Go atop the hill
if that be your will
sit there in solitude
would meet a beatitude
a course so much practical
could be not more inimical
as many crave to do nirvana
a status so hard to reach
I differ from the multitude
again you could see my attitude
any place wherever you be
no matter you be a busy bee
peace would be with you
once you withdraw from the crew
away you could be in the crowd
hearing nothing of the loud.
The chatter in loud synergy
would never sap your energy
you could be well within you
with eyes and ears open in true
never give a thought to that around
as they would keep you in bound
this is the best way to exist.
Long live the nation!
Longevity is a jubilation.
Live long is everyone’s wish.
Live long is everyone’s dream.
Live long for what I wonder?
Live long to fight with one another.
Live long to spend as much as possible
Live long to seek help to go about .
Live long to depend on others.
Live long to experience solitude.
Live long to wriggle in pain.
Live long to gaze at the sky.
Live long to count the stars.
Live long to talk to self.
If so long live Man!
Longevity is a jubilation.
Bottling up the emotions altogether,
Controlling the tears altogether,
Suppressing the sobs altogether,
She disappeared from the scene altogether.
The disruptive words scathed her almost.
The evil looks disarmed her almost.
The back bites scaled her down almost.
The hurt locked her in solitude.
The discomfort pushed her to ineptitude.
The bruise compelled her to change the attitude.
She, disoriented, lay down in platitude.
To pull her out of despondency was a hard task.
To restore her to normalcy was a difficult task.
Alas! she had to undergo a petulant task.
The come back would be an impossible task.
Living away from home is a strain,
It is nevertheless an exhaustive drain,
Enduring the solitude with a decorative feign,
Days roll slowly without any gain.
Adding up to the misery of living away
There arises series of threats every day,
The burglary in the neighbourhood keeps us at bay,
The murder in the marketplace turns us gray.
Holding the breath with great fear,
Panting heavily in a desolate gear,
Hiding with concern in the rear,
Waiting for the ultimatum in a shaky queer.
To gather courage one needs steps severe,
To face the threat one requires boldness near,
To thwart the danger one should possess bravery dear,
To emerge successful one should display strength revere.
Threats are very much present at home too,
They do exist in the surroundings too,
But the solace of having the loved ones besides too,
Sends a plausible security with much trust too.
”What is this life , if full of care ,
No time to stand and stare.”
These lines are an exact depiction of the years , when my children were around.
I was up at 6 in the morning, taking one child to the bath, waking up another and stroking another gently.
The eldest was a real imp. I had to coax , cajole and finally shout at him to do the morning chores. He would push his books and exercise notebooks into his school bag, gobble his breakfast, drink his cup of milk in one big gulp, and rush to the gate.
I slipped into my couch, it was not to be long, my second one was up in his arms. Ma , he shouted “it is getting late”. I rushed to the bath, tucking , my sari, gave him a hurried cleansing. He was a determined , diligent child, but at the same time very stubborn. He took his own sweet time . to break his fast.,and refused to take his milk. I forcibly poured the milk down his throat. But before he could wipe his mouth, his school bus was honking and the driver was calling out. He made a mad dash.
I waved and leaned on my gate, when the little one slithered near me, with a mischievous grin. I took him in my arms, smothering him with kisses.He babbled something unfamiliar, and gave a doting look. I slowly prepared him for his morning sojourn at play school.He cried hoarsely ,and the play school was jolted by his shout,when I dropped him.
Today, unusually all these anecdotes cross my mind
My children have flown away,have taken wings.
My house is a ghost of what it was.There is no noise,no activities,no movement.It is silent, sober, and sullen.
I go to my first son’s bedroom,look at the photographs on the wall,he posing as captain of his college Tennis team. Drying my moist eyes, I enter my second son’s room.The cups and shields,displayed bring back nostalgic memories of his prowess as a most competitive student. Controlling my tears, I step into my little one’s . A grand decor greets me. His eye for art, his choice of furniture, his study desk with his portraits,and a small library talk volumes of his qualities. I burst out, I cry uncontrollably..
I rush to my own bedroom,I sob, I whimper a fondling hand embraces me,that of my husband.
I pour out my feelings, but my husband is a silent participator- in both joy and in solitude,
That makes a difference.