do I scream
 at my children when they 
 stay stubborn.

That being my nature,
 if, at all. I turn furious
 I break down while  a sob 
 gives me out.

This could be the reason
 I find myself in a stature 
 where I am taken for granted
 experiencing disappointments.

The little of me,  
I have expressed, 
places me in an inevitable
posture most unenviable. 


No More Silent

It is 10.30 in the night,
the next house is busy,
I am wrong, it is no more
an house but an eatery

The clatter while making
[i]Kothu [/i][/i]Parotta
tears the silence. Spot
lights shine.

Five or six cooks
mix the flour, roll
into balls, spread them
and swing left to right.

Watching the art of making
such ones with awe,
anguish surges when I think
of the yesterdays ,

the place was a haven of peace
silent and holy. I could hear
the fall of a pin minutely.
I blame none but my destiny.


Nai Vitra Kasu

The day before
 men came in a truck
 unloaded the furniture.

First came the tables
without paint,  rickety 
chairs followed.

A rugged looking man
 jumps down, shouts 
Vanagada , vangada
A first shot in the arm,
the noise hitherto unknown
breaks the serenity.

Disheartened, I turn back,
  a few more years to go,
 I tell myself,  Soon will be 

 entrapped in an unbecoming  environ, 
 I talk to the environmentalists, the 
civic authorities

who promise to bring back 
  peace.  A saying in Tamil
strikes me,

” nai vitra kaasu kulaikuma?”
meaning the sale proceeds 
of a dog will not bark.


Deluge Of Reality

A shower like rain
enliven the dawn.
Cool and pleasant
the garden appears
fresh and lively.

The droplets on the flowers
glitter like diamond,
the leaves shine
as emerald, emanating
a soft silky reflection.

As if in a trance
I stand all the while
holding to the gate without
opening, with the keys.
The paper boy

throws the papers
with a force the papers
strike me on the cheeks,
I shudder, take a step backward,
with that to the mundane.

I start hearing the car horns,
the street vendors calls,
and in motors the milkman
with his pail. Deluge of reality
devastates the illusion, I mumble.


I Am Broken

The quietude , I enjoy 
 at home is in peril,

My home and I  synchronize,
 conjoin and live in peace.

At dawn, I hear strange noises,
It is unloading of goods.

I come down, run outdoors,
 a truck with tables and cooking utensils.

I learn that a restaurant is being set up.
 Walking  back in dismay I sit on the steps.

It is going to be hectic day and night,
preparations, serving, billing,

The peace, I enjoyed for such long
 will be lost.. Bless the  next house landlord!

Well, to him revenue is vital, 
no matter from where and how it comes.



A cousin of mine from Singapore
calls at six in the morning, I am
at the main door unlatching, She warns
the mutation of the virus behaves
with a vengeance, Stay home!

I appreciate her concern, but
at the same time the caution
sends an alarm, Unable to go
ahead with the chores, I stand mute.

The sachet containing milk
lies in the basket fastened
to the gate, The newspapers
thrown by the boy remains

The kitchen door is
closed, It is silence, a
frightening one, keeps
me ice cold, numbs my body
My mind draws blank.


That Is How It Goes!

The five mango trees in the garden
 bear hundreds of mangoes 
each one has a different taste.
 sweet, bitter sweet, bitter.

Alphonso, Grape,  Malgoba .
Neelam stand tall  with 
branches spread wide. April
and May see the peak.

 As the fruits are turning yellow
I plan to harvest them.  Krishna,
 my gardener, comes early to pluck 
them with a netted  fruit plucker.

He marches like a hero,
with a head gear dhoti tucked tight, 
climbs  balances on a broad 
branch.  One by one. I cry.

 He brings  them down carefully
 arranges  in a bamboo basket,
 places the neem leaves  over each layer
to facilitate ripening.

Krishna, complains, half of the produce
have been  bitten. Squirrels  and birds 
play a havoc,  Nodding, I  say to myself 
a quarter of them  will be in your bag,   
That is how it is!


Thendayuthapani Temple Teluk Intan

I am at home, sullen and somber  
my mind  rushes to my second  home,  
crosses, intersects, enacts, encounters 
being in the limelight, of the Chitra Pournami
festival, I am addressed as Koil Amma.

I missed last year,  miss  this year too,
unable to fly due to the pandemic.
Visualizing the events of 2019
when my husband was at the helm
 the elaborate rituals, enticing offerings,

the Kavadis and pal kudams.. the feast
devotees with tonsured heads,
the cries arohara  reached the sky.,
I see the pictures of this year. 
which do not reflect  the grandeur.

Ceremonies  turn modest
devotees  are only a handful.
Lord Muruga   stays in his abode
does not  ride round the town
in the silver chariot.

The second wave  in India   
turns catastrophic.  Caged, I am 
 confined to home,  My mind  takes wings, 
travels unmasked to the banks of River Bidor
 where the Thendayuthapani temple stands.