Monthly Archives: July 2017

The Part Of A Trance


With my spirit elsewhere,
prepare breakfast.
The idli pot works without water.
So do the broth.
The water evaporates.
The pot and pan burn
sit unmoved.

The children
hasten to the kitchen.
Pperceive the situation,
the pot and the pan blackened,
the food charred,
the burner glows red hot.
stay untouched.

One puts off the stove,
the other removes the vessels,
the youngest throws open the doorway.
They are bewildered,
perhapsfeel I am braindead.

My physique is perfect.
I  remain unmoved.

They call me, rock me vigorously,
carry me to the bed,  make me relax,

No effect. They surround me.
My eyes draw a blank.
I remain static.
Soon, I fall asleep. It is their turn
They hold on uneasily.

Travels Incognito


She pauses before the mirror
talks to the reflection.

Anyone,  away,  think
she is conversing with her friend.
So authentic is the conversation.

She does not interact with any other,
keeps her ideas to herself.
The image is her sole confidant.

She chuckles, weeps, cajoles,
pleads, commands, demands
with the other who enacts the same way.

Better is she, to have her apprehensions
to herself. She likes to travel incognito.

 

No More A Lawn


It is my lawn
that is my concern.
Once lush green
looks pale now.

The grass is scarce
in shafts and tufts.
The soil is obvious
dry and withered.

That of a past glory,
the lawn is like an empire
ruined by foes,
a skeleton of the grandeur.

The pathetic status
makes me lament.
I feel sore and sad.
hastily wipe my tears.

A seasonal effect people claim,
unable to reconcile. I break down.
The well laid sprawling grass
disturbs me in my sleep.

 

 

 

The Sun Kills


I curse the sun nowadays
Burnt, fried and scorched
I remain a bag of flesh.
The skin parched and broken
presents a fragility.
It might peel off any moment.
So bad is the sun.

The rays pierce through the flesh
the bones seem to snap
suck the water from the body
the extensions break me altogether
I cry for rain, for coolness
and for water.
The clouds gather and the sky turns dark.
So horrible is the sun.

Year after year the sun gains fortitude.
Man buys water to drink. A story unheard,
and is still incredible. Did we expect the situation?
The essential has turned a luxury.
Any substitute for water is unthinkable.
Who is to be blamed? Who will owe up?
Unable to fathom.
So heinous is the sun.

 

 

 

 

 

At Heathrow


My handloom cotton saree
starched and pressed
swings in the breeze.
I walk  to enter the queue
of business class passengers
at Heathrow.

An officer directs me to another line.
I fling my ticket. He declines.
Annoyed, I join issue.
The officer looks at me
with disdain.

His eyes give out his thoughts. Seem to say,
” Go, get lost, you and your cotton saree,
You appear naive and your dress portray
your status.”

I follow the line. Reconcile to the command.
Board the aircraft.
Occupy the seat in the business class.

 

 

 

 

 

Air India


Unusual of the Maharaja,
he hunches over.. His turban
topples. The long moustache
dyed black shimmers.

He is an image for Air India,
zooms high with a roar
and disappears in the skies
an allure for ages.

He loses his prospect.
The revenue faces a setback.
He is up in the market.
Lo! bidders are few.

Royalty is for sale.
He is afflicted.
Who can buy a Maharajah?
Not you and me.