Om Shivaya

I stand on the banks of Ganges,
Awe inspiring, the river flows
in i silence, 

A little away I see  flames
The body of the dead 
being consumed.

The fire rises high  
 Stench and smoke

A few yards from there
 I espy men and women
 bathing .

In the middle of the river
dead bodies float
along with flowers.

looking around my eyes rest
 on a group of brahmins 
chanting slokas.

On the opposite direction 
 the temples bells chime
 pujas  are performed.

The Gods and Goddesses 
come out in  procession
the devotees follow

Om, Om, the humming,
 places me in a trance,
 eliciting the truth,

life and death are 
synonymous, truth   
 as seen around 


Above And Beyond

The flow of the tide
in the Bay of Bengal
with a lightest noise
 a kind of humming
and  slightest  gradation
subtle and pensive
the colour of water
 being  at times pale  blue 
most dark, turns me spell bound .

 Raga Mohana  floats in the air 
 the  swarassa, ri, ga, pa ,tha, sa,
flows with such melody,
 the permutations 
and combinations of 
the swaras along with
 the alapana  invigorates.
Mellifluously divine  

 The  fathomless Ocean
 the rhapsody through the air,
  the rhythm of iambic pentameter 
 found in Shakespeare’s  sonnets.
corelate and corroborate, The  hot 
masala tea stimulates an elation.
 I feel I am at the top of the world.



Credibility Counts

Listing my requirements
I call my grocer
who records my message
delivers the goods
at the doorstep.

So does my tailor
who pays a visit
either to take orders
or deliver the same
at home.

That could be said of the
famous Saree house
who send in the new arrivals,
I decide, he then sends the bill
with matching blouse material.

Such is the way I go about
with my credibility holding high
the vendors do not bother me
nor do I compare the prices.
It is mutual trust that reigns.


A Little Of Gardening

The warm weather has set in
 being late February. trees 
shed their leaves.  Krishna,
 my gardener sweeps 
the whole morning.

He rests under the shade,
 stretching his body, fills 
the green wheel barrow
 with yellow leaves
Sweating, Krishna

pushes the barrow 
to the backyard, heaps 
allows them to dry.
Waters  periodically.
takes great care.

The leaves rot
turn dark, Krishna 
turns the pile  bringing 
the underneath  up
while the fresh go below.

It is home made manure
 organic in every sense. I ask him
to segregate them into finest, 
coarsest and  medium. Marks  
according to grade.

The finest is spread 
in the flower beds, 
the medium applied 
to the hedges, the coarsest 
go tot he trees.

All done with no fanfare,
 carried on for years
 by me in my garden
 I do not affix the tag
 Organic to my produce.   


Evolution or Devolution

The euphoria about a house
 built by a rich man a decade ago,
 pictures highlight its grandeur,
 the floors 40 in all
 with three helipads,
 gardens, car parks,
 ball room, banquet
 kitchens, bedrooms, 
make one raise the eyebrows
 not out of awe  anyway.

It is his privacy, his wealth 
allows such extravaganza
not any of a concern 
to the ordinary who 
wants a roof over the head
the latter will pass the area 
without curiosity, least admire. 
An unnecessary painting
 by the media  which 
does not inspire but  distract   
the otherwise contented mind.


Passing Through The woods

It is a way into the woods
where silence seems
to be the only
one seen and felt

As I walk through
the dense forests
I espy the huge trees
nestled close

allowing no light
to pass. They appear
to hold each other firmly
throwing out a proximity

which pronounces a bondage
as if one will not
let down the other
whatever be the outcome.

The togetherness creates
a warmth, a cordiality
allowing no anxiety

Each one seems to tell
the other ” I am there for you,
no worries”. Admiring
the oneness, I stroll

through the thickest areas
where the magnitude
of affability overwhelms
where contentment rules.



Getting up at 2 in the morning
brooding over the day’s events.
 I  sense a dull pain in the legs 
symptomatic of restless 
leg syndrome.  Straighten 
and twist the leg
 that most hurts. At times 
 let out a sob. An hour 
passes the clock strikes 
3 and then 4,  Listening 
to the tick tock 
I stare in the dark,
 Silence unfolds. 



The Input And Output

It is as though
I am passing through
a storm.

I feel being ambushed
the winds and rains
confine me .

An experience I have
never undergone,
a bit crucial.

The heart pounds
as the rains rage
with a vengeance.

The shiver down
the adrenaline
knocks me down

like the hurricane
dashing on the
window panes.

I sense an exasperation,
a throw out, a deceit
somewhere behind,

encompasses, places
me in a situ, a dilemma,
The winds blow unabated,

hard to regain composure
I watch the external fury in fear
while the internal tears me apart.


It Is Called Life

It is been a contradiction 
 a meaningless one,
 just being with each other 
 creates a frustration
 bringing a dissatisfaction.

Tempers rise up with 
tempestuous acceleration
 books fly, cups dash  on the wall,
throwing tantrums at each other 
the couple  swear  not to see  each other.

Like the dew the controversy 
vanishes in the morning.
The day dawns, off each goes  
on their way with smile writ large,
life turns meaningful again.


It Is You

an allegation
slung at me
every day with anger.

“It is always you”
an accusation
targeted at me
each day with hatred

” it is because of you”
a kind of admonition
holds me aghast
all days.

“The opportunities
that would have come
have fizzled out
because of you”, he screams,

is it me? really me
who owes responsibility
for his debacle, as he quoths,
both in transparent and latent,

It is his his mind the creator
of all troubles I see
nothing other, he is prejudiced.
I do not know the reason.