Meenas Poems
Eat vegetables calls the father.
Drink fruit juice pleads the mother.
Take cereals for breakfast shouts the father.
Have a cup of milk compels the mother.
The six-year-old has a lot to bother.
She prefers chips and muffins altogether.
She looks beseechingly at her father.
She turns lovingly at her mother.
Her eyes express her desire rather.
Would she have her choice? a pointer.
Never would she we gather.
India Versus Norway: Diplomatic Embroil Over Bringing up Children on Blogcritics.
“The Child is father of the Man,” reads the famous line from William Wordsworth. Begetting a child gives unfathomable pleasure. Bringing up the little one is an art. The making and unmaking of a child depends largely on the mother.
Parenting is a task which requires great skill and foresight. Indians form a close-knit community. Every relation has an importance in the Indian family. The Indian mother, after a child is born, lives with the child all day long. The newborn is nurtured with great care, fed as and when it cries, sleeps nestling close to the mother. The children are put in separate rooms once they become self-sufficient and independent. The bonding between the child and the mother is special, enchanting and enhancing too. The proximity developed between the mother and the child lasts all through their life. Indians presume it as a healthy sign but in the West it is eyed differently.
Norway is in the headlines for separating the children of an Indian geoscientist from their parents since May 2011. Anurup and Sagarika Bhattacharya’s children, three-year old Abigyan and one-year-old Aishwarya, were taken under Norwegian protective care by the Norwegian Welfare services on the ground that the son slept with 
his father and the mother fed the children with her fingers.
This allegation brings to mind an anecdote from a few decades back, when the former Indian President Dr. Radhakrishnan and the British Prime Minister Churchill met over dinner. As per the Indian custom, the President washed his hands well before eating. While Churchill was busy with spoon and fork, Dr.Radhakrishnan was eating with his fingers. Churchill asked the President to use the spoon and fork for better hygiene. The great scholar quipped, “No one else could use my fingers so I consider it most hygienic.” What would have happened to Dr. Radhakrishnan if he had visited Norway now? He would have been put in a centre and alienated from his kith and kin. Dr. Radahakrishnan is dead and gone. He has escaped the Norwegian authorities.
Norway’s Child Protective Service is a powerful organization which has been charged with being overzealous in protecting the children. The Norwegian Statistical Bureau, in its latest report of 2011, 
shows that 19 of every 1,000 children born to immigrant parents were taken away from their family homes between 2004 and 2010.
In a report by IBN-CNN, Mr. Bhattacharya says, “We’ve appealed to the government that we’ll leave everything and go back to India. This is a nightmare in our lives. We want to bring back our kids. We were normal parents. There could be several upbringing issues because the culture is different.”
The Indian Government has taken up the issue and forced the Norwegian government to release the children from Protective Care. Their 27-year-old uncle would take custody of the children and the expenses for his trip to Oslo would be borne by the Indian government.
Each country has its own culture. Each country has its own theory and convictions regarding sex, children, marriage, habits, and behaviour. That which 
is approved in one part of the world may be strongly condemned in another region. Customs and traditions which seem offensive to one sect are appreciated highly by the other.
Shakespeare said that discretion is the better part of valor. Let us practise this ideal by honouring all cultures and values.
Anxiety mounts up.
Tension creeps up.
Fear rises up.
Pressure scales up.
The results are coming up.
It is not the presidential election.
It is neither the award presentation.
Do not look at me that way.
Do not call me silly.
I await, I see through the gateway.
It is the promotion of my child always.
From Kindergarten to grade 1.
From grade 1 to grade 2.
So on and so forth.
Early in the morning there was a sound.
It was not the cock a doodle do.
It was not the clock’s ding-dong.
It was not the baby’s shrill cry.
It was not the bird’s sweet call.
It was not the mother’s shout.
It was not the father’s retort.
It was not the boy’s grumbling.
It was not the paper boy’s cycle bell.
It was not the milkman’s loud alarm.
It was not the whistling tea-pot.
It was not the hissing shower.
It was, it was, a snore.
Emanating from grand pa.
Life is to give out liberally.
It is not a reciprocal take strictly.
Live without any expectations nearly.
Life is beautiful with tremendous potentiality.
A child is a gift of God.
She has to grow up with a nod.
It is her life be it odd.
The way to live is her prod.
It is the parental duty to bring her up .
Affection and discipline make her reach high up.
Tending to her is an interesting close up.
No more should be expected than this one up.
Be that with your children more so.
The same holds good with your parents also.
It should be the principle in your life ever so.
Expecting nothing from anybody for whatever so.
Content is King goes the saying generally.
It is for a different context say you smilingly.
To me it is contentment that precedes others normally.
It is a special enthusiasm that evolves gracefully.
I observe in silence,
I hear in magnitude,
I see in-depth,
That is what I can do.
A child begins her day,
Setting aside everything gay,
Pushing back all her play,
Switching on to the rigorous fray.
She gets ready in a hurry,
Breaks her fast in a flurry,
Casting her likes in a bury,
She walks up in a slurry.
Still sleep lingers in her eyes,
As she opens her reader to a size,
Pouring over the book in a guise,
She follows the teacher with a despise.
From school she comes home,
Falls asleep in her cosy bedroom,
The little girl finds no time to bloom,
Eventually she has to face the doom.
It was a birthday party,
It looked like any other party,
The child was the main party,
She did not know about the party.
The child was a frail one year old,
She was in her mother’s hold,
Looking at all with a fear untold,
She felt cramped in the hubbub cold,
Poor child! she trembled in the fold.
The gathering was excited most,
Games were for them almost,
The couples danced vibrantly to the toast,
Leaving a feeling of distaste utmost,
Oh! the poor child was ignored foremost.
The cake was cut with much fanfare,
Happy Birthday ranted high in the air.
The balloons were burst in the fare,
Raising a loud noise beyond the dare,
Oh! the poor child looked like a timid hare.
Was not the party for the child? I enquire,
Nay! it is for the adults, I hear,
Should not the children participate? I jeer,
Never! It is a boisterous revelry, very clear,
Oh! the poor child started crying in fear.
A smile of a child lights up the face,
It is innocence in a glaze,
It leaves nothing in a trace,
It is an absolute blaze.
The glitter in the smile sparkles,
It makes the eyes twinkle,
It radiates all through in a trickle,
It appears like a bounteous sprinkle.
A child in a stroller smiled cheerfully
It winked its eyes gracefully,
Intoxicating the passers heavily,
Making them forget their self temporarily.
The smile of a child has taken me away,
Far from the instant pressurised sway.
It takes me to a sphere so far away,
Perching me in a hillock full of gay.
Counting is difficult for a child,
Accounting becomes hard for the rich,
Yet the child has to do it mild,
And the rich have to set right all sides,
The little one learns it in a testy ride,
The wealthy settle the accounts all wide,
The ascending and descending orders collide,
The accounted and unaccounted generally divide,
The kid ,as time passes ,gets along with the tide,
The affluent ,as practice goes, succeed in the hide,
The innocence assimilate the lesson with a guide,
The imperious amass wealth without a slide.
The child acquires knowledge with the aid,
The rich hoard money also with the aid.
Study and fortune revolve round in a lovely glide.
Tiny dew drops shine like diamonds ,
They oscillate over the fragile green grass,
Shimmering in the glistening sunrise,
A beauty not to miss every morn.
Little buds peep out from the nodules,
They are in red, rose and blue,
Dancing in the morning breeze,
A beauty not to miss every morn.
Small children walk up the road to school,
They chuckle and chatter as they move,
Exchanging friendly gestures and pep talk,
A beauty not to miss every morn.
The glory of the day lies not in calls,
The charm of the hour is not based on tries,
The contentment rests on impressive sights,
That take us to infinite heights.
The beauty of the morn is not to be missed,
It has to be repeatedly cherished,
The dew drops, bud and child are personifications,
Of transcendental truth and exuberant bliss.
Meenas Poems 