I keep forgetting
the nights turn agonizing
while my mind begins questioning
of things that have gone missing.

Half through the night

I wake up in fright
the lost ones come in sight
I switch on the light,

Those gone missing
start fast moving
more or less swinging
while I lay crying.



A city which never sleeps.
one that is as ancient as Athens,
echoes music all through the year.
 It is a place of trade and transaction,
 a seat of learning hosting the 3 Sangams
 where Tamil literature flourishes.

Braving invasions, the town
remains complacent
 and modest bereft of ostentation,
 it is a destination unsuitable for snobs
 extends a home to those who love
 simplicity and who practise

Like the Shrine of Meenakshi
 whose towers cast a benevolence
 this place called “Madurai “
 remains intact for some 2500 year.
 An historic city. with few shortcomings.
where the sun shines brighter
than elsewhere.



 Having been away from the main
 very much into the festivities
 through weddings. to be precise.
 One or two of them work well. A score
turns me inside out,

I bunk a few, attend the rest
gazing at people, who seem
busy, walking, eating and
talking. it is fun to watch
a folly anyway when experienced,

My roving eyes circulate
without a focus, Gaiety
dominates, Colourful attires.
bejeweled necks cut and cross
the venue forming a zig zag curve.

The week passes such a way, 
 idling I spend the hours, neither
 I am an exception, as I follow
the herd to the point, draped in
 Kanjeevaram saree.


Where Do I Stand?

My four feet high pedestal fan
a mixture of blue and white
with buttons red, green, yellow
and black

twenty -five years of age
looks pretty clean, wiped
every day, serviced every year,

hitherto ran smoothly
with a humming noise
fussed midway

with a bustling noise
 growing audible
 as the hour advances.

Oiling would arrest
the incohesive sound
 I think.

only to find the loudness
 turning most pronounced.

Annoyed, I push t
he so long faithful fan
to a corner.

Resignation dawns
Well, if that be the case
of a 25-year-old fan

Where do I stand?



The mother in me surpasses
 every other portfolio.

 My boys come to my mind
 be at home or elsewhere.

They may need this, I conjure
 put efforts to bring them,

Before they ask I do most
fall short when I go out of money.

They were not too many
a handful did creep in

 enough to bring the roof down
 with shouts, screams, and exchanges.

I did resign those times
 with a heaviness.

Misty eyes marked the day

they fluttered with  unmeasurable  velocity

Tainted with blood , my
bitten lips quiver.

Brushing aside both with a smile
I resolve  to keep away from them.

Again, it is the mother in me,
 subtly surfaces.

Placing me in my original track
I forget the count as  how many times
I am back


Too Little

Little did I know what people talk behind me
Little  did I care about their remarks,

That being a few years ago, I am in my mid age.
It is different all the more as I struggle to catch up  years

Each and every thing matters, some appear as a taunt,
the rest  seem to be scathing.

Being unable to move forward I stay confined to a place
 away from  scorn and jitters.

That being a retreat offering   a solace,
enabling me to prolong unfazed.


That I Do

The attempts of mine are towards visualizing, 

making, matching so that they will go 

with the event, something memorable 

 related to the occasion.

Say, if it be a birthday, working out to make

 a befitting gift.

 Like that I go, especially, when  they are my own.
Of course as Picasso says,, I borrow, 

steal, improvise. Let me put it thus,
Something which is there, something which is not there


How I Create

The strain I endure
the pain I undergo
stands out at every event
regretting at the moment
 forgetting a little after

 I  indulge  with enthusiasm
 scrutinizing every detail
 conceptualizing the incidental
 matching, adding, attributing
 a mania or a phobia, can I call? grips me
 with a tight fist, I stay imprisoned

A team of craftsmen
work with me in my pursuit
to create, to bring to reality
my dreams, I give them the outline.

 I can visualize but drawing
is not my forte, they do  with skill
send pictures, I fine tune them
marking the corrections,
patiently they redo, an online
interaction  goes for a week
They understand, I compromise
 finally we accomplish it.

 ” Here we go”.  we scream with glee
  I have not seem them nor they have

  all being worked  with applications.
  It is tension filled fun – a creation



Parading through my unkempt garden,
 hooting and playing  with joy
 the family with the mother on lead
 pecks and picks the worms on the way
 while the father dances atop the attic
 spreading out its colourful feathers
cooing with love, a signal  to the wife
 bidding her to come near.

Proximity, to human, animals  as well as  birds
one of man and wife, being universal,
 whatever be the age, as seen
and heard in the peacock’s  call
I am fortunate  to perceive
a  picturesque presentation
more or less a  scenically
gorgeous visual that unfolds
every morning,

The intimacy, subtle and chaste
creates a beatitude, hard
to express.  


A Wry Smile

The mind is unable to hold
 the numerous  queries

 it fails to contain
the quips and taunts

buckles when confronted
 with dubious allegations.

 It seems I am  full, too full.
with a sigh  and a cry

I confront them
with a wry smile,

moving  with a heaviness
enough to throttle.