Oh! A Sunday

On Sundays my abode virtually shifts
 to a noiseless place.  A haven
in heaven.

 Early morning my brass bolstered
red gate displays variegated items,
Newspapers shoved between them

milk sachet in a suspended bag.
I engage in solving sudoku and crossword
 puzzle, hunger creates a commotion,

My criminal tastebuds do not brook
 unpalatable food, demand the best
taken out of stove.

if salt, Karam, go astray the tongue  
mercilessly denies permission
forces a revision, heartless autocrat,

Washing the vessels, drying them out
in the sun, a diabolical practice I do,
embroils me.

In the unmanned house, I am
the only woman running errands
 heaving and mumbling

In the midst, I question,
 why do Sundays come
week after week?



I am quiet, like a hummingbird,
sing and talk to myself, become quieter in days,
exist like a butterfly, minding my portfolio,
turn quietest in years, an antithesis of a
cackling duck. People call me dumbbell.

Being singled out by the family,
where own blood sucks like a parasite
who behave like a sly fox– treacherous
engaging in conflicts creating rancour
forces me into hibernation.

The external, I find even more tantalizing,
ugly politics disenchant me. Motivated
 by the snail’s, who finds bliss in its shell
 I retreat into a world of my own.
 Distanced, I prolong, from din and dust,



Back home after a jaunt.
a fortnight of being away
sets in a longing, in spite
of the other being my own.

The second, a recent addition
conspicuous for its grandeur
beautifully styled, a fusion of tradition
and modern architecture

gives me a sense of pride
not one of belonging.
Alighting at the porch, of the old
I experience a sensation,

 nostalgic. As I stepped in, I could
visualize my mom opening
the door.  I hugged her. She softly
presses her lips on my head.



Soon after his return from South Africa
 Mahatma Gandhi participates in the Indian
freedom struggle.

Shunning violence he takes the cudgels
of Satvika.  He practises with faith
 India is freed decades later.

Without weapons, without bloodshed,
hitherto unknown to the world. Gandhi
recovers the country from the British.


My Dad on Wheels

Cycling in the evening
soon after I come from school
is my play.. Counting 1, 2, 3, I fly
like a whirlwind,

Zoom, zoom, the bicycle runs
keeping pace with my anxiety.
“Hai, Hai”, I wave to my cook
 who brings in a glass of milk.

My enthusiasm grows. as my bicycle
takes off like an airplane, whir, whir, I speed.
  lose balance, suffer a jolt at count 20,
I mind not the interruption.

 From 22 onwards I experience
 a setback, unable to cop I pedal hard
exerting pressure. My poor feet mourn
 Somehow, I reach count 30.

Bemused the cook signals to the back.
Alighting, I turn back furious, see my dad
perched on the carrier sporting a smile.
He picks me up and throws me in the air.

Breaks into a guffaw, his usual demeanor.
Winking at the cook he carries me inside.
 Places me in my mom’s lap, narrates
the affair with fringes and frescoes



My mother’s eyes stay behind
 follow me where I go.

Overtake and come in front
 when I talk to strangers.

The eyes give instructions,
twinkle when I speak right,

stare when I go wrong.
cast down when I fail,

caution when I am about
to pronounce something important.

They retreat when I am finished, walk
with me till I reach the destination.


I Turn a Gardener

The garden looks uncouth

ups and downs in the driveway,

thud, thud go the vehicles.

intermittent patches of grass

high and low, a semblance of 

a beard with tuft and stubble,

stones and pebbles strewn around

 deliver it unholy.

To work affordable, I design

 a lengthy lawn, measuring 

100 feet by 5 feet, royal palms 

stand as warriors each ten feet apart,

 aloe Vera both green and red, play

the role of helpers on either side 

of palms, portulaca around the palms,

act as  colourful  subordinates.

Further away, shrubs of Jasmine,

Chandini, stalks of Oleander, orchids 

gaze at the sky, Rose beds punctuate 

 the driveway, On the Northeast, Ishanya 

 Bilva with three leaves, denoting ‘

the three eyed Shiva, Tulasi, Vishnu’s 

 favourite and Nagalingam tree find home,

Completing the distinguished placements, 

I retire for the day,



Status Quo Continues

 A lifelong wait has ended

 I sigh with relief. Not too soon

 it opens and closes like

 a May flower, shimmers in the sun

 shuts up at dusk.

The carousel is transient

 hours do not count

 nor days stand in a row

 it is years like a long tail

 nearly a decade, a quarter 

of a century to be precise.

 crawling, walking, jogging,

 running,’ sleeping, turning dormant,

 picks a momentum, swoons 

and falls half dead, resurrects, 

droops three fourths paralyzed.

it does not fit into any schedule,

who to blame, I lament the co parceners 

levy little interest mean not the financial

but the execution.  Happy to continue the status quo.

 Their children rap and knock the door.

Let me confess. what I have said is a dignified 

camouflage of their capacity.


Rainy Day

It is rain, rain, all day,
 like to shout in a cry
” Rain, rain go away
come again another day.”

Stubborn she is in her play
childlike in her display.
she comes down the whole day
creating an untold dismay.

My open courtyard is logged
Helpless I watch the clogged  
 outlets clear the backlogs
water escapes like a dissembling fog.

Putting my feet back and fore
a game I indulged never before
 I enjoyed forcing an encore.
Rain continues to fall with a roar.


Power Failure

In a place where electricity plays truant.

with a few minutes brilliance

the next ten minutes dim, the light 

slowly dies down.

Power generation is wherever it be 

 turns fickle and undependable, say for example 

 the political scenario Charges, could be either, price

and prize go up calling for an emergency.

 Mosquitoes pin me to a corner, suck my blood,

I find big goosebumps, eyes swell, lips turn blood shot,

My caricature resembles a bloated President

of a Nation which boasts of Democracy,