Category: thoughts

Denial is not new to me.
We are but inseparable twins,
Left overs are reserved for me.
That too a small bit.

Not an exaggeration,
I vouchsafe. Could never
find the reason however
hard I try.

The crumbs became
delicious over the time.
I turn philosophical. Forced
to reconcile with a smile.

Those who got the plum
relish and rejoice.
Blessed children!
Fortunate. Destiny’s will

I am happy as well
working hard every day.
Apprehensive, of their
deceits, I move on.

I stare at the ceiling fan
rotates tireless.
Looking a for while
I deliberate.

Is it not the way
how we live?
We go in circles,
where to? none know.

Switches control the
fans. Being Obvious.
Such ones though invisible
command us.

Where could I find them?
Do not search. elsewhere.
Those lie within you.
Hear a cry from within.

most times. Turns a jest
when someone calls a hut
a palace.Dimensions
betray.

Call it a tease,
as everything be
while an imbecile
is hailed a hero. Sensibility
deceives.

Is it not mockery?
when a tiny mouse
takes the form
of a lion. Mighty
is not vital.

Being a make believe
world where we live
farce and fierce appear
true and kind. Virtual
in aspects.

Hillocks surround my town.
Seen on all directions
Look like forts, natural
and imperious.

Sirumalai is on the North
a fertile belt where coffee,
bananas, cardamom
Land of abundance

Towards the west
is Nagamalai, warrior like
seems exactly like
a serpent. Nagam is snake.

Cow like hill, Pasumalai
watches the South. Genial
and gentle it extends.
Idyllic in stature.

The royal elephant commands
delivers history in the Jain monks
rock beds and their sculptures,
Yanaimalai in the North .

A beautiful and productive
land mass encircles my town,
Madurai, the seat of Sangam
Literature.

These hillocks preserve
the ancient town.,
Being a benevolence.
A geographical endowment.

could this one be?
Where there is no war,
one free from gunshots,
a year where tranquility
prevails.

Guns and knives in schools
where children should
have pens and pencils,
causes concern. Tragic to see
young ones die. A shudder
passes through the spine.

My wish could become true,
if man thinks for a while,
notices the havoc around him,
experiences the pain and cries
a year of goodwill and amity
could happen.

This may sound didactic
but cannot help being so.
I envisage this year
and the subsequent ones
pass smooth.

I visualize a paradise

The most in demand
the greatest requirement
beyond imagination
is the cloth bag.

The poor one,
an age old incumbent
uncalled and unwanted
has returned.

Its siblings and cousins
glasses, hay straws, metal spoons
banana leaves, enter demure,
in all humility.

Mother earth rejoices.
Known for endurance
she put up with the abuse .
Posed a brave affront.

No more of plastics. Thank God!
A renaissance is on the anvil
The soil will regain strength,
its potency very soon.

The awareness has dawned
because of enforcement.The
Never could have happened
otherwise.

Festivals again.
Harvest of paddy
marks the season.

Rejoice with gratefulness
being the concept
stays vivacious.

The sun peeps
into the courtyards
as the ritual commences.

Elaborate drawings
Kolams, beautify the floors,
enhance the stoves and pots.

To the blowing of conch
the lady of the house
places the pot on the stove.

Beautiful! the fuming milk
on the shining red glow 
looks picturesque. 

The entire household
throng to see the ritual.
Divinity overwhelms.

Pongal the festival as known,
documents gratitude.
The celebrations
take place to honour God,

Saraswathi, of all,
not anyone else
but my dear mother
fascinates me.

She disciplines,
not with a cane
her eyes play the trick
we, her kids, turn quiet.

Early in the morning
the six of us sit around
she assigns different
tasks to each one.

Makes the eldest read,
 the middle ones learn
spellings. She teaches t
he younger ones  to write. 

All so easily done
while she supervises 
the  domestic helpers
One witnesses a military order.

We, the beneficiaries,  
should have learnt the 
lessons of life from her. 
Did we?

Her ideas, and skills
inspire. Immaculate in 
executions, Saraswthi 
is within me. 

Love you, atha! 

Have heard of an exodus
a whole village settles
in distant lands. Poverty
drove them from home.

Those who had gone
live like the natives,
talk the language, Stay
faithful to their own religion.

The names tell us
of the ethnicity, the places
of their origin. Hard
to discriminate otherwise.

The search for inner peace
urges them to get back .
Well, could it lead to a trend
unexpected?

It is a seek.
A hunt for the lost.
Could be the mind,
could be wealth
could be knowledge.

Ever restless and palpitated
I pose composure.
A subdued external
has never given out
what traverses.

The disturbance I experience
places me on a bush of thorns.
I have to plan a work out
disallowing a bruise, a hurt
unexplainable.

The negotiations I undertake
suck the blood out of me.
If I had given up, I might have
succeeded but surrender
is not my cup of tea.