Meenas Poemsit is, I cry watching
the rains, incessant
and forceful it pours
allowing no space,
turns impertinent.
Rivers, unable to hold anymore
flow inwards , flooding
the roads and streets,
submerging the low lying area
become imperious.
I sigh! Well, this characteristic
seems common, Man, Nature,
Animals, reverse, relent and recant,
for reasons unknown and unheard.
Cannot avoid a sense of bitterness.
A calm sea,
the day before, loses
its temper rages in fury t
he day after up go the waves
with a roar, down they fall
with a thud. An ongoing disaster,
it is a collapse. houses
on sea shore tumble
head over heels
float in the water
go into the profound.
No trace of a brick,
whatsoever.
Watching them fall,
I think of unholy
those of a family
which stood the test
of times with grace
succumbing to vile
and greed.
It drifts apart, with little
of its past. Hunger has
gobbled its status, thirst
has gulped the unity,
there lies a skeleton
bones protruding,
a ghastly sight
whatsoever.
I feel an oneness
with my house,
inanimate as it is
breathes life.
The verandah where I read
the day’s newspaper
greets me lovingly,
with cheer.
Entertaining the guests
the living room spreads warmth,
echoes their laughter
records the banter.
So does the dining.
in all its grandeur, an aroma
permeates from the elaborate
courses served.
The kitchen, needless to say
smokeless and clean, a place
where menus get prepared
a fragrance prevails.
I find a bondage with my study,
a friendship with the books
and the authors develops
unknowingly,
Finally my bed solicits me
an high pillow, makes me rest
my head on , like a mother
lulls me to a deep slumber.
It is Diwali, joy enfolds,
wishes fly in the air
mobile phones experience
a sweep, no more greeting
cards, emojis, Gifs, videos
swarm in like wild bees.
Waking up to the noise
of exploding fire crackers,
I climb down the stairs,
go through a leisurely
oil bath, a must for Diwali,
warming the sesame oil .
gently rubbing through the hair,
massaging the body, washing off
with Shikakai rinsing with
warm water,
being a physical cleaning of the body
along with the spiritual cleansing
of the mind. Perform an abridged puja,
followed by marking new dress with turmeric
paste being another tradition I adhere too.
I walk to the nearby temple, draped
in a new green saree, worship for a while
break coconuts and return home
for a heavy feast. The ceremonial
oil bath induces sleep, My eyes close , however
much I tryt o keep them open, I sleep
hours together as there are none
to wake me up, except my husband
who is engrossed in browsing. Past the age
when children would bother demanding
things unheard off or engaging in quarrels,
I dream of peace on earth and the contentment
that comes with it.
It is an untold dictum, wearing new dress
for Diwali, Choosing commences,
almost two months earlier.
Years ago, mom went places,
to select the best of Kanchipuram silk.
Easily done for my brothers.
trousers and shirts, dark bottoms
and light tops. They go welll,
she decides fast almost
in an hour,
For the girls mom
would let her imagination flow
colour combinations, she says
mustard and red will be appropriate
so does green with yellow,
reaching the end,
she will start exploring
until she finds the right ones.
Once done, calls her personal tailor,
puff sleeves for me.
close neck for my sister,
mom will work smocking pattern,
and make him stitch exactly
the skirt with close pleats, she will
demonstrate, holding the cloth,
and folding.
The work undergoes rigorous
revisions, she lets go the tailor
after paying him a handsome cash.
After settling ,mom returns
to other manifestos, includes,
the extended family, staff
bonus etc, etc,
Crackers explode,
rockets go up
zing, zing they
rise, burst midway
the embers fall down
like colourful flowers.
Flowerpots in a row,
cause a big furore
compete with their counterpart,
the floating disc, going in circles
bewitching to watch.
a fantasy under the stars.
Diwali is at the door
a rush and a push
malls remain open day
and night a sea of humanity
down the lane, a revelry
without a beguile.
Lights, lights everywhere
not the electrical ones
shining in constant spell
these are the diya
dispelling darkness
as they flicker and light up
dancing to the wind.
In the rain soaked huts
these oil lamps glow
with humility creating
a feel of transcendence
which descends slowly
and steadily, suggesting
an experiment with bliss.
Meenas Poems 