Name Him If You Can

Bone strapped he sits
stiff as a brick.

He is a bundle of thistles
pricks and bruises.

Akin to a noisy rivulet
he chokes and regurgitates

As an undestroyable weed
he thrives and prospers.

He is not one among the many,
most among the throng.

Only a few are different.









Orang Asli

Speeding through the Cameron Hills,
I encounter a family, clad sparse
talking a different dialect,
behaving strange.

It is eleven in the morning
the man, an Orang asli
sells fresh honey.
Jetto, greets with the coloured
warm toothy smile  He smells fish
The  natural aroma of honey out beats the pungency.

His wife, a wee neater, spreads
hand crafted baskets and boxes.
The  bamboo products  are weaves of craft.

I interview them, cross the code of conduct.
Get personal.  Demand the house number,
age and earnings. Question his skills.

Over indulgence.

Jetto shoots back.
with a guffaw,  house number?
qualification? His wife  throws
an all knowing grin.

His answer petrifies. “The jungle
is my home. I am daring, adventurous
These are my credentials.
Want anything more?”

Jetto grows large in stature.
An eclectic in spirit.

I stand degraded.


Silent Terror

The azure ocean
flows silent through the days
strange are its ways.

The next morning
it roars and rises high
Incredible Tsunami waves.



Spiritualism Through The Lens

The theory of spiritualism
is a mutation, diverges
from one to another.

The one finds the almighty
in a temple, church or mosque,
places of worship.

The other identifies God
in nooks and corners,
in land and ocean.

The regulations as such
confine and expand
according to the beliefs.

The fervour turns into a desire
the enthusiast becomes a fanatic.
of dimensions unheard.

Those who recognize the infinity
in what they do, hear and experience
remain unruffled and contained.

Spiritualism liberates
does not dictate terms
pronounces no precepts.

It is in the minds,
of the followers.

Staunch versus the moderate.






An Encomium To Meera

Call her clever,
Meera smiles sweet.

Dub her a fool
she laughs heartily.

This equanimity
is her strength.

That could be
her weakness.

Meera is modest
talks few words.

In the expressions
she is distinctive.

Brevity makes her powerful
and a winner I will say.

Her pithiness
is deemed as pride.

Her gait is graceful,
signifies an elegance.

She draws attention
by her eclectic presence.

Meera lives unassuming
in her parlour most of the time







Uphill I Go

It is a climb up the hill
I do with a heave and a sigh.

The steps steep and winding
seem to be endless.

Will I make it?
I look at my tired knees.

It carries me with difficulty.
I stumble and falter.

Many of my age jump in two’s
It is I who struggle.

I stop in few places.
Rest for a time.

I reach the summit.
An achievement, indeed!

Heart goes up and down
Puff, puff it resonates.

I perspire and breathe
through the mouth.

I look back,
The steps intimidate me.

The descent will be tedious.
Downhill is a problem.

Literally and metaphorically.




The Woods Are Lovely Dark and Deep

and miles to go before I sleep.

The extent once unfathomable
is measaureable and penetrable.

Leopards and lions are rare to find.
Fear has passed from the mind.

Tilling is in full force
as the soil abounds in source.

They are like any land
prosaic and bland.

Do not sigh anymore
the mysticism is remniscent of yore.






Mid – November

It is mid November
hard to believe
with the sun as hot
the weather very warm
a different November
it is altogether.

My old watchman
wore a sweater
tied a muffler careful he was
to cover his ears,.
Coughed on and off.
I see him move with none
of these this year..

Recognise a changed scenario
both in nature and behaviour.
Monotony settles with a compulsion.
The warming comes
from within. Our mindless
ways and means
are the offenders.

I need not elaborate.
it being an unpoetic justice.




The Saree

A six yard cloth
is called a “rag”
by those in the West.

Not stylish, nor elegant
as it claims or as it aspires
a long piece, that be it, they profess.

Requires no defence,
in the real sense.It is lovely,
taht much one can say.

The sari as the Indians
call this “rag”, suits
you and me, short or tall.

An oldie looks graceful,
enhances the young,
endows one and all.

The thin seem elegant,
the obese turn presentable,
therein lies the charm.

The warp and the weft
seamlessl in their bind creates
a wonder unwarranted.

The looms ply
with a zeal. The shuttle
works with an echo.

Threads of zari and cotton
go through the wheel,
integrate with a passion.

The output is a marvel.
A cloth with lines and checks,
with designs and motifs.

The colours play a vibrance.
the pastel and the bright,
the fiery and the subdued.

More can I go with the praise,
the West would say, I cry hoarse,
as I am an Indian and a Hindu.

The “rag”, is independent
of caste, creed, or religion.
It is a an attire of the east.










The Good Old Days

My school days decades ago
pass through my mind
as a slideshow.

The girls in pleated skirts
the hair done in plaits,
adorned with jasmines,
tied close in a knit pattern,
walked to school
with a pile of books
and notebooks.

The strain of carrying them
never once reflectsin our face.
We enjoy schooling
as much as we love to be at home.
Learn the basics with no fear,
improvise and improve
on our own.
Nostalgic. Hard to forgetthe old days.