A Friend Of Honour


Back home the Neem tree
on the north east corner,
looks like a sepoy.

Stands watchful and.
Her imperiousity
apprehends trespassers.

Birds twitter and squirrels
squeal as they go up
and down. Fastidious.

Seasons ensue
a transformation.
Never she seems weary.

She embodies greenery.
Represents myriads
of medical formulas.

Unaware of claims
to patent rights,she
serves the race.

To me she is a friend
of honour, a teacher
with wisdom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That Picture


I come across
a photograph of a girl
whose eyes are fish like
express life.

She looks splendid
unable to take my eyes off her remain in a gaze.
A flash back. I remember the face.
Could she be one of my cousins?
I attempt to track.

My mother walks in.
Reads my mind. Enjoying,
settles back on the couch.

I take out the picture from the wall.
Look close at the image. I have deciphered,
I feel it is difficult to ascribe.

Mother pouts her lips.
Shrugs her shoulders, says,
“it is you”. Damn it! I exclaim.

Me! Not me! I yell. Mom is at her wit’s end.
I glance at myself in disbelief.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Prayer


Who does not love peace?
Everyone loves.
The significant nods of heads,
the shouts of “yes”
confound me.

I glance around with anguish
see bloodshed, slaughter,
vengeance and greed.
Where is harmony, then?
nowhere in sight.

The paradoxical attitude
a yearning for tranquillity
and a practice of violence
tear me into chunks.
I plead.

 

 

 

In the Lane


The distraught woman
tears her arms,
bites her lips,
pulls her hair
covers her face.

Blood oozes out,
stains her red
she is frazzled
thin and meagre
minimally clad.

She stands in the middle
of the lane. Dares any
who want to cross.
Causes a ruckus. A ghastly
figure to perceive.

Once sane and pretty,
the torpendo of life
has driven her mad.
She swears, curses
and lies on the pavement.

Those who know
of her past, sympathise.
Others hate her sight.
She is proud.
Does not seek alms.

 

It Is Something


It is something
that bothers me,
beats me down.

I wonder what it is?
Left cluleless, I stagger
and am knocked down.

That something all the while,
keeps me awake. I swoon
and turn inert.

I strive  to interpret.
Confines to wilderness, helpless
unable to resolve.

The something could be nothing
a voice prompts. Bewildered,
I glance around. Discern nobody.

 

The Part Of A Trance


With my spirit elsewhere,
prepare breakfast.
The idli pot works without water.
So do the broth.
The water evaporates.
The pot and pan burn
sit unmoved.

The children
hasten to the kitchen.
Pperceive the situation,
the pot and the pan blackened,
the food charred,
the burner glows red hot.
stay untouched.

One puts off the stove,
the other removes the vessels,
the youngest throws open the doorway.
They are bewildered,
perhapsfeel I am braindead.

My physique is perfect.
I  remain unmoved.

They call me, rock me vigorously,
carry me to the bed,  make me relax,

No effect. They surround me.
My eyes draw a blank.
I remain static.
Soon, I fall asleep. It is their turn
They hold on uneasily.

Travels Incognito


She pauses before the mirror
talks to the reflection.

Anyone,  away,  think
she is conversing with her friend.
So authentic is the conversation.

She does not interact with any other,
keeps her ideas to herself.
The image is her sole confidant.

She chuckles, weeps, cajoles,
pleads, commands, demands
with the other who enacts the same way.

Better is she, to have her apprehensions
to herself. She likes to travel incognito.

 

No More A Lawn


It is my lawn
that is my concern.
Once lush green
looks pale now.

The grass is scarce
in shafts and tufts.
The soil is obvious
dry and withered.

That of a past glory,
the lawn is like an empire
ruined by foes,
a skeleton of the grandeur.

The pathetic status
makes me lament.
I feel sore and sad.
hastily wipe my tears.

A seasonal effect people claim,
unable to reconcile. I break down.
The well laid sprawling grass
disturbs me in my sleep.

 

 

 

The Sun Kills


I curse the sun nowadays
Burnt, fried and scorched
I remain a bag of flesh.
The skin parched and broken
presents a fragility.
It might peel off any moment.
So bad is the sun.

The rays pierce through the flesh
the bones seem to snap
suck the water from the body
the extensions break me altogether
I cry for rain, for coolness
and for water.
The clouds gather and the sky turns dark.
So horrible is the sun.

Year after year the sun gains fortitude.
Man buys water to drink. A story unheard,
and is still incredible. Did we expect the situation?
The essential has turned a luxury.
Any substitute for water is unthinkable.
Who is to be blamed? Who will owe up?
Unable to fathom.
So heinous is the sun.