Month: December 2016

Tit for tat,
a stealthy manipulation, in fact.
an act of vengeance.

Bali, the coveted island,
with beautiful beaches
and long mountainous ranges
punctuated by volcanoes
and clear lakes, presents
an awesome landscape – ever fresh.

The no colouring scheme
the larvae in black
along with the bricks in red
extends a naturalism to the island.

The frescoes in stone
speak volumes.
The intricacies in woodwork
tell stories unknown.
The stone sculptures of the deities
lying on the roads in sun and rain
talk of Hinduism in depth.
The artifice and craftsmanship
of the artisans are beyond belief

Contentment is their way of life.
Rush not for money
Lead a carefree life in animation
with Nature be their motto.

Tourism has broken the quietude.
The island has succumbed to the
Western greed.
The beautiful beaches are in a disarray.
The sports like the surfing, the luncheons
and dinners in their coasts dispel the peace.
The innocence of the Balinese is manipulated.
Money is the spoiler.
Tradition is dying. Bohemianism is emerging.
The eastern and western intersection unknowingly
has demolished the culture.

I can see no lovely beaches.
I can espy no burning volcanoes.
I can experience solitude in the mountains.
I can feel no divinity in the temples.
It is all noise and din. It is slanderous.
A game is being played without caution-
being a crafty indulgence to disrupt charm and peace.

Languishing in her bed
Rena yawns aloud
as if had done too much work
whilst lying down.

Not the strain physically
does matter a lot
it is the mental torment
she undergoes takes the toll.

She stretches herself
throws her hands in exasperation
pulls her legs together
stares at the ceiling.

Everything is still
not a move, nor a sound,
an eerie of silence follows.
She lies without a stir.

What could be?
we wonder. Her little one
walks up to her,
kisses her forehead.

A few minutes after
a loud cry emanates
she shudders violently
shivers and sobs.

The child embraces her
clings to her. Tells her,
mama, “no cry”,
wipes her moist eyes.

Naming storms and cyclones
calling them Nada, Vardah
a great way to identify,
a distinction apparent
the force, the time
and the progress
all listed in detail.

What do the names do?
Do they add any quality or quantity?
None comes to my mind. Find them a bit queer.
The newest technique is interesting.
Those of yesteryears were recalled
by the place and the year.

Years roll on.
Times change.
Centuries pass.
So do the forms and trends.
Walk with a smile and with a nod.
Remember always,
acceptance is a conqueror.

Morning I rise
in a direction
all of you know.

Afternoon I travel
towards a direction
all of you know.

It is dusk,
I descend in a way slow
all of you know.

Who am I?
I quoth, with a twinkle
You feel
all of you know.

You quip,
it is the sun
I do not think the way.

It is I,
who moves in all directions
physically very much
mentally too fast
all of you
do not know.

Amma,they called her
a word synonymous
with bountiful love.

Addressed her as “Iron Lady”
ruthless and rugged she was
in her ways.

Attributions to J. Jayalalitha
a matinee idol turned politician.
A cherubic woman being both
-a lover and a killer.

She was imprisoned twice
not for any heroic deed
as one would presume.

Stayed behind the bars
for hoarding disproportionate assets.

Gold in tolas, silver in kilograms
jewelry in boxes, properties not one or two
but innumerable amassed during her tenure
as Chief Minister Of Tamilnadu.

Been at the helm
for five terms- a full fourteen years,

All being so, she was the “darling” of the people
who went crazy on seeing her,
who immolated themselves
when she was arrested.
incredible as could be.

She was a charmer. Pied piper like
she drew the crowd. Magical it seemed.
Magnificent it was.

Jayalalitha died a few days back.
She was an enigma in life and death.

The symbol of two leaves of her party AIADMK
lies dry on the ground. None to enliven it.

Jayalalitha died a few days back.
Been an enigma in life and death.

The hue and a cry
over a fry
causes me to sigh.

The noise and the din
keeps one under the bin
as it is akin to the rattle of a tin.

The wails and the trails
emanate due to the trials
strike like a gale.

The ebb and flow
of the ocean in a slow
warns of a terrible blow.

The unusual over the usual
does not hover over the casual
it is being an unforeseen ritual.

Tides ebb and flow
tales come with a glow.

The felicity of narration
goes beyond comprehension.

A striking feature in the milieu
is the interludes in a queue.

Within and without
they endear us all throughout.

The skill lies on the weave
nothing falls out of the sieve.

As the gripping tale unravels
the listener remains baffled.

It crosses rivers and oceans
mounts up the mountains and bastions.

The ears compete with the eyes
an enigmatic tussle based not on lies.

Just as the tides wash up the shore
the tales dispel the boredom in course..