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
–
Meenas Poems 