Author: meenas17

Paint the body beige
the border scarlet
I shout  from down below.

 Painters are up, balancing 
 on the scaffolding with 
 paint and brush,

 I stand  in the sun
 holding an umbrella 
 sporting sunglasses,

those above turn 
towards me , braving 
the heat,

Clad in shorts  and a T. Shirt
they are there from 8 am 
in the morning.

Unmindful of their discomforts
 I keep on screaming
 add a little more of stain

make the red a wee lighter
 at the corners. The window sills 
need to be darker  red 

the walls  should render warmth. 
 a little lighter one of beige.
 Condescending they  pay

attention to my demands.
It is lunch time they descend 
walk  hurriedly towards me,

I take a step backward, a bit 
uneasy, They come closer,
I go back a little .

Nearing me, they say in a chorus,
Amma, You taught us how to mix 
and match. Appa!    I cry, relieved,

Expecting an accusation.
 as an heartless woman
 I accost an appreciation.
 Stand  elated!

The portrait  of a child
pretty but it is her 
simple  smiling’
innocence wins the heart,

I watch the display 
 for full 30 minutes
“she must be”,  I  tell myself
“from my country”.

I meet the artist , who is 
from my part of the world,
coming closer  exactly from
my home town,

A pleasant conversation reveals 
the  little girl  is from a  family, 
who  have quietly done 
a lot for the community. 

She is none other than my aunt
who died young,   Her affability, I
recollect, had  made her an icon
 I am stoned, Don’t  we say,
blood is Thicker than water.

it is about the siblings,
five of them  born with me,
one has departed recently,
 have been so unkind, very
 indifferent to me whatsoever 
reasons it could be, I am 
 unable to explore,

Being the fourth child 
 with two elder brothers
 and two younger ones
 and an older sister, the eldest
 I am a kind of sandwich 
 pressed on all directions.
 a silent but a sensitive one.

They quarrel, keep away 
from each other  for years,
 only  to conjoin more firmly 
soon after, forgetting 
the insinuations and insults 
as if nothing has taken place
sharing the bounties among them.

I am the one who stays away
 participate to the least
 being tied up with personal 
involvements, There arose a time 
when they and my parents 
not to leave them started to think
there being only five not six in the brood

Living very close in  body
distanced away in soul and spirit
I am perhaps considered dead and gone
years ago, decades back while I live 
in flesh and blood till date observing 
the partiality extended to me, a kind 
of accepting  deceit with disregard. 

It is dusk
a slight drizzle 
 and light breeze 
 mark the day.

Brass  shining diyas ,
take the lead.
Ilupai  oil is poured  
over the thread wick
find their place 

in the most coveted spaces 
of the entrance, window sills,
steps, patio,, Lighting them’
at the stroke of six,

 they flicker for a second,  pick up
 braving the wind and rain,
Collecting the  earthen ones 
in a basket, I walk towards the 
boundary walls,

placing three tens of mud ones
on the parapet walls,  pairs
 of them on the gate pillars,
 a big  lamp in the Tulasi Madam,

My house  looks divine  
Exciting, to watch the  twilight, 
the lamps emitting  steady flow 
alongside  the cool breeze  
which penetrates through the skin

I stand in the rain. It is 
pure ecstasy, blissful
 moving me to tears.
 no  electric illumination
could surpass.

 majestic and huge,
 breathes life all through
 looks a little pale 

when I see him 
in the morning.

Why does he look forlorn?
 casting his eyes downward
 remaining still and sullen
some what a grief,  
or a disappointment 
 runs undercurrent.

Ay! oldie, what is the matter?
 I go near him touch his broad 
shoulders, hold his hands
 with compassion, he shows 
no move, Seeing into his eyes.
 I decipher a sadness.

The old man who stands
is none other than my 
 big Neem Tree,  my friend
 with whom I exchange 
ideas, interact, share 
both joy and sorrow.

Exhausted and feeling 
not alright, withstanding 
the continuous downpour
the gigantic tree appears dull
perhaps afflicted by a viral 
unknown to his fraternity.

 I cannot believe. think of 
what has happened 
 quite unexpected,’ 
as I check and recheck 
the email  l which has landed 
a few minutes back,

it is in Malay, I know
very little of Bahasa Malay. 
Translate using Google, Once , it 
looks as though  I have been 
granted a full waiver in terms  
of payment. Incredible!
 I mutter.

Repeating the exercise, I am the one

who  suspects the most genuine, believes 
the fakest  easily. find that I have to 
pay in full on the stipulated date, 
 Aiyo! how am I going to do?

I cry, Check the bank accounts.
which reveals   minimum balance.
 Aiyo, I  wail.   Pacing up and down,
squeezing  the pallu of my saree.
sit and stand like a child, pour 
a glass of water down my throat.

 Click, click, tweets my mobile,
 I hasten to read the new message, 
fearing what adversities  are going 
to confront me further,
It reads, ” Cukai Dilepaskan“
meaning full waiver. Thanking ,
Heavens,  I bow, greeting
 ” Salam Alaikum”   Salam Alaikum”

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)