Meenas PoemsThe gates are ajar,
the entrance and the back one.
Nights and days
they remain being so.
Burglars do not enter
Intruders keep away.
Looks buoyant
with flowery beds
Acquaintances show up and go,
relatives stay for days,
Hot coffee is served
food is available all hours.
The house looks barren.
The iron gates fastened
The wooden ones bolted.
Brass locks flourish.
I listen to a converstation.
It continues with an edge,
moves with a momentum,
turns and twists as often,
beats me down for a moment.
They call the stars for accuracy.
The moon remains as an underwriter,
Affirm by the sun. The hillocks
provide them support.
I stumble not once but several times.
What do they talk? I am lost.
Their words are implausible. They go
for hours together. Could it be an exercise
of vanity? Sounds quixotic.
Wish to be away from such emanations.
I behold with pleasure
A sensitivity encircles.
The girls walk to the school
attired in flowing skirts,
with matching blouses or cholis,
the half sari,two-and-a-half yards,
one end drapes over the choli
while the other is tucked
on the waist.
Illustrative of elegance,
the girls deliver a charisma.
I join them in their march to the assembly.
The prayer invoking “Saraswathi”,
the Goddess of learning inspires.
The announcements follow.
Like the beautiful butterflies
the kids go to the respective
classes.
Proud to be one among them,
I learn with a curiosity.
The half saree flutters in the breeze.
The girls hold the loose ends
with a discretion..
The December morning
unfolds with a chill.
Opening the door
the breeze flows.
I pull around me
the pallu of my sari
walk down the path
pick the news papers.
The sun is on the horizon
I read the news
while a whiff of air
strikes my spine.
Wonder at the illusion,
the sun as radiant as ever
but the quiver I undergo
seems to deceive.
Gathering the dailies,
I get inside, rest myself
in the couch. Sense
a warmth.
Un relatable, yet I am inclined
an analogy with the men I know,
Possess many faces, one soft and gentle
while the masked is cruel and harsh,
the rest portend emotions optimal.
The arches and the columns
appear majestic.
The wide doors
open out to huge halls.
The corridors lead to the courtyards,
which lead to the private chambers.
I brag with my nose in the air.
My friends look at me as though
I am from the moon.
They prefer minimalist style.
Maintain small is beautiful.
They accuse me.
Call me an idealist.
Brand me an utopian.
Set me aside telling
I am ut of context.
Am I?
I sleep in the afternoons,
a habit hard to overcome.
The siesta offers me a refreshment
which I could never define.
The health tips criticize to the practice
I can never quit.
As years advance a
my time has lengthened.
I relax before and after lunch.
A visible experience,
much to disturb.
I doze off reading a novel,
fall asleep while working
slide into slumber
while travelling.
Is it an element of concern?
I Google.
While browsing the eyes close
the fingers trace letters, form words.
the writings make no sense.
I give up my efforts
sleep when and why
I do not realize.
The way I live my days .
How many years more?
I speculate.
It is the lunch interval.
Seven of us,
seventh graders
make a circle.
Leela draws out the marbles.
She starts the game with seven
marbles, violet, indigo, blue, green
yellow, orange and red.
Off she goes.
She throws up the red marble.
Picks the green one.
Both at the same time.
She is in perfect form.
Next, picks two, three, four
five. Winds up with a scramble of six.
We watch her with fascination.
A splendid performance.
Charu follows. She begins well.
Glides through the first, struggles in the second. As she goes to the third
there is a pause, a break.
She falters.
It is my turn. I try to play with a focus.
The red marble rises.
lands on the ground
before I could take the green.
The first instalment holds me at bay.
The rest laugh and taunt me.
I run in angst.
The game progresses .
I watch from afar.
I sulk.
I go back to the classroom.
My lunch remains uneaten.
I turn my face when the six return.
I am vanquished.
The idols, the deities,
whatever be your religion,
however, you call them
tell you of a probability
one of truth, that of a conviction,
a belief unshaken.
The choir, the psalms,
hymns, the slokas,
charanams, the recitations,
praise the Lord, invoke
the blessings, a practice
from time immemorial.
Faiths differ.
Rituals vary,
the distinct worships,
converge to a point
that of truth. A scenario
as seen and felt.
The conventions govern
the communities adhere.
A discipline unfathomable.
It is the final call
for boarding.
Announcements resound
throughout the airport lobbies.
Confusion prevails.
up and down they pass.
“What for they run?
Can’t they be cool?”
While thinking of others,
I miss the exit G 21.
Go through G 25.
It leads to the departure lounge.
I throw my backpack and relax.
Announcements once more.
The flight to Macau is on time.
The counter opens.
“Macau! Oh My God,”
My destination is Madurai.
I dash pulling my pack.
The wheels croak and squeal.
My slippers give away.
I shove them. Desperate.
It is time for boarding,
I have to cover a considerable distance.
It is mayhem. I run, rush,
reach the gate, somehow.
Meena, Meena
blare the airport authorities.
They catch me at the entrance.
Wrap me like a parcel.
Push me through the crowd,
drag through the aerofloat.
Place me on the seat.
Off I fly.
I remain in the bed with crossed legs,
eyes still unopened.
My mind is engaged.
Thoughts rush back from memory.
One day, I am a school girl,
wake up in between, unfinished,
homework disturbs.
(a+b) (a-b), the Archimedes
principles, the tropics and arctics
break my head.
The contracts I have to fulfill
lock me the next day. Concerned,
I pass the night.
The commitments place
me in a predicament. Balance and debit
take me unaware.
Sleep overcomes, the eyes close.
One by one theory and practice
recede. It is slumber.
Meenas Poems 