Category: thoughts

The sun shines bright
my eyes get sore.
I lie on the floor
and in no time
I am fast asleep.

Without a pillow
nor a mattress
I embrace slumber.
The bare floor
seems comfortable.

All these years,
I have foregone
meals and other wants
I never could sacrifice
the afternoon siesta.

Wherever I be,
as I am more or less
a nomad shuttling
between countries
and places, I sleep.

It has become a regular
and if I miss a day
I go mad. I lose
my composure.
Behave funny.

With age catching up
my mid day drowsiness
grows in proportion.
The sun is in the middle
I am well into a dream.

Polish black
and one eyed
gait of disdain
a crackling voice
feet thin,unshaped
the one who caws
early in the morning.

Perches on the sill
savagely cleans
the environ
belies and betrays
exists with pride
in the midst of
prejudice undaunted.

The survival instinct
the never care attitude
the daring spirit
connives with treachery
an ill omen
when seen alone
flies with its brood.

The crow and the raven
are distant cousins
roam around the world
much seen in the tropics
rarely found in the temperate
a species with less patronage
breeds with great extensions.

The sound of a bike
its roar and beat
does not wake me up
every morning.

Jaspal, a burly young
sikh comes speeding
in mid morning
at about eleven.

On Fridays he supplies
three bottles
does not turn up
till Monday.

He has been with me
for ten years. He forgets
at times. I call him.
Does not answer.

A fortnight back
he absented himself
for many days. Heard that his
number is not in service.

Worried, I let the days pass.
One fine day came to know
Jaspal has passed away,
He had cardiac arrest.

It is a clash,
not one of weapons
that of minds.

Apparently ugly, continues
with unpleasantness
should not turn into a disaste

the husband
dons himself in pure white,
the wife, I, seen in cotton sari
made of hand loom. Starched
and pressed.

It may be an old school
of thought – the way
we have been and we are
a pattern of our own, a
style different.

Our desire shows orthodoxy,
seen in the simple food we eat
explicit in our modest living
where there is no room for partying
Frugal could be the term.

Our house lies open through the day.
We close the doors in the evening
as mosquitoes spring into action.
The ethnic abode expresses
dignity and exclusiveness.

Old fashioned we are
Well, how will we be then?
as we grow old day by day,
grey hair and sagging skin.
We, ourselves look like a relic.

Humid and sultry
am unable to stand
in the kitchen.

The heat from the stove
drains the energy
I go on .

Perspire. Get drenched.
Stare at the flame.
My eyes burn.

I am in the middle.
Cannot stop at any cost.
Continue the toil.

Being not a honky
ponky character,
I work steadfast.

Like to outperform
in every task. I
aim at perfection.

That being the hassle
I manage to complete
the cooking in earnest.

The roads of my town
look so bad. Emanate stench.
Carry bags green, red, pink and white
 paper cups, plates lie in piles.

Hailed as disposables they
get distributed on the terrain
fly when the wind blows, rise high
being light. Remain an eyesore.

The sweepers clean and load in trucks
dump the disposables in a yard.
Garbage arrives every day.
Freshness  remains undisputed.

Governance, otherwise inactive,
has banned the usage of plastics.
A sea of change has taken place.
My town is back to the old days.

Each one carries a cloth bag 
vessels to buy oil and milk,
jute twines return. Eateries 
serve in plantain  leaves.

Glasses have come back.
Wooden spoons and hay straw 
enter. It is heartening.
Mother Earth looks serene.

Hijacked by loveliness
I fly to the realms
where beauty rules
with grace.

I espy a rugged stone
deficient in all dimensions
lies on a hillock
unnoticed.

I go trekking a week after.
A figure with fine lines
smiles. I go near to find
whether it is one real.

The stone has turned life like.
Ravishing and beautiful
The stone speaks.
Breathes life.

Wondering I climb down the hills
notice a heap of rubbish
piled unmindful. They splatter
as the wind blows.

“Eh, you man, I cry.
It is you who makes and mars.
Ironical in your presentations
and diabolical in preservation”EhEe.

It is bliss and pain
paradoxical in sense 
seen  much in none other
than creation.

Birth is the noblest.
where joy overwhelms 
the suffering retreats 
once the baby arrives.

Writing follows, mind
pregnant with ideas
struggles to deliver.
Once done it is  happiness 

Experiments lead
to discoveries. Expected
and unexpected results 
promise prosperity.

The bud unfolds.
Not a task it might seem.
The flower is exquisite 
Graceful phenomenon.

Love to be one among these,
a mother, a writer, a scientist,
and the lovely flower. Assuming 
either the one, demands
skill and  undue patience.

away from my zone
I return.

It is the familiarity
which cajoles and coaxes
to rest.

I sleep for hours
dead to the happenings
breathing easily.

Wake up late in the day
to see things set
in order.

Resume the routine
with a felicity
and comfort.