It Is You

an allegation
slung at me
every day with anger.

“It is always you”
an accusation
targeted at me
each day with hatred

” it is because of you”
a kind of admonition
holds me aghast
all days.

“The opportunities
that would have come
have fizzled out
because of you”, he screams,

is it me? really me
who owes responsibility
for his debacle, as he quoths,
both in transparent and latent,

It is his his mind the creator
of all troubles I see
nothing other, he is prejudiced.
I do not know the reason.


Day In And Day Out

the phrase hooks me.
Right from school, 
where my teachers 
sighing used to say 
day in and day out 
we tried our best.

That keeps ringing 
in my ears as does 
the school bell
manually operated 
 by Krishna, the one
who was assigned 
to pull the long

Another synonymous 
delivery is that of 
the temple bell which 
strikes to the accompaniment 
of “Om, Om, ” , The sound 
reverberates as each pillar 
resound the sacred chant.

Day in and day out, as I see,  
we work, bathe, eat, 
envisage  no change
 in the regular. Monotony
 settles , Life moves on without
 a kick,  an accomplishment 


Not Anymore

The growing anger
hooks me . Seething
at the atrocities, those of
who wield their power.

and at the ones who
show off their wealth.
practise inequality,
nurture racism,

blast at whoever
comes in front of me.
unmindful of their stature
and status.

Let things go as destined,
the placidity, I derived
from the mountains
which stand aloft.

sustaining, harsh winds,
heavy rains, never once
allowing any such
to hamper her magnificence.

As the carbonate ddrink
pops out with a noise
when uncorked.
I shout, scream,

till my voice is lost.
Even after, I tremble
with anger cursing
the inhuman behaves.


Disaster Syndrome

The swarm of bees
the batallion of insects
the herd of worms
come from nowhere
cling to the rose plant
stick on it so firm
as if held together
by a bond.

The plant being fecund
heavy with flowers and buds
quivers and quavers, struggles
to escape from the fastening
failing which it bows to pressure
the flowers droop
the petals fall down
the buds shrink.

The bees suck the nectar
the insects allow
none near the plant
the worms eat the roots
causing an havoc unprecedented.
The rose plant, stands
helpless alike the one
caught in an ambush,

The helplessness is striking
Can one identify the pandemic
which one encounter?. Apprehension
creates a dilemma. The withdrawals
being the bees, the agony likened
to the insects, the annihilation
synonymous of the worms,
humanity acquires the tedium
of the rose plant,


The Uninterrupted Flow

The river bends 
 flows with a chatter
 the hyacinths float
 while the fish swim
 in glee.

The cranes dive in
 bury their long necks
enabling the beaks 
to pick  the fat worms 
and  gleaming fish.

The frogs down there 
croak and cry  unpleasantly
 hopping up and down
the tadpoles following 
 in a queue.

There comes the fisherman
 carrying  a long hook 
  and a close knit net
 throws them to catch 
the sparkling ones.

The river flows along
unperturbed by the bustle 
streams  steadily making 
beautiful turns and twists
a sight to adore.


Learning Curve

That is how I learn
from the ordinary.
Leaves are falling
those that are yellow.
Flowers wither
those that are a day old.
Vegetables rot
those in cold storage too,
Could be the way for me
that I am growing old.


The Timid Hare

Out I go like a wind
want to get away in speed
do not wish to see any
I get going.

Banging the door
similar the way they
dash when strong winds
blow harsh.

I leave the place
palpitation is pronounced
unmindful of what will
happen next,

My heart bursts like a glacier
feelings overwhelm
almost soaking me in
a pool of expressions,

those that cannot be explained
all I wish is to quit the place
run away from the people
who are most unkindest.

those who mock and spite
hurt and strike all too quick
and almost to the full,
akin to a timid hare.

who so dainty and delicate
runs for his life chased by
the strong ones. a lion or a jackal
excel both in stature and power.


How I Go About

The frequent calls 
those at the door
and those in phone
take my breath pot.

With the ladle in one hand
 I rush to the door to see
 find one who has come 
looking for someone

who bears my name.
 I tell him to look elsewhere,
return to my kitchen
 my phone rings.

Picking up the mobile
my fingers soaked  
in flour, I answer
Lo! it is a wrong call.

Being half way 
through  cooking
 I forget what I have 
added, once again 

into the process
salt, masala, and tamarind
I hasten to complete
as it is past lunch time.

While consuming find 
they are perfect. none 
of the diners complain,
with a pat on my back.

I   go to my bed contented.
sleep engulfs, no sooner
the ringing starts 
I am up once again. 


The Poor Farmer

It is unseasonal,
rains come when
they ought not to.

The ready to harvest
crops lie soaked
in water.

Unable to bear
the weight they
droop and fall.

The farmer sighs
money lost, toil
wasted. loans mount.

The long stretches
of his fields held
promising yield,

the day before.
seeing them lying
in waters,

makes his hear break,
wiping his tears, he
walks slowly.

His legs wobble
losing his balance
he slips unconscious.


I Carry on

With the very little I have
I live a life of my own
do not think about those
who are blessed with plenty.

Days when I struggled
for few thousands
with three boys around
were no less happy.

At times felt sad, thought
Why it happens only to me?
while my siblings live
in luxury.

I reconcile and go ahead
nothing did stop me
taunts and teases
did not daunt me.

As days pass, life
turns better though not
great, no more worries,
I carry on in peace.