Author: meenas17

Sundar drinks a can of juice
to the last drop. Places  it
in the refrigerator, walks off.

Late for lunch he sets aside 
the cooked  dishes, prepares 
one of his own,

Emptying half a bottle of sauce
 on a Pizza, he throws a sizeable 
piece into the bin.

Garrulous when he was in between 
five years to eleven, remains  
 tight lipped. 

A nod  up and down for an “yes” 
and one right to left  for “No”
are the gestures he makes.

I watch him from afar as he lives
 thousands of miles away, The cheerful
child I carried in my hip 

is a big boy with a thick moustache,
 long beard, tall, lean, bespectacled
I  look at him with eyes wide open,

 my jaws fall down, I exclaim
“You, my first grand child!”
I bit my lips as I feel he will

detest such outburst. He 
comes forward, hugs me,
an intimate expression  that 
 he is the same old child. 

I   

the lamp post 
holding to each other,

They tread over the lawn
a poster reads, “Trespassers 
Prohibited“.

Trot, hop and play 
as if the lawn belongs
to them.

The lush green grass 
folds and firms  in tune 
to the  nimble footed.

I wish to exercise 
a surgical strike, stealthily 
approach the pathway,

The  amorous pair 
lost in their own world 
enjoy  the premise.

I refrain once I get close.
Their proximity  forces 
a withdrawal. No sooner

their feathers plummet 
the golden hue flashes with  
a glow. before I could

stop, they take wings
soar  in mid air, disappear
 so angelic in demeanour.

There is a man
who does what all I do
with and without 
comprehension.

Strange it is to find  him
copying me,  Anger 
drives me mad.   I want
to bash him.

I do not want to name him
as I seethe with anger 
when I think of him.  He 
continues without a pause.

Having learnt to shun him,
I pass the days in peace,
but when I happen to see him
my pressure shoots up.

To remain placid and passive,
 I should undergo a training.
 of late, my indignation 
 takes the garb of contempt.

The man keeps on and on.
He will never stop doing.
His irrational sensibility irks,
 compelling me to shun his existence.

I make calls to friends 
most unusual of me, they
 share details on many aspects 
 and practices alien to me,

They tell me of  Rajini
 who is living abroad,
 about Shalini’s plight
 and Kamini’s  rise.

Rajini  is fashion oriented, 
 snobbish  in outlook while 
Shalini has to bear the family’s 
yoke, Kamini is nouveau rich,

 My  indulgence, leads me to enter
Rajini’s parlour, compels me to
 sneak into the patio of Shalini,
 pushes me to  peek  through

 the curtains of Kamini,  I start
to hate myself for being too nosy.
Condemning myself, I hit back 
resorting to my original self,

No more calls, no more enquiries,
no more comments, no more
 criticisms, all the more  I  do not want 
to know about others.   Straightening 
I bow.

Buffaloes lie in the middle
of the road. Cows saunter, 
garbage lies in heaps,
bikes and cars follow no rules.
Could this be India?

It is, I say, perfectly.
A common sight, as 
one espies. An eyesore,
making one frown. An obvious 
disaster!

Unmindful sensibility  is apparent,
Insight of the other side, reveals 
 the neatly  swept front yard
 of the house with colourful Kolams .

The daily baths, even twice a day 
by the people,  sweeping , mopping the floors,   
fumes from  sambrani  release fragrance. 
the poojas   in the morning and evening

extend a divine feel,  The contrast 
as of the exterior and the interior
seems clueless.  Could it be attributed 
to the mysticism of the ancient land?

Birds sing merrily, dogs bark,
fiercely. donkeys bray
in containment zone

The Trinity, 
 Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva
 Creator, Protector 
and Destroyer, execute 
without any pause.

Brahma has relaxed 
with the births dwindling.
Vishnu struggles to save 
the lives as the pandemic 
is raging with a vengeance,

Shiva does it with ease
Taking the lives in a stroke
 hundreds and thousands die
Cities emit  a  constant glow
with  dead bodies burning.

Of the three, Shiva seemsswift
 in his deals,   The cosmic dance
 he performs , at times is one 
of exhilaration, Ananda Tandava .
grand and  joyous.

The  RudraTandava,  violent and furious 
signifies the destruction of cosmos, Shiva
is performing with fury at present, signifies
 not the end of the world but a new beginning, 
Rauthram. of Shiva has to subside 
to attain bliss.

Grown older by an year
and a half,  the hair 
mostly grey, I look 
at the mirror, which reflects
 a gaunt face.

I talk to the image 
 gesticulate, scold,
appreciate, accept 
deny.   as if I am 
confronting   another 
human. 

Recalling my mother’s words.
when I was five years old,
 I talked danced sang and played
 before the mirror, addressing 
the reflection as Beena,  another
 toddler of the same age

 That sensitivity  has surfaced 
unknowingly, cause being the long 
confinement at home accompanied 
by fear. Apprehensions  drive me mad,
reports terrify, disaster stares.

I look at the mirror, my only solace,
 The one,  envisage, echoes 
a similar sensibility,   Withdrawing 
from the virtual, I gaze at the sky
where clouds gather.  a prelude to rains,

Silence is noise,
sweet and pleasing.
one of awe,
one that inspires.

Silence is an exposition
of impressions, live
and bygones. Gold like

The trees and flowers
expressions of fecundity
and beauty, display
eloquence.

The buildings tall
and small deliver
the sighs and cries
with subtle reference.

Places of worship,
command a sanctity
telecast the aura
of divinity.

These turn prosaic
in their placements
when noise permeates
extensively.

They imbibe a poetic glow
when quietness enfolds.
turning into a transparent
and translucent stillness.

a spirited wish from one 
afar, greetings flow 
uninterruptedly, messages 
flash with quotes.

Returning  each with gratitude,
 I stay  overwhelmed with 
joy.  Honoured, by the near 
and dear, I feel elated.

As the day passes,  a friend calls.
She asks me did your sons’
express their love, I pout, a gesture
 to indicate they did not.

She  waxes eloquently of Corona, 
the second wave,  the disaster,
 lockdown.  I listen to her lecture
 My mind elsewhere,

Have I not been a good mother?
 Been strict in their school days.
making them work hard. Perhaps.
 they hold a grudge.

The mobile rings., my first one 
is on line, chats for an hour hangs up
Dismayed, I go back to my work, interrupted
by the second, who asks me  

about how things are progressing  
advises me to slow down. The youngest 
comes in between, chides me 
for exerting  beyond my capacity.

The three musketeers  leave without 
a slightest thought to wish me.