Month: December 2020

Philanthropic and liberal in outlook
 frugal and calculative in style,
 god fearing and sea faring  
 could turn out to be 
the characteristics  of this small
merchant community living 
 in the southern  part 
of India.

Occupying the driest part of the land
 where there is sparse vegetation
voluntarily chosen by these merchants 
 as they had been ravaged time and again 
 by Tsunamis when they inhabited the 
coastal regions.  The move to the barren 
soil has enriched them. A migration 
with paradoxical connotation.

Such is their status till  now
 building palatial houses,
investing in commodities 
 establishing schools, colleges,
 universities, hospitals, renovating 
temples , all done individually 
 and collectively by these merchants
 who number  one hundred thousand in all. 
 Identified as Nagarathars, the royals 
among the Indian merchant community.

 I am not pious in the sense,
 am not a stickler to norms, 
I honour God, not like some
 I have seen  who indulge  in prayers
once they wake up. elaborate 
in the evening, make it lengthier 
 in the night,

To me worship is being true.
 I make my own prayers,
 not recite from anybody’s
however much those 
carry meaning, Communion 
with God is  personal
and I change my anthems 
to the times.

Most consider me an heretic.
who  does not abide by the rituals.
I keep  going as I wish.
 do  not openly contradict’
nor impose on others my views.
To be such like seems hard 
in the community to which I belong
and in the region where I live.

The river is flowing to the full,
a sight to  wonder,. The townspeople 
rush,They are all eyes 
Pious as they are, they prostrate
offer flowers, and take arathi.

Priests from shrines gather 
conduct homams on the banks .
Newspapers flash pictures
with write ups elaborating 
the rituals. The river flows 
untouched by the fanfare.

Little do  they know of their duty
one of the foremost to conserve 
the resources, water being 
the essential. They flout, abuse,
 finally lose the bounties. To redeem 
they pray, beseech and plead.
Melodramatic, I feel.

That which is alive  a minute  ago
falls dead  in a second.
The sun shines with a brilliance
all through the early hours,,
disappears  without a trace.
There being no sign of rains
in the afternoon, the sky turns dark
bringing a torrential downpour.
Electricity gets snapped 
darkness plunges, activities stop
perceive a deadliness. Too hard! 
really too much!

Out on the meadow 
the sheep graze
A burst of colour
green and white
throw an exuberance,

Sheep engage in 
 munching grass
 producing  a murmur 
the grass jostle in the air 
in silent tune.

Devouring the scenario 
 my heart expands 
as I inhale fresh air, 
The wind sings la la la . 
Listening  to the notes
I stay in trance.

Three astrologers 
one in saffron robes,
 the other  pious 
 with ash (vibuthi)
smeared liberally 
while the third one 
 with a long beard, 
forecast the year  ahead 
 on 30/ December/ 2019,
claiming precision.

2020 will be an year 
of great prosperity
economy will flourish 
an year of good crops,
the world will not encounter 
any health issues. copious rains,
no floods  on the anvil
 quoting from the almanac  
 Panchangam as it is called.
I look back as 2020, 

A day of hope and despair 
dull   without any thrill
Unenthusiastic I watch 
the hours roll like a snail
Dusk dawns,

Pacing up and down
like a mother cat 
who fears the safety 
of the kittens, I stay
desperate,

Back inside the lights
dispel the darkness
my mind remains gloomy
disallowing any good thoughts,
paralytic in a way.

Stretching on my bed
face turned towards the pillow
the heart races, palpitates
finally breaks into pieces.
disintegrates.

With face up. I observe the ceiling fan
 which revolves in speed,  tells 
“l go in circles,, finally stop once 
switched off.  Wisdom!
Life is one such it has to pass.

Sundays keep me in toes
The cloth strings in rows
hold sarees to dry
a pile of other clothes
lie on the floor in chaos
I sort them n the course.

Laundering once a week
forces me to seek
professional aid in between
which turns bleak
as none are keen
to undertake every week.

I do with lot of strain
my knee groans with pain,

Baking the cookies hard and thick
 Meenu allows them to cool a while
they turn as unbreakable  brick
 she stacks them in piles,
places the Christmas tree on the tiles
time passes  in ticks

Meenu shapes the cookies as she likes 
colours them blue, red, green and brown
each one darns a character that strikes 
star, Santa and  stag  being the  best known’
 she does not forget the clown
the  bulbs on the tree enhance the spikes.

A virtual Christmas party she holds
hoping for the best as the year folds.

My eight year old grandson
writes poetry with passion
caricatures anything under the sun
pictures a monkey with a bun
dresses him in fashion
cries he is done.

I read aloud the lines
tracking the facial glow
I go on line by line
following the  eyes shine
amazed by the flow
I  grade it fine.

Overjoyed he runs telling everyone
that he is a poet of renown.