Month: June 2020

I recollect  with nostalgia 

Enthused by success I spend 
the time in mirth,

A small gathering of like 
minded people,

celebrate over a cup of tea
the progress we have made 

This year the day holds 
an untold silence.

Commercial interactions
are struck down,

Revenue has depleted 
could say little or nothing .

Where is it going to lead?
I ask myself.

 Achachoo !the day draws to a close
before I can find an answer.

This day, in my solitude
I go back to my school,
saunter there for a while,
 hop on to the school bus,
 jump out when it stops.
 push the gates with might
 run into the courtyard
 where my mom is playing 
on the Veena, 

The house echoes 
the beats, melody flows unabated
 I refrain from calling  “atha”
careful not to disturb her, 
sneak into the dining area
 noiselessly eat the hot  samosas,
 start hiccuping after biting 
a green chilly.

The sound grows in volume 
” who is there?” asks mom distracted.
I go before her,  My mouth
fully stuffed, I keep mum 
my eyes turn teary, sensing her anger.
my legs tremble. Mom is about to burst,
I stand bewildered, She   breaks into
laughing,  I am able to smile.
My mouth is only half full. 

Masks  are for  bandits
who  with a knife
barge in the midnight.

My imagination stops there.
as I see masks on every face
the nose and mouth hidden

 Every face seems similar
difficult to identify. Is she 
  Shreya or Sneha?  

I think aloud as the masks 
lend  a strange cue. The face 
resembles  a mass  of flesh

similar to a  ball,  the eyes 
usurp the delineations.
nothing much can be made, 

noses long and short,
sharp and blunt, lips pink   
 and thin,  dark and thick

lie concealed behind 
the coloured mask of  multiple
 layered non woven fabrics, 

 or a strip of cloth or hand 
kerchief, the one of choice
extend a monotony,

 sans the distinctive features 
which go to make each 
individual  unique.

The latest trend seen is not 
because of stylish vogue, 
one enforced for safety

The bell goes.  Play time, shout 
 the third graders with glee,
try to  rush out  of the classroom.

Yolanda stops them, makes
 them  stand in line,
 one behind the other,

  “keep a decent distance between 
each other,  with fingers on the lips 
go one after another,”

she instructs. A military discipline, 
in their walk confers a charm. The next 
moment play ground bustles with activity,

She permits no physical touch,
not that she knew of Covid ,
she  fears  infighting,

Yolanda, a kind  teacher,
 just out from college, is scared 
of children hitting each other,

 she loves each one  so dear,
 allows them to  play, 
what they wish,

one is swinging high and low,  the other 
comes down on the slide,  two others
go up and down in a sea saw.

The young girl turned teacher 
sings  sweetly as she plays 
“ring a ring a roses” with 
‘the timidest of all.

Wash your hands,
 I yell at my maid,
 she sports a smile.

She is in the kitchen
 grinding the batter.
I call her from within
” do not  add salt.” 

I will do it”” amma,  I have 
sanitized my hands,”
“No, no, you have to wash 
with soap”, I shout .

“Sanitizing is only 60% safe,
 washing thoroughly gets rid 
off bacteria,’ Fed up with 
my constant screaming,

 she  lets me do the mixing
 allow it  to ferment overnight.
 she has to  serve idlis tomorrow.
Will she wash her hands? 
I start worrying. 

Months go by without events,
 sitting at home doing nothing.
 a forced confinement, nurture 
  a fear to open the door, experience 
 a  sensibility as if belonging to  nowhere 

It  seems to be so near 
yet far from  eradication. Pandemic  
  is mirage like, it eludes.
 rises,  falls, kills
 grave it  turns. 

My town insulated so long,
 catches up with the others,
 cases increase in tens, twenties.
 hundred and above it touches
 complete lockdown is enforced.

Disheartening, it is, 
 exasperation mounts,
 a deliberation  as Why so? 
and what for?  keeps gnawing.
 undergoing an untold oppression.

I recollect  with nostalgia 

Enthused by success I spend 
the time in mirth,

A small gathering of like 
minded people,

celebrate over a cup of tea
the progress we have made 

This year the day holds 
an untold silence.

Commercial interactions
are struck down,

Revenue has depleted 
could say little or nothing .

Where is it going to lead?
I ask myself.

 Achachoo !the day draws to a close
before I can find an answer.

A school mate calls me 
 after decades. pleasantly 
surprised. I greet her

She is the same  old 
even now, bubbling
 with enthusiasm,

Speechless I remain
 while she rambles  fast,
a monologue.

She shares her happiness
 and  grief with ease. has lost 
her first son recently

her second one 
lives abroad with his wife
a foreigner.

She pauses a few seconds
bemoans the misgivings.
resumes soon after.

Her stoicism ” life has to go” 
baffles me as I recall  how
timid  she was at school.

Experiences have made her
what she is,  age has mellowed her.
She is  a free lance counsellor 

transforms affliction 
 into  distinction. Life is a a balance 
of inputs and outputs, she says.

A celestial  phenomenon
one being regular creates 
interest,turns spectacular
 his time,

The ominous  virus,  
 barges with an untold  spite
 when last eclipse was in sight  
entailing afflictions and deaths.

The Kangana Soorya Graham,
appears as a bracelet of fire, 
a precursor to  consequences dire.
afflicting  both body and mind.

The course of rumours 
being faster than virus”  ascent 
interpret the ellipse recent
as one which will redeem,

the world from deadly attacks 
confirm this day as  the last, 
Corona will become one of past,
if so,  sure to  bring  magical cheer 

“Shobilu saptaswara  sundara”
sings the vocalist to the
 accompaniment 
of  percussionisit.

It is the  time 
for the accompanists 
 to take up, they
begin  modest 

One of them is Vichu,
 the Ghatam exponent.
 who is in the rear with 
unbuttoned shirt,

the Ghatam rests 
on his tummy,
 has tied his hair 
 high up in a tuft,

each one in the team 
takes their turn.give their best,
 Vichu does his part 
 with beautiful strokes.

Starts with a Chauka 
1 stroke per beat,
completes the cycle 
goes to the vilamba 

2 strokes, picks the three
strokes madhyma, races through 
the dhuridha and adhidhuritha,
8 and 16,

throws the Ghatam up 
catches in style, when it 
comes down performs  
with a fierce passion 

 shakes his head with vigour 
 his hair unwinds, falls 
over his shoulder, in no time 
covers his face,

Vicchu is in a trance,
 the sharp metallic sound,
holds the audience in ecstasy,
spell bound they turn

silence permeates, Vicchu 
 rests his head on the  Ghatam,
not a sign of exhaustion,

 one of  eloquence. An experience 
 where the listener and the performer
meet, merge and lose themselves

,