Author: meenas17

Overlooking the faults
 as slips, errors as carelessness
 I go with a spirit indomitable 
 not to hurt others  at any cost.

I do not  lose temper 
with my staff nor do I scream
 at my children when they 
 stay stubborn.

That being my nature,
 if, at all. I turn furious
 I break down while  a sob 
 gives me out.

This could be the reason
 I find myself in a stature 
 where I am taken for granted
 experiencing disappointments.

The little of me,  
I have expressed, 
places me in an inevitable
posture most unenviable. 

It is 10.30 in the night,
the next house is busy,
I am wrong, it is no more
an house but an eatery
overnight.

The clatter while making
[i]Kothu [/i][/i]Parotta
tears the silence. Spot
lights shine.

Five or six cooks
mix the flour, roll
into balls, spread them
and swing left to right.

Watching the art of making
such ones with awe,
anguish surges when I think
of the yesterdays ,

the place was a haven of peace
silent and holy. I could hear
the fall of a pin minutely.
I blame none but my destiny.

The day before
 men came in a truck
 unloaded the furniture.

First came the tables
without paint,  rickety 
chairs followed.

A rugged looking man
 jumps down, shouts 
Vanagada , vangada
.
A first shot in the arm,
the noise hitherto unknown
breaks the serenity.

Disheartened, I turn back,
  a few more years to go,
 I tell myself,  Soon will be 

 entrapped in an unbecoming  environ, 
 I talk to the environmentalists, the 
civic authorities

who promise to bring back 
  peace.  A saying in Tamil
strikes me,

” nai vitra kaasu kulaikuma?”
meaning the sale proceeds 
of a dog will not bark.

A shower like rain
enliven the dawn.
Cool and pleasant
the garden appears
fresh and lively.

The droplets on the flowers
glitter like diamond,
the leaves shine
as emerald, emanating
a soft silky reflection.

As if in a trance
I stand all the while
holding to the gate without
opening, with the keys.
The paper boy

throws the papers
with a force the papers
strike me on the cheeks,
I shudder, take a step backward,
with that to the mundane.

I start hearing the car horns,
the street vendors calls,
and in motors the milkman
with his pail. Deluge of reality
devastates the illusion, I mumble.

The quietude , I enjoy 
 at home is in peril,

My home and I  synchronize,
 conjoin and live in peace.

At dawn, I hear strange noises,
It is unloading of goods.

I come down, run outdoors,
 a truck with tables and cooking utensils.

I learn that a restaurant is being set up.
 Walking  back in dismay I sit on the steps.

It is going to be hectic day and night,
preparations, serving, billing,

The peace, I enjoyed for such long
 will be lost.. Bless the  next house landlord!

Well, to him revenue is vital, 
no matter from where and how it comes.

A cousin of mine from Singapore
calls at six in the morning, I am
at the main door unlatching, She warns
the mutation of the virus behaves
with a vengeance, Stay home!

I appreciate her concern, but
at the same time the caution
sends an alarm, Unable to go
ahead with the chores, I stand mute.

The sachet containing milk
lies in the basket fastened
to the gate, The newspapers
thrown by the boy remains
untouched.

The kitchen door is
closed, It is silence, a
frightening one, keeps
me ice cold, numbs my body
My mind draws blank.

The five mango trees in the garden
 bear hundreds of mangoes 
each one has a different taste.
 sweet, bitter sweet, bitter.

Alphonso, Grape,  Malgoba .
Neelam stand tall  with 
branches spread wide. April
and May see the peak.

 As the fruits are turning yellow
I plan to harvest them.  Krishna,
 my gardener, comes early to pluck 
them with a netted  fruit plucker.

He marches like a hero,
with a head gear dhoti tucked tight, 
climbs  balances on a broad 
branch.  One by one. I cry.

 He brings  them down carefully
 arranges  in a bamboo basket,
 places the neem leaves  over each layer
to facilitate ripening.

Krishna, complains, half of the produce
have been  bitten. Squirrels  and birds 
play a havoc,  Nodding, I  say to myself 
a quarter of them  will be in your bag,   
That is how it is!

I am at home, sullen and somber  
my mind  rushes to my second  home,  
crosses, intersects, enacts, encounters 
being in the limelight, of the Chitra Pournami
festival, I am addressed as Koil Amma.

I missed last year,  miss  this year too,
unable to fly due to the pandemic.
Visualizing the events of 2019
when my husband was at the helm
 the elaborate rituals, enticing offerings,

the Kavadis and pal kudams.. the feast
devotees with tonsured heads,
the cries arohara  reached the sky.,
I see the pictures of this year. 
which do not reflect  the grandeur.

Ceremonies  turn modest
devotees  are only a handful.
Lord Muruga   stays in his abode
does not  ride round the town
in the silver chariot.

The second wave  in India   
turns catastrophic.  Caged, I am 
 confined to home,  My mind  takes wings, 
travels unmasked to the banks of River Bidor
 where the Thendayuthapani temple stands. 

The sun comes out early 
 unmindful of the curfew,
Shines fierce through the roads
 and streets unconcerned 
of the lockdown.

Follows  the highways,
enters the market
 intercepts the malls
flows into the factories,
An unbridled sway!

None could drive 
 the Sun back home.
The Night comes late
in a light outfit, embraces 
the sky in  a measured tone.

Sun retreats with a sadistic
overture. Looks, as though, 
it plans to come  with renewed 
vigour the next day,  Fear grips,
 exasperation sets in.  

It is Pradosham,
a day which 
Lord Shiva loves,

In the evening, he 
dances between the 
two horns of Nandi.

Pra  means remover dosham 
stands for sins, fasting on this day, 
absolves on of his sins

To please his devotees  between 
4.30 and six in the evening Shiva
 performs the cosmic dance.

Pradosham on Saturdays
 are considered most significant.
Worshipping Lord Shiva

extends positive energy 
 while the negative karmas 
 that limit one’s potential
disappear fast. 

One realizes God and  truth
 the ways to achieve 
peace and contentment,