Month: June 2019

I hear bleat,
laden with fear,
from a temple
not very far off.

It is not in chorus
a single sound
that rips the heart
as pity surrounds.

An experience of sorrow
perceiving the ritual
I stay where I am
with a heart pounding.

The goat bathed
walks to the altar
with a garland of rose
jumping with joy.

The priest of Kali temple
performs the puja, lights
the camphor, the poor animal
wriggles with fear and wets.

It bleats hoarse. None care
The slaughterer walks
with a shining sickle .
People become ecstatic.

The goat trembles
he axle comes down.
The garland hangs, part on
the body and the rest on the head.

The goat’s eyes flicker
and finally close.
The devotees hail Kali.
A sacrifice unholy.
Hail To Kali

A partial sign out
can be a surrender,
could be a blunder,
which one could be
rarely do we know.

I do this often,
get caught in between,
unable to find the way
entangled I stay
how long I do not know.

That be the status
I stay helpless
allegations confront
remain muted
why so? I do not know.

This has been the way of life.
left in solitude I deliberate
for a while, outgrow
these shortfalls in a time
Is it right? I wonder/
God only knows!

Clang go the temple bells,
set an alert to the devotees,
while the music flows
to the drumbeats
define the start is immediate
there come the palanquins,
the carriers lift forward,
the silver chariot appears
with a glitter, red, green and blue
bulbs coordinate with the oil lamps
the crowd grows ecstatic,
as the Lord takes the chaise
draped in gold. Eyes rest not
on the diamonds nor on the rubies
and emeralds but on the charm
of the deity and its omnipresence.

At the most two feet in height
elegant and slim, nose long and sharp,
lips thin and red,with a sparkle in the eyes
the Lord presides. Procession begins.
Moves inch by inch. It is exalting to
watch and exciting to participate.
Ragas “Kalyani, Ananda bhairavi and
kambothi” reverberate. A light drizzle
joins being nature’s indulgence.
In between the melody,
push and pull cause chaos,
one fall on another in the milieu,
do not subdue the passion. Coconuts
in hundreds and thousands are broken
find a central place, being both
an honour and a sacrifice.

The bulls pull the chariot.
Trot with dignity. Happy
to carry the Lord. Not once
they struggle. it is facile.
One can detect an imperiousness
in their posture. Red Persian shawls
cover their body. Horns glow
in pink and blue. The shapely
projected humps render a grandeur.
Bathed and polished the white bulls
match the glory. The man at the helm
professes a big black moustache
a red bhindi on his forehead
marks victory. The head gear,
a pink sash stitched with gold
sequins, flutters. To his
“hey, hey” the bullocks set foot.

The people stand lost.

my mother speaks to herself
as if in a reverie.

I go past her, careful in movements, 
drag a chair close to her, knowing
I can listen to an historical event.

Mom often goes back,
These moments throw a variety 
of experiences happy and sad.

The rich culture of India, a sponge
absorbed the British ways, has become 
a worthy nothing. 

“The whites”, her term for British 
came as traders, laid the bait 
and we, like fish, got trapped.

Education saw a transformation.
The Whites taught us servitude
and many of us succumbed to their vile.

The schools where teaching was in 
mother tongue,turned unpopular.
English became the language of learning. 

Ransack of wealth was done with ease
the Kohinoor diamond, and many more 
flew to Britain, she quips.

Thousands of men and women
were bundled, shipped, like cargo 
to destinations unknown.

Tears stream, choking, she continues. 
with anger and grief. I am unable to find 
which overlaps the other.

Leaving her at this juncture
I pace with anguish. Pause 
for a while. Turn to see mom.
She is lost.

I miss Id Mubarak, when Malaysia
resonates with laughter,
I rejoice, from afar
with you, as I did earlier.

The crescent moon
in the dark sky marks the
commencement of Ramadan,
the 40 day fast ends.
It is Hari Raya.

Celebrations bring
happiness and concern.
Hand shakes and greetings
mark the day.
Hari Raya Adlitifri

The family gathers
in the kampongs. a reunion,
relish the sumptuous buffet.
Love and care overwhelm.
Salamat Hari Raya

Sweets and savouries,
beef and fish along with
rice are served to the needy’
A liberal hand out.
Ramadan in its glory.

Fun and frolic
goes with the day,
compassion and mercy
makes the festival credible.
Salamat Datang.

I woke up to the sound of alarm.
Knotting my brows, I wonder.
How? I did not set time.

Gone are the days when
I jumped out of bed
to oversee the chores.

I am well past the days
of hurry and worry, accustomed
to relaxation, I rub my eyes.

The shrill sound resonates.
I go back to the old days hectic
when I roamed like an eccentric.

The cry of my new born,
the whimper of the middle one,
and the scramble of my eldest,

the noise in the kitchen
the hooting of the school bus
keep alive my madness,

It is all gone,as I
recline in my bed, listening
to the tweets of birds.

Destined to live in countries,
the mercury at heights,
I turn cranky often.

I live in two countries.
one right on the equator.
warm throughout the year.

The other, a little above,
in the tropics, with harsh
summer and pleasant winter.

I burn and fume,
evaporate and froth,
one of a disarray.

Never will I land
in a place different,
I know fully well.

These countries extract
the breath out of me,
exhaustion overwhelms.

Never a day I miss the Sun.
It is at its best all the time
Bright and brilliant,

I have heard
of snow and cold
long to see and feel.

That would never be,
I know, I have to remain
forever, till my end.

The work I do
with the whole heart
where I slog and score
causes no commemoration.

The responses go south,
strings being pulled
unmindful,down
goes the cheer.

Array of disappointment
percolates. fixes me
in a state of despair.
I get rattled.

Being placed almost
in similar status,
every time, I reconcile
with no other go.

The indifference drives
me to ends, the insinuations
largely hurt, I stick to my
principles ever strong
with a smile.