The Woods Are Lovely Dark and Deep

and miles to go before I sleep.

The extent once unfathomable
is measaureable and penetrable.

Leopards and lions are rare to find.
Fear has passed from the mind.

Tilling is in full force
as the soil aboinds in source.

They are like any land
prosaic and bland.

Do not sigh anymore
the mysticism is remniscent of yore.






Mid – November

It is mid November
hard to believe
with the sun as hot
the weather very warm
a different November
it is altogether.

My old watchman
wore a sweater
tied a muffler careful he was
to cover his ears,.
Coughed on and off.
I see him move with none
of these this year..

Recognise a changed scenario
both in nature and behaviour.
Monotony settles with a compulsion.
The warming comes
from within. Our mindless
ways and means
are the offenders.

I need not elaborate.
it being an unpoetic justice.



The Saree

A six yard cloth
is called a “rag”
by those in the West.

Not stylish, nor elegant
as it claims or as it aspires
a long piece, that be it, they profess.

Requires no defence,
in the real sense.It is lovely,
taht much one can say.

The sari as the Indians
call this “rag”, suits
you and me, short or tall.

An oldie looks graceful,
enhances the young,
endows one and all.

The thin seem elegant,
the obese turn presentable,
therein lies the charm.

The warp and the weft
seamlessl in their bind creates
a wonder unwarranted.

The looms ply
with a zeal. The shuttle
works with an echo.

Threads of zari and cotton
go through the wheel,
integrate with a passion.

The output is a marvel.
A cloth with lines and checks,
with designs and motifs.

The colours play a vibrance.
the pastel and the bright,
the fiery and the subdued.

More can I go with the praise,
the West would say, I cry hoarse,
as I am an Indian and a Hindu.

The “rag”, is independent
of caste, creed, or religion.
It is a an attire of the east.









The Good Old Days

My school days decades ago
pass through my mind
as a slideshow.

The girls in pleated skirts
the hair done in plaits,
adorned with jasmines,
tied close in a knit pattern,
walked to school
with a pile of books
and notebooks.

The strain of carrying them
never once reflectsin our face.
We enjoy schooling
as much as we love to be at home.
Learn the basics with no fear,
improvise and improve
on our own.
Nostalgic. Hard to forgetthe old days.



The Unassuming Vira

He looks defiant
with a short moustache.

His close cut hair
lends an army man’s

Speaks little. Brief
in replies
just yes or no.

Called Vira,
he lives in a village

Vira, the name denotes
bravrey, but at heart
he is a chicken.

He is an intellect,
well versed in history
an authority in archaeology.

His silence is misunderstood,
Engages in his schedule

The villagers tease him
dub him as a recluse.
Vira smiles. aknowing smile,

One fine morning,
his names flash in news.
The government confers
the highest honour.

The village celebrates.
Vira stays the same.
Shows tremendous poise.





I Go Berserk

I sleep in the afternoons.
A must for me. Else
I go berserk.

The one and a half hour sleep
confined to the hours after lunch
has advanced to pre lunch time,

I doze off somewhere around eleven a.m.
The book, I read lies spread.
My phone buzzes.
The notification bell for messages chimes.
I am asleep.

The maid whizzes around with the broom.
Sweeps with a noise, mops with a louder one.
I sleep.

The rice cooker whistles,
so does the grinder works
with a drawl. I langusih.

I wake up after the time.
Fresh and anew.

The routine, I have set for myself
knowingly or unintentionally
I myself do not know.





It is the sharing in applications
by men and women
provokes me.

Others do read and understand
much better. refrain
from such engagments.

The updates are recurrences.
force us not to open the apps.
It is killing.

Many do this for popularity.
Most of them are naive,
not savvy.

Applications and social sites
have turned a drab.







Khaja Puja

Bathed and shining
Khaja or elephant stands majestic
An adornment made of red crystals
dazzles on his ivory.
crimson tapestry is slung over.

The mahouth escorts him to the portals .
The priest recites slokas, feeds him
with plantains, coconut and sweets.
The elephant, Mohan, devours them
with delight. Yearns for more.
People take turns and offer him
fruits and sweets.

The greyish black animal glitters,
during the Aarathi ceremony.
People flock around him. Go ecstatic .
Mohan revels in the spotlight.
Indulged, he blesses the devotees.

Mohan represents Lord Ganesha
He  goes  back to his place. The mahout
with loads of gifts, returns pleased.

“Khaja” denotes valour,
“Ko” or the cow signifies wealth,
and “ashwath” or horse prescribes victory.

The three pujas done at a time
brings success and bliss.



Spirited It Is

The sun has come out
a brief spell, it would be.

The days of rain remain
a torrential one.
It floods and inundates.

Could never trace the sun,
it has withdrawn. Exhibits
a tinge of magnanimity.

A competition seen
among the humans,
passes on to nature.

The spirited rivalry as found
borders not on vengeance
but is fair and just.

The long pause of the rain
has made the soil dry. and left
the land dying.

The continuous pour
has to stop at a time, else
lthe damage would be threatening.

That is the difference, remarkable.
Facile to subdue man’s challenges.
Nature overpowers..

The natural forces are uncontrollable,
furious. A fraction of a second
is adequate to set ablaze.


Nine Years Ago

This day, I remember
the passing of my mother

I recall the pleasant memories
the ones of love and affection
she being so dear.

The unpleasant ones
the acts of resntment and dislike,
come up with a vigour.

It is hard to wipe away the thoughts
as the hurt was unexpected and
unforeseen in any annals.

I went through the ordeal
with a stoicism. I believe,
I have overcome.

Did I really? I ask myself.
Didn’t I? I question in person.
I did, I cry inconosolably.

I look at her picture.
She smiles. At whom?
I do not know.

Ma, your love and care
your neglect and disregard
have made me what I am.