Indian Freedom

The Indian freedom movement, 

 saw Tilak, an extremist

the father of the Indian freedom

another noted one M. K, Gandhi, 

who came from South Africa, 

advocated Ahimsa, a Satvik way 

of fighting, inducing millions of followers.

One such being Narayanan, 

son of a British supporter,

 in his early twenties and the other

is Saraswathi, daughter of a nationalist. 

Both having decided individually

 to remain unmarried.  “Gain Freedom”

is their ultimate aim.

Driven by patriotism, they write letters 

to Gandhi, to intervene and stop the alliance,

 Their high placed fathers indulge to make both tie the knot.

 Gandh, respecting the stature of the seniors., keeps 


Narayanan and Saraswathi, unable to defy 

their powerful fathers, marry on 22/Aug/1947, 

a week after the Indian independence.

They, who were reluctant, fall headlong

into marital bliss, raise a family, a big one rather,

a brood of six, I am one of them.



Lesser Knowns

Taj Mahal is astounding, 

breathtaking, lovely,

shouts the world.

 A wonder. one of the seven 

in the world, the only one in India–

 hyperbolic in respects.

Closer to me there are temples

 built and formed out of caves,

 eliciting the finest architecture,

12 Gopurams, 33000 sculptures,

1000 pillared hall, some produce 

musical notes, an architectural

marvel, called as Meenakshi Temple

stands enrichingly humble, massively small, 

wonderfully submissive, far from this exaggerated 


design, in the Southern part of India. 

not very much known to the world

breathing pride and exuding divinity.


It is Ashtami-I Begin

Ashtami and Navami

 being the forbidden days

 in the Hindu calendar,

every fifteenth day 

they knock the door,

the most unwelcomed ones.

They count

eighth and ninth days 

from Full and New Moons.

A belief, that seems unbelievable. 

says they are days which land 

one in grief.

This is mere superstition,

 I tell my friends, just ignore

 and go ahead.

 It is between you and me, so to say 

I fear Ashtami and keep away 

from Navami. 


An Evening Song

A noise free evening

 being a Sunday. I watch

 the lane, emptiness 


The vacuum before me

 triggers a nostalgic feel.

 a communion with infinity 

an interaction hitherto not felt.

Trees stand still

 Leaves keep quiet

 Even the grass stays stiff.

My ears turn inert.

Tuning them I hear  

a palpable sound, silence 

activates rhythmic notations

similar to the song of a brook.

A sweet song permeates

a gentle up, a shallow down

goes the melody, The red ball 

diffuses into an orangish hue.     



Bemused to see make up women

with lipstick, mascara, foundation 

concealer, compact.

Looking at the way they carry themselves 

turns an entertainment. Blouses with 

intricate embroidery, deep low-cut necklines,

expose the skin, the underneath fleshes

 bulge and project. Provokes  

and detracts.

Not that I am averse to fashion

 I expect a modest, decent 

 and respectable outfits.

The ones that raise the stature

 that reflect your culture

 that command dignity.



 I am in two minds

 to do or not to do

 an Hamletian one.

I call, listen, read, hear,

as faculties turn sharp.

my heart disallows.

What to do? How to go?

 I cannot afford to be rash

 nor become a sponge.

I remain helpless 

like a boat struggling 

in the violent current.

The fever subsides,

 I decide to traverse 

the path least approved.

Hamlet within me 

escapes fast, knowing 

I am strong. 


My Eyes

 I receive a purchase order

 the writing is a scribble.

Forward the same to the vendor

whose reply is a scrawl.

 I hold both for a minute 

 scratch my head for an hour,

Wonder how did both make out?

 decide to test my eyes.


Indian Monsoon

Light, thunder and rain,

a regular feature of monsoon.

Rivers inundate, roads flood

traffic in chaos.

Schools, colleges announce closure

 office goers wade through waters,

Dengue, flu, fever is on the rise

 stuffed noses are a common sight.

Precarious is the Indian monsoon 

 some years heavy, some very slight.

 Marked by drought or flooding

marshalled either by famine or deluge.


My Daughter

Touched by a message from abroad.
Starting with” Million apologies God ma
on missing out wishing you a Happy Diwali.”
I stand speechless.

I bore three sons; never did I yearn for a daughter,
till I met this girl 14 years back.  We were drawn
to each other, a mother daughter relationship
on the anvil.

She is from a different race, speaks English fluently.
Our eyes speak volumes.  Once, her scream, “God ma,
God ma” in the middle of the night wakes me  I call , she
in a time zone ahead of mine, breaks  down uncontrollably,

My beautiful daughter, pleasant and affable, is stressed out. 

 Personally, she is not happy. mired by deceit and treachery. 

Ditched by her spouse, she makes good

of her days working hard to advance in profession.

Once during her visit to my place, she ran up to me
hugged me  tight, I could feel her body shiver.
Holding her gently, running my fingers through her hair
 I whispered, ” This will also pass”.


Every House

Every house has a cupboard
when thrown open skeletons jump.
which look mysterious,
when poked, tell tales

Every house has steps
some have very few,
most too many, Each step talks
high and low of happenings
which stumbles on a concern.

Every house has walls
made of bricks and mortar.
They echo happiness and grief
stand testimony to the embrace

with love and fights with fury.