Tough Lady

The adjective tough
been attributed to me
by a relation some years back
remains evergreen in memory.

What made her say so?
 I wonder, involving a  contextual 
deliberation, till date 
could not find an answer.

Am I a miser? I introspect.
 or do I look  fierce? 
 Does she find my quietude 
 tough? I research  seriously.

Bringing  in various propositions 
 proportion, equations, I try to solve.
The answers, I derive,  are not finite.
I repeat the word tough hundred and one times.

This epithet leaves me bothering,
 I turn restless. My indignation
 settles for the present.  It will surface 
with added chagrin  soon.


Greener Still

The lawn looks green
 from a distance,
going near I find
 it to be in tufts,
 similar to an head 
with knots of hair 
 unevenly grown.

Even closer, they 
appear to be in streaks,
long, thin and thorny
akin to an head
on the verge of turning 

There is no grass whatsoever
just prickly plants that pierce
through the soles of the  shoes
hurt  the feet  with a spasm.
Withdrawing as quick as possible 
 I turn back limping.

Krishna, my gardener, rushes in.
Cuts the thorns  and weeds.
He avoids  my eyes.  I keep mum.
 Controlling my indignation,
 I talk to myself in a subdued tone,
“Krishna is growing old, forgive him”.


Nothing Is Infinity

My mind remains idle.
 Knowing fully well 
an idle man’s brain 
is a devil’s workshop,
 I  gaze at nothing,
 chuckle, gesticulate 
at everything,

Nothing is infinity 
screams my inactive mind.
The pendulum oscillates 
with a tick, I am unmoved 
stare at the brick. Eternity 
is fascinating quips 
my heart.

With the book in hand
 I relax in my couch,
The book mark, a laced 
 pretty one with quotes 
remains  on the same
page for days, in 
Page 25.  Stuck like me

With nothing to do 
I am at all places,
spilling, spreading,
reading, writing,
talking, all done. with\
 least interest.

Nestling close to a concept,
I do not know what it is?
Clinging to it, I move on
without realizing  what 
it could be? Mystical anyway,
enough  to sustain me, an 
instinct to survive.


Looks Weird

In between the walls,
inside the rooms
windows opening
into the garden.
which let me see 
the outer world
though a limited dimension,
 I spend the days.

Weeks, months and years 
have rolled  in their own space,
but to me it is a doldrum 
moving in snail’s space.
Like a caged  animal,
I pace up and down,
move from room to room
a body in motion.

My cars will go out of gear
a start, a raise and a switch off,
performed to keep them alive.
I open the gate, doors, so as to keep 
them  working. Goes the laundry,
the cooking, watering, bathing, 
cleaning non stop cause 
life has to go on.


Queen Turns A Loner

The yearly flower show 
an annual attraction
when people from the plains
gather in the hills 

Ooty, an endearing town,
 in the Western ghats,
has a  royal salutation,
 Queen Of  Hill Stations.

activates a  diaspora
where colours exude 
pastel, dark, soft, green
as a canvas.

Those who see buildings,
concrete structures, find 
the scenario  enchanting,
 the very beauty intoxicating

This year the exuberance
goes unwatched, unsung
as enforced lockdowns 
restrict travel and gathering.

 Financials go abegging.
Tourism takes a back step.
The Queen, in the middle 
of trees and flowers, nestles 
in solitude.



A fierce sun comes out 
during the first week of May 
lasts till the the third week.
21 days steadfast 

 Known as Agninatchathram,
where Sun burns like fire
scorches the skin, sucks 
the water out.

Man remains a shell of his self
while e earth appears 
parched, broken turns 

Trees look pale, flowers
shrink and droop, dogs 
go panting with, tongues 
hanging out.

Sun turns merciless 
Its brilliance blinds,
The rays penetrate
 prick and hurt.

Abundance  of heat suffocates,
so to say, the giver of life
flouts and plunders without

Nature  behaves like a villain
Attacks, slaughters, turns 
the world upside down.
It is  but natural.


No More An Express Train

Folding the sheets, pillow cases,
without creases, starching the handwoven 
sarees, take my life out.

I recall the days when I slogged 
the whole day caring  the children,
running in directions  tirelessly.

Of recent, even a slight exertion causes 
an exhaustion. I heave  hard  like 
an old puffing train run on steam,

Perspiring  profuse, I  hear a feeble 
whistle from my nostrils akin to the 
rickety  old train’s blowing.

 I, like the train, slow down
 when I am about to reach
 the destination  at 9 in the night

the day draws to a close ,
smoke and steam diffuse, My eyes 
close as slumber  overwhelms.


My Grandson

Sundar drinks a can of juice
to the last drop. Places  it
in the refrigerator, walks off.

Late for lunch he sets aside 
the cooked  dishes, prepares 
one of his own,

Emptying half a bottle of sauce
 on a Pizza, he throws a sizeable 
piece into the bin.

Garrulous when he was in between 
five years to eleven, remains  
 tight lipped. 

A nod  up and down for an “yes” 
and one right to left  for “No”
are the gestures he makes.

I watch him from afar as he lives
 thousands of miles away, The cheerful
child I carried in my hip 

is a big boy with a thick moustache,
 long beard, tall, lean, bespectacled
I  look at him with eyes wide open,

 my jaws fall down, I exclaim
“You, my first grand child!”
I bit my lips as I feel he will

detest such outburst. He 
comes forward, hugs me,
an intimate expression  that 
 he is the same old child. 



A Lovely Couple

the lamp post 
holding to each other,

They tread over the lawn
a poster reads, “Trespassers 

Trot, hop and play 
as if the lawn belongs
to them.

The lush green grass 
folds and firms  in tune 
to the  nimble footed.

I wish to exercise 
a surgical strike, stealthily 
approach the pathway,

The  amorous pair 
lost in their own world 
enjoy  the premise.

I refrain once I get close.
Their proximity  forces 
a withdrawal. No sooner

their feathers plummet 
the golden hue flashes with  
a glow. before I could

stop, they take wings
soar  in mid air, disappear
 so angelic in demeanour.


Fit Not To Have A Name

There is a man
who does what all I do
with and without 

Strange it is to find  him
copying me,  Anger 
drives me mad.   I want
to bash him.

I do not want to name him
as I seethe with anger 
when I think of him.  He 
continues without a pause.

Having learnt to shun him,
I pass the days in peace,
but when I happen to see him
my pressure shoots up.

To remain placid and passive,
 I should undergo a training.
 of late, my indignation 
 takes the garb of contempt.

The man keeps on and on.
He will never stop doing.
His irrational sensibility irks,
 compelling me to shun his existence.