Monthly Archives: September 2016

Praise to The Lord In Songs.


 

Praise to the Lord in songs
be it in any religions or throng
enchant the listeners.

The goodness of God as sung by the apostles.
The melody of hymns and verses induce a close nestle.
Faith overcomes the doubting mind.

Scepticism folds.
Hope unfolds.
The devotees listen with closed eyes
their hearts slowly unfurl.

The miracles that Gods’ institute,
the cures they execute,
astound

Ailments almost vanish
Paucity turns into a bounty with a relish.
It is God who does them all.

The Vedas are scientific renditions.
The Bible and the Koran are expositions
of religion interlocked with science.

Science questions extensively.
Faith is intensive.
Seem to be contradictory
in real both are complimentary.

Reading and reciting the psalms
together in a chorus releases a calm
a peace, a transcendental elevation.

The Church bell rings with a peal
The Choir sings “Silent Night” with a profound feel.
Mosque echoes the namaaz
Allah-o Akbar flows in the air.
The Temple bell strikes. It vibrates OM.
The priests chant “Om sumukaaya namah
Om ekadantaaya namah.”
(“[i]Namaskaram[/i]the pleasant faced
[i]Namaskaram[/i] the one with a tusk.)
A little away I hear the Buddhist monks recite
Buddham saranam gachhami.
(I go to Buddha for refuge).

Echoes of the divine verses sanctify.
The five elements, air, water, wind, fire and land
harmonise, rejuvenate and blossom.

Who Is the Fairest Of All?


Mirror, mirror on the wall
“who is the fairest of all?”
asks Shreya, reminiscent of
the evil queen in Snow White.

Her mirror is a modern one.
It smiles condescendingly
tells Shreya in a soft tone
“Many have asked the same to me.
to everyone I say you are the fairest”.

The mirror pauses.
Shreya eagerly awaits.

The decorative mirror
hangs on the wall
adds charm and intrigue
to the space around
The wooden frescoes
extend a grandeur.

It looks imperious
so to its looks
its thoughts are lofty
and idealistic. Speaks
with authority.
Poetic is its way of address
usually.

The Mirror spells out its reply

“Each one of you has this call
whether you are tall
or look like a dumb doll
round and plump like a ball
no matter what you are in self
you should be proud of yourself
say to me and to those around you
I am the fairest of all.”

Shreya listens spellbound
Smothers the Mirror with a kiss.
an appreciation beyond all.

Kanchipuram Saree.


Deepavali will be in the next month
I have started  shopping.
Not that I buy a score or a dozen
I need only one.

A saree for me, a silk
handwoven Kanchipuram
with zari traditional in design
has been my choice for years.

Last week,
I visited Kancheepuram
explored many shops, societies.
I am quality conscious too.

The salespersons in every shop
showed me sarees
grand, moderate and simple
expensive and affordable.

I take pride in my choices.
I told them.
“The colours are too dark
checks  are close, design not chaste”

I set aside most.
I walked into the next shop
the owner greeted me with folded hands.
Bade, his people to show me
the new designs.

An array of sarees
were displayed with a smile.
None of them appealed to me.

I started my monologue,
“the colours are light
look dull and the motifs are bold.”
Shopped till the evening.

I walked out tired
the green I have in mind
is one that is
neither pale nor dark. I ponder.

The lines should be not threaded
but woven with zari
they should be vertical,
not horizontal. I conclude.

By chance,
I saw a leaf in a mango tree.
the exact colour I envisaged
jumped out of the car, plucked the leaf
rushed to the shop.

The Owner greeted me
this time not so cordial
I showed him the leaf
the exact colour, I want.
I shout.

He was amused.
to see me with a mango leaf.
Suppressing his laugh
told it is not possible
to bring the same in silk.

I demanded the shopkeeper to make one.
He politely refused . “You require
only one saree. It is not feasible.
The least we manufacture is three.”

He pouted his lips.
Would have made faces
at my back.

Another day of shopping
has to be undertaken
Hopefully, not this week.

All For Water.


The river Cauvery flows in silence.
Hears not the pandemonium
listens not to the turbulence
she flows without a murmur.

The riots and upheavals
the slogans and shouts
cause chaos unbelievable
peace takes leave.

Buses are stoned
Effigies of leaders burnt.
Shops are abandoned.
Life is paralysed.

The neighbours turn foes
Karnataka, the giver, is in flames
The angry mob sets fire to buses
with Tamilnadu registrations.

Cauvery flows without abating
and falls into the ocean in Poompuhar,
a historic hamlet in Tamilnadu state.

The courts from the highest to the lowest
intervene and pass referendums
which are followed in the least
leading to death and loss.

Unperturbed, the mighty river
flows happily with a tweet and a chirp
irrigating thousands of hectares
while the onslaught continues.

A House Turns Into A Home.


A house is a house
with bricks and mortar
becomes a home
with fun and frolic.The structure of stones
starts to breathe life
when the family moves in
it begins to echo the bustle.

The doors open out
and close as eyelids
a let out for the good
a shut out for the bad.

The windows go with the elements
they take in the breeze
and send out the heat
a friendly application they are.

The halls reverberate
with the chimes of happiness
they too record
the tears of sadness.

The private chambers needless to say
silently bear testimony
to the intimacy
and the squabbles.

The kitchen burns and heaves
pots of porridge and rice
get cooked all day
never it rests.

The family grows
as does the house
the one becomes big
the other turns ancient .

Memories rush and crowd
the human mind
the activities gorge in
flood the house.

The house as I feel
is an alternate to man
he lives and dies
while it lingers for years.

 

Bastion Of Chauvinists.


In the morning,

happenings in the kitchen.

The rice boils
the vegetables are steamed
The broth simmers
the clock chimes
eight times.

The school bus honks
the child, Shreya, is in the toilet.
Her mom,Sneha, knocks the door
cries aloud. “Shreya”.

Sneha runs to the bus
beseeches and pleads
the driver smiles, a kind man.
She pulls the little one out
pushes her into the bus.

The father, Ramu, reads unruffled
listens not to the wife’s shouts
nor to Shreya’s cries
his eyes are on “The Hindu”.( A newspaper)

A picture of the Indian household as such,
mind, not the centuries or generations
always chaos suppresses the women
peace crowns the men.

The man is glorified.
His wife is belittled
That is my India:
a bastion for chauvinists.