Meenas Poems

I  open my refill jar.
one that contains
chilly powder.
 it lies  empty.

it is Samy ( my helper’s) duty
 I mumble.  Pounding
 and filling, he does
 periodically.

I go to the larder,
the three tight lipped jars 
stare at me, opening  
the chilly one find

a few tablespoons remain,
 on the lid find Samy’s name 
writ large by the pounding mill,
an identification.

Fuming  I step out, 
he having served me 
for long, I forget 
he is no more,

Samy, I call, he appears 
smiling,  exposing 
the coloured teeth,
scratching his head,

Oh! no! I cry 
 Samy can’t be here.
Wait, Did  I hear Samy calling
 amma?

I could see a rush
back to the towns
 and villages,

Not a mad one 
but out of cause,
one of fear.

Deserting the native towns
 settling in metropolitan
 referred as A grade cities

either
 for employment 
   an absolute 
necessity,

or
to participate in city life.
 for prestige  and power.

 find their way back
 to the quiet towns 
and villages.

Space,  pure air,
fresh milk . home grown 
vegetables raise the levels,

hospital standards
expose a deficit, so do
 the social gathering,

lest, the modest life 
in towns  render 
peace and contentment,

A right about turn ! 
Moderate spending 
Countless  blessings.

The politician of ours,
call him Chezhiyan.
harangues for hours
quoting liberally from
epics.

In between he sings 
dances trying to make  
the discourse appealing.
Cinematic in his ways,
 he turns a leader.

Chezhiyan clinches
 the post of  Governor
 all too soon. He himself 
did not expect such 
a rise.

Reigning the state for  a decade 
without a break, Chezhiyan
becomes powerful and mighty.
 Churns billions in the go, 
 stands tall amidst his peers.

His son is pulled into the stream.
 The young one  seems  plain 
does not possess the father’s tact.
Chezhiyan, the artist, will make 
the son fall in line,

The man walks to the dining 
 summons breakfast. an 
indirect call to his wife.   

She wipes her hands 
adjusts her apron,
 serves him hot  “idlis,”

with tomato chutney,
followed by a plate  
of fruits,

 She runs back comes out
 with  tea brewed with milk 
flavoured with cardamom and ginger.

Grandpa exercises authority,
 finds fault all too often,
 sugar is more,tea is less,

 not all days leave grandma  quiet,
at times,  she quips. with anger 
” I am also turning  old,”

Arguments flare up
over the fuming  cup of tea
one screams, other retorts.

Grandma and Grandpa.
 live like this  in an  historic  town
deep down in India

it is been hard
really hard to go
not once but it is always
a struggle to cope
with each task.

Nothing happens easy.
I envisage issues
in every project I enter,
both from within
and without.

I succeed at the end.
The efforts I put in
have dampened
my spirits. Finally
unable to enjoy success.

People say hard work
pays. It does, no doubt,
the expense I encounter
monetarily and physically
sucks my life out.

Sneha will be turning 
 in her grave  with mirth 
as she hears the call 
for washing  hands.

 She  washed, once she touched 
the handbag, next when 
she set her fingers on the Veena,
 then after she tied her saree.

She wiped the cloth string with soap,
 before hanging her clothes to dry
 her hands meet a wash
 strange  it appeared  then.

Ascribing her habit to a mania,
 friends made fun of her, lo!
 never could she shed
 this  practice in her lifetime.

The specific idiosyncrasy 
is being enforced of late
in the wake of Covid -19.
 being !the most coveted rule.

Hail to thee ! Sneha 
Having been a pioneer, 
who set standards much earlier,
to treat the deadly virus.

Every month begins
 with its engagements.
 Demanding calls 
 salary, grocery
 power bills.

Well into June
little out of peak summer
 electricity  usage  has gone
 up in the past month
  AC running most hours.

 tariff reaches the top slot, 
outflow  increases
 in proportion.  bills 
 four digits turn into five 
 a pressure on the purse.

Every season has its 
 own terms, either  way,
 I fall into the strata,
 facing incremental 
obligations  every day.

The first week spent 
on disbursements.
Procurements usurp
the second, the last two
 is spent  on reconciliations.

Moving like a robot,
 while fixed propositions 
 take off smooth. variations 
 lead to a tumble- fundamental 
of economics.

It is a sequence
going on in silence,
 least in whispers,
 as when the girl 
 attains puberty.

Her growth, 
so long unnoticed
 comes to light.
 every inch, literally
 being observed.

The little girl, mostly 
between 10 and 13, 
 goes through the days
knowing that watchful eyes
 are behind her back. 

Elders start man hunt
 so to say, looking out 
for eligible bachelors,
educated. handsome,
from equal status.

The follow up with 
friends and relatives
  a  discreet effort.
 Careful assessment 
of wealth   is done side by side.

The thirteen year old,
 turns an adult, graduates.
 Having  found the right boy,
 parents go ahead, negotiate,
finalize. It is accomplished,

The girl has no say , nor does 
the boy. It is arranged. “Perfectly”
 claims the family. How good?
 the bride and the bridegroom 
are going to make. 

 They have a smooth ride,
 with quarrels and feuds, sometimes 
 serious,  each one keep the poise.
Divorces do not happen. it is  an
understanding without understanding.

Disputes may come.
 controversies may go
 but the wedlock goes on.
 The ” perfect” marriage
 sees children, grand children. 

 I gaze at the sky
 the sun is at its peak
 I espy a glare enough 
that blind the eyes.

 The broad blue spectrum,
now a sheet of silvery white,
 seems to accompany me 
in my travel to the land 
 of monotony.

Nothing really happens in noon
I think i the world over.
 One of laid back, people 
slacken, birds retreat,
sun  burning constant.

With that I fall asleep
right in the afternoon,  
 under a  fan  creaking
and jostling sans perspiring
a siesta enlivening.

Awakened by the milk man
 who rings the bell at three sharp 
I hasten to get going. 
Tea and snacks solicit me.
to partake and participate.

it is an ordinary day,
one with the chores
fully engaging.

Engagements the personal
ones, bathing, eating
exercising.

along with cooking,
washing, cleaning
altogether so pressing,

feel a bit angry
as why I have to do this
day in and day out.

I laugh at myself,turning
foolish, introspecting
uneven terms.

These schedules have
to be done regularly
for the sake of living.

I become a child once again
behaving childish, thinking
quixotic.