Month: November 2021

The  half white curtains,
 with mild designs, small 
flowers in yellow, lying 
 on a  pale green stalk, 
 pinned stripes running 
 between, withstanding  
 the test of times .

 look weird, originality  being
 lost,  a bit out of time,
absorbing dust and mites,
outgrowing  the process
 washing helps not
recovery impossible, but  they
retain a kind of affability.

Changing  them being  
way, I do a bit of shopping
 going and coming out 
 of the  shops   which boast of
 enormous collections, none of them
 suit my taste. The bold patterns 
 and shiny texture  throw me out of gear.

Back home, my old ones 
greet with  warmth, sensing 
 a familiarity I get near 
 stare at them for a while.
I say, “Oh! my pal! you 
have been with me so long”,
of late I talk with the doors, 
windows and curtains. 

A dark skinned man
not anyway a  reference 
to race, One who is many 
shades less than his  country men
holds ideas  darker than his complexion.
behaves darkest than the  midnight. 
 equivalent to pitch darkness,

A money lender by profession
 extorts, extracts interest
like  Shylock, demands 
flesh and sucks  blood.
Atrocity is his weapon,
dissects, penetrates
 and pulls out the core.
 from the profound.

Dreaded by his own kin,
a terror to his  children
 specially the in laws , fear 
to look at him ,he calls himself 
a philanthropist. the word 
 should feel ashamed 
 to qualify him. He aspires 
for, the highest, settles for 
the lowliest. A deadly being 
not to be called a man.

Conservative bringing 
builds a withdrawal syndrome,
 I keep quiet when accosted 
 be it for good or bad,

Words come up to the throat,
 but stop there  abrupt 
 the voice refuses to modulate
 and make them audible.

It takes long to break 
the ice so as to say, 
to mix with people,
an allegation goes 

 dubbing me proud, reserved,
inconsiderate, The  strict upbringing 
creates the difference, remarkable though
comparing  with one that is caged

a parrot for an example, repeats 
what his master says from its confinement,
 not like the ones that fly  and sing
 notes of their own,

Remaining  in the cocoon, 
I read, write, sing, and talk 
with my reflection in the mirror,
eloquence in silence.

Wearing  white smocked frocks
red socks and matching shoes,
 a red band on the head, three  
kids walk towards the tarmac.

One garlands him twined 
with red roses the other offers a bouquet 
where pink is dominant the youngest
 hands over a ripe lemon,

Nehru lifted the one  who 
garlands throws her up in the air,
 takes the hand of the second.
kisses the third.

 The kids, innocent as they could be,
steal the limelight, become in  no time 
 the cynosure of all eyes, stand dazed
knowing not what to do. 

I being the privileged of the three,
the one who went up the air
walk beside him.. Why such a reception?
 I wonder, he is another man in the crowd.

( it is befitting to recall this anecdote on  Nehru’s birthday)

A maid by my side 
an aged driver on wheels 
I go to  college 
just at the moment 
when the bell  rings.

Both see me get inside 
the campus , then turn 
back home. The college 
known for its  discipline 
where  a crow cannot   peep 
through the windows,

The head of the institution
 being my mother’s best friend
always has an eye on me.
In the middle of the  class
she summons me,  much 
to my bewilderment,

” You have been friendly 
with   Sheba for quiet some time”.
 I nod. ‘No harm, but keep 
a distance from her 
as her head is full of lice,
you will be affected”

Visualizing lice  jumping 
and clinging to my hair,
 I walk with a smile,
Oh! my mom cannot prevent 
this invasion,  Will she 
appoint another bodyguard?

Living in a place where I was born
 for decades together,  almost 
like a in a shell,   

To school I went, then follows 
the University, did not shop, or party,
  a house bird  in all,

At home of my own where I start 
the family with kids coming up,
 a mother all through.

 Mix with the community to an extent
 attend weddings and funerals 
  a  compulsory social commitment,

Back  home, I remain with 
children living far away,
 I and my husband  together,

We spend time, he in his work place 
I in mine, both at home seeing 
in intervals, talking at times.

Silence  travels with me from
 the day I was born, wish
 it  will accompany me to the end.

That takes me to the climate,
 as all of us turn apprehensive
 the change and its aftermath 
 makes us absolutely nervous.

Going with defiance,  scorning
 and humiliating the environment 
 by our arrogant attitude, negligence 
of the havoc we implicate.

Rivers get chocked with debris, drainage
 is filled with trash, felling of trees,
realtors make hay by selling unauthorized 
lands, with the blessings of the ruling . 

We know this would be the result,
 even then we work hard towards 
destruction, killing not that around
 but ourselves and ourselves,

The deluge I witness near home,
 cause of greed  and pure self  deceit
 puts the community in hazard,
 leaving most  homeless and penniless.

Driving through the floods in posh 
Mercedes and Porsche, politicians 
offer solace to the affected who 
stand in the rain holding an empty bowl.

A day of toil, both
physical and mental
put together
turns me mad,

I slam the door,
throw my reading 
materials, burn the 
milk, scorch the pan,

Behaving  rude, I scream 
at my  gardener Krishna,
the only one available
listens without a retort.

The ones who co exist 
look at me with an unease.
They include my family,
 my furniture, my  garden.
( they too  breathe life)

Never have they seen me 
take the role of a devil,
to them I am always an angel
gentle and soft.

A while after, I see my reflection
 in the mirror, eyes  welling 
nose twittering, face  red 
with rage,  “It is not me,
not me”, I whisper.

why do I feel
 that way? 
I do not know.

I am drawn towards
 such syndrome,
 a  feeling of despair  
amiss and lost.

It is a set pattern
that haunts me 
in the night mostly 
after two o’ clock.

Lying straight. 
face facing the 
ceiling, I think 
of the wildest of wild,

I sense a sign 
of unfulfillment, having 
wasted my life doing 
nothing  worthy.

Tossing over, 
burying my head 
in  the pillow,  I 
weep silently.

The clock strikes 
4,  sleep  enfolds.
All  happens for 2 hours
resolves on is own

The close of the day,
 exasperated I settle down,
 It is been terrific 
the past few days
with none of my staff 
back to work,

I am doing the chores 
cooking  turns elaborate,’ 
cleaning is cumbersome
 Mopping, dusting, drains 
my life out.  The aftermath 
of festivals,

In the morn, I watch the gate
 eager to see at least one of them 
trekking in for work  that much
 lesser work ‘for me,  oh! no.
 Grabbing  the broom!  
I begin my day.

.