Meenas Poems

The all know attitude
from the one I am familiar
makes me angry most,
tickles to death as well.

Fussy and snobbish
they comment
on every task
one undertakes,

Illiterate in cooking
they engage in criticizing
and commenting, Not a matter
as food has to be tasty,

talk about cutting the veggies,
the procedure, the method,
in a manner that one
acquires a strain.

Same indulgence is found
in other creative undertakings
especially writing, finding flaws
when there are none,

pointing out careless errors,
negligible mostly, magnify and
shout. Lo! when it comes to them
they fail miserably,

The trait is inherent
I would vouchsafe
as it runs in the family
known for mediocracy.

Waking up to the music
being played by Nature,
the greatest musician.
Humanity rejoices,

it is dawn with
darkness resigning
giving way to light,
alike to the rising of curtains,

a light music not very audible,
is felt, percolates to the inner,
a sensitivity stirs, liveliness
engages.

The sun advances with a brightness
beside a lot of man made noise,
the natural succumbs to the artificial
a subtle tune emanates, distancing itself.

Midafternoon and noon
fall silent, perhaps a hum
keeps going hard to distinguish
as the bustle overwhelms,

Dusk heralds a melodious
rhythm evolving altogether,
a pleasant harmony most
similar to the Piano’s notes.

Comes the night with the darkness,
lullaby flows in fluent, soothing
in its generic simultaneously reviving
slumber surfaces discreetly.

Ramila follows the wind
as it blows gently,
a breeze so to say,

She runs behind the flow
Is she being crazy? I wonder.
No, she cries, it is my practice.

She traces the flow
with an accuracy, even
a weatherman cannot do.

Tuning her analytics, she continues
the current raps the trees with a knock,
kisses the flowers as it crosses,

takes turn with the tides
ripples along with them
dives through the oceans

roaring with a bark, jumps
over to the hills, penetrates
through the thick vegetation

with a ooh! ooh! sound
rustles and rhymes with the
habitation right there.

finally slows, a breathlessness
sets in, decibels falling
to the lowest.

Ramilla turns ecstatic
as she defines and draws
the orbit of the current.

All the while inside the house
thought it would be over
in days,

No, it drags on
into months, the end
will be a few months hitherto,

No, it continues. Hearsay is
will go beyond years.
None can see a close.

Staying in is safe,
Being indoors for years
will turn one delirious.

Washing hands with soap
few times a day is sensible
while you touch something

you have to, the need to wash,
delivers a battered feeling,
A mask around your mouth

and nose another factor
that bottles you up
seems weird.

the change the pandemic
has caused in our life
makes me pine for the good
old days.

Six of us, the sibling are hurled
into a Blue Plymouth.
We set off to Coonoor,
a hill station, nestling
in the Western Ghats.

It is a six hour journey
packed tight, we could
hear each other breathe,
continue with mom
in full control.

The drive, through the hills
with fourteen sharp
hair pin bends, proves a task
to the driver. He negotiates
the curves with utmost attention.

like a pack of cards we
fall on each other. through
every bens, furious
with the one who has
fallen on the other. we engage
in a noisy fight,

As we climb up the hills
the valley down is picturesque
with huge trees of Mangosteen,
Durian, a stretch of tall palms
with ripe areca nuts parade the borders.

A whiff of air breezes through
loaded with anaroma
. of the fruits and nuts. Sniffing
honking and pausing
we reach the top.

Alighting from the car,
alas! a great release, we run
into the house, to be received
by the old caretaker and his
matronly wife.

Freshening up we play
under the Christmas tree,
run up to the woods, there on
to the tea gardens, accosted
by the evening walkers ,

who greet us with an embrace,
remark we have grown tall,
exclaim with disbelief.
Oh! It is almost a year
since we saw you.

I turn busy all too soon
before I could realize
I am into so many things.
a bit tiring, mostly rewarding.

The one which eluded
for a decade, dragging me
to court, case, bureaucratic
formalities holds promises.

The other, my very own,
a prospective source
on a newly built Highway,
breathes fresh, a treasure house.

The third one, my pet project
my dream rather, has turned
a reality, I start work, pause,
begin once again, go fast, a bliss.

Finicky I am as I wish
to be personally
involved, delegating
is not in my records.

Once into it, I go
in full flow. A practice
I do right from childhood.
It is my work culture.

The ones who are born with me
and those who turn in laws
reside in loftiness.. saunter
in excitement,

broadcast and podcast
their splendour. The blood
related quips “I am born with a
golden spoon.”

the other, emotionally charged.
claims ” I have acquired
enough, seven generations
can survive” ( literal translation of)
Ezhu thalaimurai
utkarnthe sappidalam.

My jaws drop hearing their
disclosure, .looks they are inebriated.
Living away from them
devolves a sense of platitude.

Blessed I am to have
such opulent siblings.
Fortunate still to be related
to such prosperous in laws.

Eccentricities run in my family.
One such I find
in my paternal uncle
who leads a life
overlapped with luxuries.

He is not lavish by any means
His princely life places
him above the rest, at times
turn intimidating too.

He summons his
assistant Amba to bring
the Gods to him
“Swamiye Konda”

Amba runs to him
carrying a big polished
silver casket

Uncle opens the box.
prays to Ganesha, Muruga,
Shiva, Meenakshi, who occupy
the chambers in the box.
Uncle chants the mantras
sings the hymns aloud.

“Amba ” Uncle calls,
” Swamie kondu po”.
The Gods, books
return to their abode.

Awestruck! I notice
uncle in high spirits.
His round prominent
eyes reflect both
untamed audacity
and unknown extremity.

Which one is powerful?
I do not know.

it is Saturday morning,
sun light streams in,
my appointment
with the Sun commences.

I open wide the
the mosquito nets
attached to the window.
Pillows, beds, spreads
come out, in order, I place them
in the sun, turn them
front and back dust
and mites fly.

Cushions, covers, carpets,
table cloths follow
them .The front garden turns
colourful with myriads
strewn in disorderly patterns.

The back yard holds
the stage for vessels,
spoons, ladles and plates
all cleaned, dazzle
in the sunlight.

Wheat and rice flour,
dry chilly, dhal. pappad,
pickles. vadam climb
down the larder for a
sun bath.

Not to with hold, my sarees
washed and starched profusely
get spread on the lawn without folds
to dry, turn stiff. When ironed
look neat and crisp.

My body manufactures Vitamin D
most efficiently while I am engaged
in these endeavours.

Indigo and henna 
mixed to a smooth paste 
turn grey hair to black.

Shikakai ground with sun baked 
rose petals and lemon peels 
cleanse the hair.

Called as spice of life
 garlic, ginger, pepper, and 
turmeric blend in food

 provide anti inflammatory, 
anti oxidant properties , reduce 
 any negative effects.

Being the way I 
live, organic to the word 
might sound archaic,