The events that happen
could I summarize
as those of the day to day
ones, not anyway concerned
with politics, theatrical,
commercial,
those I encounter daily
commencing from the milk man’s call
the paper boy ringing the bicycle bell
the vegetable vendor walking
through with a basket on head.
calling out the names of the vegetables.
My maid sweeps the front yard
sprinkles water mixed with cow dung
draws a flowery design with rice flour
a tradition followed in every South Indian
home, I did this with love earlier,
discontinued due to weak knees.
Cooking starts vessels
and ladles confront each other,
the zing sound while making dosa,
is imbibed in the whistles of pressure cooker,
an aroma loaded with flavours from main
ingredients, tamarind, chilly, pepper,
enriches the dining area.
Bell chimes from the Pooja
when aarathi is performed .
he oil lamps glitter with
a steady glow, benzoin
fumes create a divinity.
An amalgamation of simple
with sublime
Meenas Poems 