Month: July 2017

I   am fascinated by a basket,
made of bamboo.
I am crazy.

It is a rectangular piece.
Involves no intricate arrangements.
Looks great.

The weaves are uniform,
dyed in vivid shades
olive and coral.

The handle is of bamboo
plain and strong.
The basket looks elegant.

The dimensions and the
environment-friendly
organic material encharms.

The basket is of significance
for its competence. Need to promote
indigenous hand crafts.

The bulbul sings
a kind of lullaby
induces sleep in the morn.

The half opened eyes,
close.The early morning
slumber extends contentment.

The bird continues
with full throated ease.
A melody hard to explain.

Veda directs us to be modest.
Urges to draw away from pleasures
Life is temporal. Renunciate desire.
Repose faith in God.
Do we observe?

Love thy neighbour as thyself.
the Testament teaches.
Do not tell lies. Forgive and forget.
Christ’s call reverberates.
Do we understand?

The Prophet is kind.
Pray five times a day.  Kill not anyone.
Comfort the needy.  Avoid harsh speeches.
The Koran emphasises austerity.
Do we exercise?

The Vedic chant is mechanical.
Biblical references are extraneous.
Mohamed’s  deal fails.
We go on our own.
Don’t we?

We hoard with covetousness.
Fight and play deceit.
Terrorism becomes a transaction.
Bloodshed sees a disaster.
Is it not?

The portals of the village temple
stay washed and clean
A billy goat walks in stride
with an aurora.

The black kid has no suspicion.
Enjoys the parade. Folks make merry.
A band plays. It sets up the mood.
Looks an entertainment.

The priest sprinkles turmeric water.
Scared, Billy bleats,
breaks and rushes away.

The party chase him,
while the priest urges him to return.
He attempts to escape. Defecates.

The axe falls on the neck.
The kid gives out a final ailing note.
while the eyes emit empathy.

Billy lays down his life.
It is a ritual based on superstition,
performed by Man to claim power and wealth.

I sense the web around me
close knit and impenetrable.
What is it? I wonder
Might be a stratagem to drag me into the fold.

I, for one, do not engage in calumny,
stay honest in my access. Insecurity kills  I have remained aloof,
turn apprehensive at this juncture.

My ears spurt up like the hare’s,
a tiny sound wakes me,
the eyes send  fear
are tired and weak.

The network could be a plot,
perhaps, an ambush to catch me
what could it be? I wonder
as I am insignificant.

Could this be an illusion?
If that be, it contributes to delight
Choose it should be so.
I yearn to be alone.

Around the tea shop
early in the morning
I see a group engaged.
who talk invariably
aloud in continuance
as if they are experts.

Politics is their forte
cry hoarse over the affairs
curse the leaders.
In no time they change subjects
Inflation is their pet topic
right from tomatoes to gold,
they analyse.

Spoken all over a cup of tea
that of a few ounces
hot and simmering.
The friends disperse.

They throw the paper cups
on the pavements, Cast aside
their research. Step out in style
stimulated by the Nilgiris tea.

I see a figure in the mirror
a girl of my age smiles
I return her affection
what more can you expect
from a three-year-old?

I stand before the mirror
The girl before me looks alike
I wink, she makes eyes at.
I enjoy the whims of the ten-year-old.

I spend time before the mirror.
Arrange my hair, enhance my eyes,
moisturise my lips. Go around in all lines
a part of the routine. Needless to saya quaint feel of sixteen.

I go to the mirror
Set the kumkum on my forehead.
That enough time  I have,
My baby cries. I rush.
A mom in her mid-twenties.

The mirror has grown distant.
I seldom go near.
The children claim attention.
Move everywhere yet nowhere
Middle age upbeats.

Long after, I stumble before the mirror.
A woman with silvery hair and a warmly smile
greets me. Who is that? I contemplate.
The truth is hard to face.
An old lady counting the days.

It is unusual.
I go in circles.
This day I am a bohemian
lose track of the events.

I take bath with my wrist watch
Half way through I notice.
The watch is waterproof
I reconcile.

The watch ticks. I hold it near my ear.
No worry, I say to myself.
I keep the thought of my watch
out of my mind. I finish my assignments.

I am off my mind, My tea lies cold.
I have forgotten to drink.
A black ant floats.

I run to my patio in search of a pen
Roam for a while and return.
The pen is on the writing table.
The place where it should be.

I look at myself. What is wrong with me?
I ponder.

“Meena, something is radically wrong
in the upper chamber” quips my professor.
The words heard decades ago,
echo with a force.

The head holds ideas.
The heart hosts expressions.

I have them with me for some time.
They stir and stew all the day.

I encounter an enthusiasm
a swift one like a vision.

The dreams originate in sequences
while the concepts shape up into an anthology.

The outcome is a beauty,
an epitome of all perceptions.

It is an ornate piece
the nuances gratify.

I wonder for a while
regard it with admiration.

It is mine, my very own
amazement overwhelms.

Am I eulogising my creation?
At occasions, I have to.

It is a rally, mammoth
of people of all persuasions,
leaders, legislators,
educationists, commoners
like me.

We watch the events
with steadfast attention
ears shoot up
eyes unfurl
in wonderment.

The eloquence is powerful
carries the congregation,
rhetoric overwhelms
void of the subject,

The spectators disperse.
The convention states
nothing singular, trimmed
by its lack of focus, it breaks up,
a shallow presentation.