Month: June 2020

change often
 with the way 
 communication
sets off.

A casual talk
 with a tinge of humour 
pokes fun at none
 very generic 
gets distorted. 

Playing with a bet, 
being the intention
the   game changer
 say an in- law.  ignites  
the spark,

 the  harmless tete- tete
goes up in flames. 
rages fiercely
falls down unabashed 
as ashes.

The vicious  pursuit 
 is  intentional, torments
 the speaker detracts 
the listener, the way 
scandals are intricately 
woven.

Away it goes in the air 
the way it came severing  
relations, breaking hearts,
the in law stands feted 
for the undoing.

She is not a pet, the brown
 robust cat stays on her own
as if she is a coresident.

She scrambles on the walls,
 jumps over to the neighbours
 spends some time there and returns.

 Here in my garden, the squirrels play riot 
on my  trees, eating  half of the ripe ones 
 throwing the remain, making the garden messy.

Brownie turns carnivorous 
once or twice a week,  Seeing the squirrels 
 enjoying the time on the trees, she 

 barges on the vulnerable, runs holding 
the bait in between the teeth,  mindless 
of the squeaking and screaming.

Brownie rips  the skin apart,  grabs 
the flesh, dines sumptuously in her niche
designated to a sound slumber.

Next morn, I see streaks of blood 
pieces of skin. lie scattered, in the garden,  
Saddened,  I walk back  overtaken by Brownie,

Something amiss in the house,
 I do not know, better not to go close.

There prevails an hushed silence
the quietness is beyond reference.

Mother and son walk past,
 never do their eyes cast

a shade of recognition
show a feel of repulsion.

it is been there for a week
 both  careful not to leak 

the cause of the indifference.
 The withdrawal ushers a severance

as the mom experiences vexation,
 senses her love has become an illusion

the son gets on his way, his nose in the air
never once recalls his mother’s care.

Who is going to break the ice? 
as their ego has grown in size.

Not the mother knowing her well,
 Not the son, their life turns  hell.

The Koel ( Cuckoo) 
coos repetitively, 
 whom I wonder?

 goes on ” koo – el”‘
without taking a breath.
 could be to his mate!

Echoes of the sound
reverberate as he 
 cries in full throat.

Heralder of Spring, 
Koel   becomes active 
 hoots  in blithe

   It is a clarion call
early in the morning 
waking up  farmers

 who hurry to the  lands
 with  hatchets, sickles 
and scythes .

 “jogi kala sangha”  he bursts out  
  in his rustic, high pitched  baritone  
the bird  chirps  with equal mirth,  

 being a percussionist of repute.
Man and bird engage thusly
 in turns with passion.

The creaking swing 
in my garden
 once so lively
 has fallen silent.

Noisy and oscillating 
all through the evening.
the swing worked over time
when my kids were around.

 My heart swings with 
the thoughts present and past,
engaging in an introspection,
as i see her lying still.

Painted in deep green,
it falls in line with the lawn
 roses, hibiscus,  and jasmine 
dotted with crotons.

 Set under a canopy  of trees
the swing  goes on its own 
 recently,  gently with the breeze.
 violently with strong winds.

Holding  her mother’s fingers 
the little girl takes a stroll
 in the garden.

carry  two palmyra baskets,
 one for the holy leaves,
the other for the flowers,

a morning duty  mother 
and child perform. A diligence  
to honour their Puja.

 Mother halts  first near
 the Vilva tree (Bael tree) plucks 
the trifoliate  leaves or tripatra.

The child questions.
the three in one concept.
 mother sets out with explanations

the leaves represent 
three “gunas” or qualities,
“sattva , rajas and tamas”

or the three syllables 
that make up “AUM”
the primordial sound

which resonates Shiva’s
 essence. The child turns 
even more curious,

as the mother continues
 saying  they indicate
Mahadeva’s three eyes,

 The leaves could denote “Trishul”.
Shiva’s emblematic weapon, mother 
and child make their way back, 

having experienced  reverberance 
  and an early morning sun bath
not one of deliberation 

With ripe red tomatoes,
 not the hybrid variety 
 I  select the local  ( Indian )ones.  

 chop the tomatoes to the finest, 
 add a pinch of turmeric 
powder

Next, I turn to make a paste
of  spoonful of   pepper and cumin 
two pods of garlic three red chilly.

Placing a brass vessel on the stove
 saute  the tomatoes with
sesame oil and little asafoetida. 

The  tomatoes flutter,  the red 
and yellow combination in oil 
 is enticing.

They  become fluffy ,
 ready to take in the ground paste.
I carefully add them and stir.

 Allowing  them to simmer,I 
 pour tamarind water, 
then add salt.

Once the concoction brews
 I switch off the burner,
 sprinkle coriander leaves.

The delicious rasam 
is ready to be served. 
 An antidote to Corona! 
It is a kind of beverage,
 essential in times  of Corona.
 Acute respiratory congestion
 reliever!

I  open my refill jar.
one that contains
chilly powder.
 it lies  empty.

it is Samy ( my helper’s) duty
 I mumble.  Pounding
 and filling, he does
 periodically.

I go to the larder,
the three tight lipped jars 
stare at me, opening  
the chilly one find

a few tablespoons remain,
 on the lid find Samy’s name 
writ large by the pounding mill,
an identification.

Fuming  I step out, 
he having served me 
for long, I forget 
he is no more,

Samy, I call, he appears 
smiling,  exposing 
the coloured teeth,
scratching his head,

Oh! no! I cry 
 Samy can’t be here.
Wait, Did  I hear Samy calling
 amma?

I could see a rush
back to the towns
 and villages,

Not a mad one 
but out of cause,
one of fear.

Deserting the native towns
 settling in metropolitan
 referred as A grade cities

either
 for employment 
   an absolute 
necessity,

or
to participate in city life.
 for prestige  and power.

 find their way back
 to the quiet towns 
and villages.

Space,  pure air,
fresh milk . home grown 
vegetables raise the levels,

hospital standards
expose a deficit, so do
 the social gathering,

lest, the modest life 
in towns  render 
peace and contentment,

A right about turn ! 
Moderate spending 
Countless  blessings.

The politician of ours,
call him Chezhiyan.
harangues for hours
quoting liberally from
epics.

In between he sings 
dances trying to make  
the discourse appealing.
Cinematic in his ways,
 he turns a leader.

Chezhiyan clinches
 the post of  Governor
 all too soon. He himself 
did not expect such 
a rise.

Reigning the state for  a decade 
without a break, Chezhiyan
becomes powerful and mighty.
 Churns billions in the go, 
 stands tall amidst his peers.

His son is pulled into the stream.
 The young one  seems  plain 
does not possess the father’s tact.
Chezhiyan, the artist, will make 
the son fall in line,