Lali is haughty,
discerns no fun.
She is power drunk,
relentless in governance,
strikes with a vengeance.
She associates with many
for the sake of wealth
which she enjoys in stealth.
She submits to one such
who takes her under her control
pushes Lali out of her role.
Lali is at the mercy of her associate
depends on her for the fundamental
she becomes a puppet.
Scores of mangoes lie on the ground
some are half eaten, others in full.
I am obliged to the profit sharing.
It is 40: 60.
I am the landlord. I am entitled to less.
Strange it is.
Share of 60% goes to the rodents
while the remaining is my gardener’s.
I acknowledge without a remark.
Else, I would not receive even that.
The squirrels feed on the best
the desirable fruits are for my gardener
I am given the small sized mangoes
the least rated.
Offering is a blessing.
I am a philanthropist.
Unknown, unhonoured and unnoticed.
I live in India part of the year. My days are packed with obligations. Starting a week with a birthday, I am tied up the entire Tuesday attending a puja. It is a betrothal on Wednesday. Birthdays are anglicised. The cutting of the cake, lighting the candles, blowing them off and the usual Happy Birthday to you song sets the tone for the party. The puja is marked by a discourse on Ramayana, followed by an aarti and distribution of prasad.The engagement is traditional. Indian in its practice. The exchange of plates filled with fruits, flowers and coconuts, the elaborate lunch or tea with typical Indian menu add charm.
A marriage of a close relative is on Thursday. I rush through my morning chores and hurry to the wedding. Relatives complain that I am late. I squat there gawky witnessing the rituals half asleep. My friend pulls me out from my slumber with a sharp jolt. I follow her to the feasting chamber. The banana leaf is huge that I have to raise little to partake the curries placed on the other half of the leaf. The menu is damn extraneous. I nibble, close the leaf. I drink a cup of hot payasam. My tongue is burnt in the milieu.
The next day I sit at home. After an oil bath, I relax on my couch when the buzzer chimes. I am reluctant to rise. Meantime a couple enter. They greet me with a smile and address me as aunty as if they know me well. I strain my eyes and look close. I fail. I return their smile with an uneasiness. They talk to me with such ease as if I am a close relative of them. I nod and feign a recognition. They leave with the equal comfort asking me to come to their wedding anniversary. I bid them adieu.
The weekends should be mine. I tell my people at home not to bother me. With that ultimatum, I resign to my bed and lie. I doze off in no time. My staff follow my words to perfection. A few minutes after I locked my room, my mother had come home. She was sent away by my helpers. I heard later, she walked away in a fury, banged the door on her way. I called my mom to apologise. She was in no frame of mind to answer my call, slammed the receiver
Sunday is my day. I wake up early. break my fast at 7 in the morning. I indulge in reading and writing. There are no one to bother me. I dine and repose when I wish.. My hometown is dear to me in many ways but keeps me at toes throughout the week. I wish to return to my second home soon.
Pastures are greener on the other side.
It is a hot day
the fiercest this summer.
I hear no birds
nor the buzz of bees.
My plants look tired.
Trees bend towards the ground.
My grass is yellow. Dry like hay.
They seem to cry for water.
I see earthen pots filled with water
outside each household.
Few samaritans keep buttermilk
seasoned with spices.
Tender coconuts, watermelons,
flood the pavements.
They fetch an extraordinary revenue,
the hawkers thrive.
Festivals abound, a mechanism
that creates a distraction.
One indulges in the divinity
diffuses in the fervour.
The children lick the ice fruit,
The adults swish their tongues
with cotton candies while the
deities go round in silver chariots.
The heydays are on the anvil.
Mercury soars, water turns sparse.
drought stares hard. Land turns sterile
Epidemics and deaths lineup.
Summers are unpleasant. Horrific.
I experience aches, dehydration.
It is late April. Imagine not
what it would be in early May.
I go up the lofty Himalayas
a duress untold.
The expedition might be unsupportive
disregarded as unrequired at the point.
I climb as I need a solace
puffing and blowing.
While I reach the summit
a sense of gratification fills.
It is an illusion, I chuckle
I am reputed for my aching knees.
An unpleasantness is not being
angry, seethe with a vengeance
being best felt in scorn
where the eyes show disgust
being strained, not enjoyable.
The eyebrows twitch
while the eyes flutter
The wind blows
a fragrance spreads
The eyebrows settle
while the eyelids close