Author: meenas17

Sometimes, I feel it is better to die young.
“No” I say,  “it is not in your hands”
I know pretty well.

So thinking I grow up in years
 death still remains far
 I presume

“No”! I cry. My heart warns
” You can never predict death”.
Assume  my heart will give up.

stop pumping  and will rest in peace.
 That day might be today, tomorrow,
 this hour, no one knows.

After the Corona
the last two and a half years
I see myself  with my relatives,
a wedding so to say.

My legs get stuck up
sensing  difficulty in stepping ahead.
I stagger a little, that be my
physical pull back while my eyes roam

 between the rows
 where many of my close ones
 go missing, they having  opted
 to board a non returnable flight .

Pausing a bit, I walk forward
espying younger faces, gleefully
replacing the familiar ones.
 an unexplainable feel descend

Could be nothing more
nothing  less should I say
 more of a hurt that lingers.
 a wound that percolates
deep and deep into the levels.
harping and meandering
through corners and paths

 causing a jolt  and  a freeze
 feel life is almost over.

Days go by the remnants  
disseminate  but the residue
 surfaces on and off bringing
 tears. an unthankful job
 whatsoever. a mother feels
 as she grows in years.
 recollecting the days she worked
 persuading her child to remain atop.

Well, he might consider it is a routine
any mother would offer, forgetting
how most leave the children to fend
for themselves. happening at present
in his own home.

Nothing much can be expressed
 Not much can be done.
 it is a tumble, a cruel one
 from the hands of the one
 whom you bore and love.

An observation crystallized
into  an advice spurted out
 all too soon before one could
apply caution. This being
not the usual  way.

it transformed into a thunderbolt.
In came screams, accuses
heading to a conflict
Master of   ceremonies
who slogged all through the days
kept stoic insisting the values
of customs and traditions.

The duo went ahead unmindful
of the hurt they had inflicted.
Miserable really!

A nomadic life
with a bit here
and a little there
 I go about in a frenzy
not knowing the
direction I am in.

I jot down few points
 read them again and again
 a kind of exercise  I willingly
 do to keep them in mind
which I never attempted a year ago
cause I  had a beautiful  memory.

The read and reread
goes to naught
as I forget most in a second
next minute I encounter
a  fresh assault
on unfamiliar issues.

Seemingly an enigma
from without, I remain
disintegrated
within,  recalling,
forgetting experiencing
an incoherence.

At times clever
most times foolish’
could be my behaviour
a kind of  pessimism
prevails as I  observe
perhaps  echoes
 my weak optimism.

I feel insecure in a crowd

which  guffaws, talks loud
converse  unmeaningful
 a sort of reluctance,
 I experience.. Perhaps
 a fish out of water
 an idiom much used.

The part of me, which identifies
a shrewdness. rises up in full flow
floods with an unexpected force
leads me to an inebriated  mood
while my sensibility, rather my sensitivity  
 condemns the  incoherence.

—

Born in a land where virtue

is worshipped,

Brought up in a family which
stresses on discipline,

Studied in a convent where
 rules are gospel.

Graduating in a college which
 mentors with an iron hand.

 I stay stiff and sober,
 an inculcation  rather.

How can I be anything else?

Time takes its wings,
flutters, flies, never pauses.
the  thirty days sojourn
comes to a close
overseeing, managing
 taking stock, reviewing
a call from homeland
halts the schedules
I hasten to a transfer

 With a small bag in hand
containing the credentials,
 I prepare for the flight,
Follow the procedures
immigration, security check,
a full  two and a half hours
wait, I undergo such trials
 month in and month out,
for a decade and half.

I will have to experience
the ordeal again  next month.
 Likening to migratory birds,
 I envy them as they fly
 free, no rules  to stop them
 start and reach when and where
they like . Could I not travel the
same way? I ask  “Move on”
cries the burly official, I stagger.

–

A drive to the plantations  
I see my trees  looking robust
shimmering with a greenish hue

Part of the area, takes the cue
 from  the play schools, hosting
two year old. toddlers

jostling in the air
expressing a sweetness
nonpareil.

Crossing them, I behold
 the fruits  with gold coats
 a tinge of black  runs in between

lie in heaps, shining
as the sun’s rays penetrate
 with a vengeance.

Walking along with
the harvesters, they smile
 I nod, language problem

at its height,  but we carry on
articulating gestures,  emojis as   popularly
known,  fairly better than dialogue.

A jaunt I prefer,  evocative of life
as against the hum drumming
of machines with their  mechanism.
I hear.

I wonder  why they call
the downpour raining

cats and dogs.

Watching  the rain
fall with a  bark and  a howl
I relate to the saying.

A couple of days earlier
I observed  an interrupted drizzle
mewing and cooing.

Again associating with
the  idiom I resonate, with pride.
 acknowledging my wisdom.

Having read many connotations
I find none of them appropriate
 feel mine is the most relevant

It  reads like a   comedy
sounds silly and  light headed,

being  truth beguiled,