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.







Oh! The Rains

Rains pour
without a breather
flooding the garden
drenching the walls
soaking the pits
filling the potholes.

The part of my town
faces a standstill,
Can hear the thud thud
sound of the heavy rains
no thunder nor lightning
a steady fall with no pause.

Walking through the corridor
to see the fall of rains
I feel happy in a sense
the town has copious
reserve for the summer.
a feel of grief as many
are left without homes


Evolution Of Writing

Writing has evolved 
through many modes,
with fingers on the sand
 feather dipped in ink, 
stylus made of steel,
chalks, pencils  and pens 
came in succession.

It is typing later recent being 
on the computers, mobiles, 
none use pens except for signature,
Another one is the digital 
a turn back to the basics,
 where the fingers transcribe
 on the screen. 

Finding a coherence 
to the world being round
we start at a place end up 
at the same, so do the practices
commencing with  style
returning to the point
with no inhibitions.


Want To Know Who I Am?

Keeping away from view,
inside my shell
I peek and withdraw
most unassuming.

it is been a quiet life
not much of fanfare
a few incidents
here and there,

not anyway remarkable
I live closeted in a niche
with my books and music
for company.

It is been a delightful experience
getting not involved
in others affairs
feeling well with myself

having enough to take care
my well being, relationship,
revenue and sustenance
keep my hands full.

I might sound archaic
may appear distant,
could seem strange
but that is how I am.


Days And Months I Sing

Thirty days has September
 April. June and November
 I sing the lines with felicity 
the rhyme  I learnt in December
years back taught by the faculty
those of whom now rest in slumber.

One more  technique  holds sway
 tapping on the knuckles as if in a play
the months which fall on the high ridges
will  have thirty one  days.
 the rest which come in the bridges 
stay  satisfied with thirty in the fray.

Forgot February that lies condensed  to twenty eight 
granted  one day every fourth year to set it right.



The earthen oil diyas 
scrubbed  clean, dried 
in the sun.  find their way
 to the porch.

The brass ones washed
 with tamarind, watch out 
in the sunlight march imperiously 
to the entrance. 

The  diyas are filled to the neck
 with illupa nei . wetting the wicks 
in the oil,  I light the diyas at the 
stroke of 6 in the evening.

The brass ones  are on the steps
 while the earthen diyas
 go to the  walls, gates, 
porch and backyard.

An annual affair, the legend goes
Shiva created Muruga from 
the flames of his third eye
to eliminate a demon Tanakasura.

The deepam shines through the hours
 emit a modest light illustrating the dharma 
 modesty directs  one to prosperity,
 lifts the soul to eternal peace.


Every Year — A Cyclone

The days go by, 
rains brought by cyclones 
result in inundation.

Towns float
trees fall disrupting 
electricity and traffic.

People living in low areas 
are evacuated hoarded  
in make shift shelters,

Boats ply up and down
rescuing those stuck up,
 the administration works

day and night, volunteers 
do yeoman service, it
 happens every year,

 emanates a big hue
  a cry, huge fuss 
follows ,governance pays.

for its negligence,
allowing skyscrapers on 
lakes and ponds,

 making the water clog, 
 drains overflow, 
causing a disaster,

those in the helm, ministers,
officials, mayors, come 
with assistance braving downpour

all for votes, a manipulation 
to win another election
and fill their coffers.


Remote Control

It is remote control that I do.
sitting hundred kilometers away
 I am building a house.

It is through seeing pictures 
as if in a slideshow, portions
 blink grim in the screen,

 I receive so many pictures 
in the course of the day sent 
by my supervisor.

I will be wrong if I blame him
as he  has no knowledge of construction
 nor he is an expert in photography.

The pixels  in his mobile camera
is minimum as such the sharpness 
is not remarkable.

He captures twelve in a row 
of the same object, caught in different 
angles. I make him do again and again.

I examine them, my critical eye 
at its best, mark the areas which 
are to be redone. Back they reach him.

It is tedious at times, as I am staying
at home to be safe, to make the workers 
understand  the rectification. 

I am taxing the supervisor and the workforce
to the maximum. Fear they would one day 
run off from my clutches.

Finishing lines need the finest touches
I am missing out on them, most 
unfortunate  times.  



Throwing things off 
 has never been my forte
I keep them telling myself
 they will be use some day,
 So saying I have a truck load
of unwanted, unused articles
carefully kept in a room,
 called a treasure house
 by my sons.

Once in a way, I open
 get them out, dust them
 place them under the sun 
 for half a day. My helpers
 have been trained to do a perfect 
  job, Once done, the  things go back
 to their ordained places with a fresh look
in a retinue,

This has been going on for years
without a break, I, at times , feel
they have to be distributed, but
undergo a change of mind
decide to preserve them.
It is  finicky, I very well know.
 but, so to say,  I cannot outgrow 
 the significance they cast on me.
with a compulsion.


Five Times Five

Twenty five is wonderful ,
 your youth is at peak.

Right time to start
being not too young nor too old,

With  the fortitude 
 and charm in hand.

 embarking on a career 
not great as expected

a struggle could be there
inadequacy might result 

in a placement  mediocre 
downhearted  one might feel.

consolidating will into  strength
 working towards a target, finding    

thereafter  that life moves 
like a river in flow,

ascending the ladder 
in fictitious progress

lies the five times five  equation 
 promising a great world of experience.


My Brother And I

With red jeans and pink shirt.
 a go go glasses .a pony tail 
dangling  I walk into the classroom 
of my elder brother with my mother.

He is not  a hardworking chap,
 lazy and takes life easy, his reports 
 speak of his achievements, mom 
is worried .

His class mates call out to me
while my brother shoves his face 
into his hands as if feeling shy 
to look at me,  

Mom departs in no good mood,
scowls at my brother, who hides
his face, then as mom hurries 
 pouts his lips,  makes faces at me

Back home. I ask him the reason
 for his behaviour,  He growls,
“your dress was a misfit, clownish
 you looked”. I break down, run to  mother.

Mom takes me in her arms,
 shouts at my brother, making him 
even more uncomfortable, 
as mother turns, he looks daggers.