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.







Set To Rupaka Tala

The South Westerlies 
become active, rains
pour steadily,  
every night 

 Cadential in their pour 
similar to the beats
  of the Rupaka tala.,
I presume,.

Thakita , Thakita 
 Thakita,  raps 
the rain as it falls
in rhythm.

Listening to them 
in awe, I start working 
on the beats not 
one  hits wrong. 

 Fits to the set period, 
so well crafted, 
the rain continues.

It is like a play
by a mirdangist
 a solo performance,
in earnest,

 I stayed awake till 
2 in the night,
 my bed pulled 
near to the window,

humming a song 
set to Rupaka tala.
I recline, rain gradually 
wanes. slumber  slowly


Commodity Watching

I have been watching
 the rise of gold price,
 silver prices as well.

A rise always as seen
 with no dips, keep me 

I have been following 
the markets for long,
 cautious I go about.

Intra day transactions 
make my heart race,
 one minute it is high

 the next second it dips,
eyes glued to the computer
 I buy and sell the whole day.

feverish I turn, decide to 
put trading away for a day,
That be not the case,

 the next day I am into it
 transformed into an addict,
if I miss a day, I pine 

being so tempting and rewarding.
the alibi cut short my socializing,
 robbed me of other interests,

to get away, I went off the grid
 stayed for a while, contemplating
on how to recover.

I came out off it partially,
still do with restricted time 
 and  confined  funds.


Orange Tree

stands  a dwarf
amidst the  huge.
mango and jackfruit trees.

Mango and jackfruit  spread 
 far and wide , present a canopy
towering over the garden.
Picturesque to espy.

The orange tree 
reaches to their middle
competes with them 
in yield.

 Its fruits, no bigger 
than gooseberries, taste 
 sweet and sour,  could be
 gulped  in one mouthful.

I collect hundreds of them,
 extract the juice, to make 
orange squash.. A delicious drink 
 I store for months.


The Evil Cast

Mom gets furious 
when she sees the 
six of us sitting 
on the steps.

 She leads to the study. 
The six of us march 
behind, scared 
of her outrage.

Adjusting her spectacles 
she looks at our eyes,
 think why does she get 

She thunders, 
Six together on the steps 
 will invite  evil eyes 
bring unsolicited effect,

From the  kitchen, she 
 picks three red chilly, 
 ten black pepper pods,
salt and a coconut. 

Cook Alagu, makes 
us sit  on the floor.
He goes around us thrice.
Sings aloud a song,

to ward off the  cast 
of the evil eyes. He hurries 
to the main gate without 
looking back,

 breaks the coconut.  Lights 
the camphor throws chilly
and pepper onto the fire.

Did you sense  a pungent 
smell? mom questions Alagu , 
 Yes, I sneezed thrice, amma.


My Handy Tool

With a  handy tool
in hand , I traverse
 boundaries, include
 countries, states, 

From home I govern
 instruct, transact,
 dictate, account,
write, build, direct
and detect.

 My fingers tap
  the buttons, in seconds 
 I reach Delhi, place orders.
next stop is Jodhpur where 
I buy stone artifacts,

Off I fly to my estate overseas
 supervise  harvesting,
monitor  transporting,
 schedule  manuring
pay wages.

Back home,  I teach 
my new cook, Oversee 
the tidying. Portfolios 
of an housewife weigh 
heavily on me.

All packed up in a 
 a five foot two inches 
frame,  the chores take 
 a toll. Exhausted 
I fall on my bed, my 
 mobile, the handy tool 
turns off. Power gone,

The frame and the mobile 
recuperate to start 
the next day anew.



Vaishali,  granny 
to me in a way
 enters her home
 at 6 in the evening.

She sits in the verandah
 watches people returning
 home. She calls  out each 
by their names.

Jana . she calls
 where are you going ?
The called one hurries
 does not  bother to respond.

Her behaviour annoys granny,
The next passer by  is
Raji,   smart and friendly,
greets granny. 

Toothless grin lightens up  
Vaishali’s demeanour,
Raji respects elders, Jana
is an impudent imbecile,

grumbles granny. The others 
take a round about path 
 for fear of being interrupted 
by Vaishali

The old lady sits for a while
seeing none in the lane.
 she moves to the interiors
where her grand children.

are at their desks, The kids 
chuckle as they see her enter.
 She  pats the little one. kisses  
her namesake grandchild 

 She refreshes herself 
in  her chambers. She unpacks 
 a big sweet box. homemade 
distributes to the kids.  Gives 

a large piece to the younger 
Vaishali,  a replica 
of the elder, as much curious 
and  as such delicate,



We have borewells at home.
 One, two and three,
 going to the depths.

 150 feet, 450 feet, 1000 feet. All 
have turned dry, forcing  us
to procure water.

Expenses above expenses,
we build a tank in the garden.
Store the water for ten days, 

 fill the water tank at the top 
every day. Electricity  bill 

The bought water is adequate 
 for our personal needs, insufficient  
 for the garden, which wears a deathlike pallor.

In between, I  water the plants 
and trees, shortening the period.
ten days  to five, They require  much more.

I  do  with pain and shame
 How conceited I am?
 I chide  myself. 

 Heartless, callous
 wicked, I stand, making 
  a wretch of myself.


Solar Energy Without Panels -Age Old Technique

The summer is at its peak
households turn busy.
The womenfolk list 
their buys.

It reads, Mangoes 100 .
 eggplants  10 kilo, 
broadbeans 10 kilos,
onion 10 kilo. sundaikai  1 kilo.

Kitchens become the hub of activity.
Cutting,  steaming, sauteing, filing the 
cooked in  palmyra  baskets, transfeering 
to the courtyard,

Olai pais” are laid in the area 
open to the sky, the steamed eggplants 
are spread in seamless order, 
 other vegetables follow  suite.

Mangoes are ripped off their skins
cut with precision, smeared 
with salt, kept overnight. Enter 
the company of others, next day

Finely chopped onions mixed 
with  ground“tur dal”,
red chilly, coriander leaves, cast as 
small balls occupy  the central stage.

What an aura of colour!
yellow, red, green,  delighted 
I watch them dry 
in the bright sunlight.


Nomad Like

it is between two homes.
the first and the second, 
  I live alternating to the demands,

The one in the country of origin 
 holds a fascination. It is where
I wish to stay long.

It does not happen.
as the other one demands
more focus.

 a place of business.
returns  have to sustain me 
I remain longer. 

Shifting base is no fun.
I make a mess of both 
forget,  search, abandon

I start at one 
and end up in another,
 calls being such,

 I am unable to program 
 Nomad like I move 
  with bags always packed.


Sharing Is Love

I spend most of the mornings 
and part of the evenings 
in my patio abutting the garden

reading  and staring
at the  blue sky then  gazing  
the lane, alternating  both,

In the nights, Brownie 
substitutes for  me, sleeps 
holding to the cushion

of the bamboo chairs,
 like a ball, snores
and snorts. The patio is live.

It is morning, I open
the doors, to find my patio
with imprints of muddy paws, 

Brownie hearing 
the sound of the latch
gathers herself

jumps  down runs 
helter skelter  without 
turning back.

 I preside over the morning 
session,  Brownie at dusk.
the way we share our space,