Month: January 2019

Festivals again.
Harvest of paddy
marks the season.

Rejoice with gratefulness
being the concept
stays vivacious.

The sun peeps
into the courtyards
as the ritual commences.

Elaborate drawings
Kolams, beautify the floors,
enhance the stoves and pots.

To the blowing of conch
the lady of the house
places the pot on the stove.

Beautiful! the fuming milk
on the shining red glow 
looks picturesque. 

The entire household
throng to see the ritual.
Divinity overwhelms.

Pongal the festival as known,
documents gratitude.
The celebrations
take place to honour God,

Saraswathi, of all,
not anyone else
but my dear mother
fascinates me.

She disciplines,
not with a cane
her eyes play the trick
we, her kids, turn quiet.

Early in the morning
the six of us sit around
she assigns different
tasks to each one.

Makes the eldest read,
 the middle ones learn
spellings. She teaches t
he younger ones  to write. 

All so easily done
while she supervises 
the  domestic helpers
One witnesses a military order.

We, the beneficiaries,  
should have learnt the 
lessons of life from her. 
Did we?

Her ideas, and skills
inspire. Immaculate in 
executions, Saraswthi 
is within me. 

Love you, atha! 

Have heard of an exodus
a whole village settles
in distant lands. Poverty
drove them from home.

Those who had gone
live like the natives,
talk the language, Stay
faithful to their own religion.

The names tell us
of the ethnicity, the places
of their origin. Hard
to discriminate otherwise.

The search for inner peace
urges them to get back .
Well, could it lead to a trend
unexpected?

It is a seek.
A hunt for the lost.
Could be the mind,
could be wealth
could be knowledge.

Ever restless and palpitated
I pose composure.
A subdued external
has never given out
what traverses.

The disturbance I experience
places me on a bush of thorns.
I have to plan a work out
disallowing a bruise, a hurt
unexplainable.

The negotiations I undertake
suck the blood out of me.
If I had given up, I might have
succeeded but surrender
is not my cup of tea.

Walking through the land
I bruise my hand and legs.
Thorns have grown fast.
They are bushy and tall.
Hard to negotiate I tread
with care.

It lies so for years
a century and half
the land remains untended.
With me for the past twenty years
I owe my apologies for having
neglected to improve.

A beautiful house stands there.
Picturesque with flowers
on the drive, fruit bearing trees
occupy the backyard. Neem and
coconut trees on either side
fascinate.

Ruggedness is no longer seen.
It is charm that enlivens.
The peacock family strides royal
while the squirrels have fun
playing around the garden.
Enlivening .

I walk past the assembly
none recognize me.

Had I been away for long?
Away in mind and spirit.
I deliberate.

Sit in a place
till the more unknown.
I chuckle.

Unused to banter
and incessant chatter,
remain remote.

Farther and further
I move from the world
with a warm smile .

I return unnoticed.
Well, that is the way
I want to live hereafter.

Days and nights
come and go.
Hours move fast
with engagements
pass slow when
not involved .

I see through
the years past.
Early days fly
with cheer and fun.
Adolescence sails
without a pause.

Duties weigh in the
adulthood at times
oppressing. Pain
and peace being
homogeneous make
the days crawl in old age.

Smile takes you
through the years
an adjustment here
an understanding there
lightens and lights
the days colourful.

Heaps of plastics
strewn across the ground
lie long. Filth and foul

The damage is done.
Very hard to retrieve
earth’s glory.

The old order enters.
Cloth bags, metal mugs
glass cups find the way in.

Earthern pots, banana leaves,
paper bags march past
with pride.

Soaps and shampoos,
tooth pastes perfumes,
makeups will not last.

Shikakai, besan flour
neem and charcoal,
sandal will be reinstated.

A renaissance should I call,
I am transported to my childhood.
Sense a gratification.

Pranams.

Vivid in memory
Muni pinches me
through the day,
while in Kindergarten.

She has sharp nails,
plunges them into the skin
till my arm turns red.
Excruciating.

My eyes glisten with tears.
Callous, shows
her incisive nails with pride.
Quieter I become.

I do not complain
nor warn her, out of fear.
Mysterious of her. Stops,
pinches no more,

Muni takes to medicine,
injects and dissects with precision
an extension of pinching.
I presume.

A leading surgeon in town-
Muni,- a celebrity. Practises
amidst fanfare and applause.
I admire her in silence.