Picture Perfect

The drops caught square on her dimpled chin.
Hurrying and scurrying as the rain did begin.
The dust and the leaves the wind began to scatter
As the rain drops turned to a steady pitter patter

She pursed her lips , her brow creased into a frown
Her admonishes, the thundering did drown.
Exasperated she thought it was the last straw
When instead of the brolly the camera he did draw!

She stood , hands on her hips, getting soaking wet .
Seemingly annoyed, but indulgent yet.
Her wind swept hair , her shirt a bit askew.
He took a deep breath for the familiar smell he knew.

Her arms outstretched as she now beckoned to him
His eyes turned dim and wet at the rim.
She stood perfectly still with edges of silver.
A flash, a moment , of Time a little sliver.

His hair now peppered with memories , his clothes not so dapper.
His finger gently traced her face on the faded glossy paper.

Daraar

Phir daraar padi.

Desh ke hariyali kheton me.
Jahan sunehare sapon ki fasalein lehlehati thi
Khoon pasine se jo seenchi jaati thi
Un umeedon par ab do paani pher
Na ho aas ki chingari ,rahe bas raakh ki dher.

Phir daraar padi

Ekta ke adbhut aaine me

Har tukda hai Punjab Sindh Gujarat Maratha
Bharat jo kehta , bas woh hota jhootha

Kaise jodenge yeh tukade , yeh kaanch
Pighal gaye hain lagte hi jaati bhed ki aanch.

Phir daraar padi

Na thi iss baar matrubhasha, karan .

Bhasha ab ek hi aati hai samajh me
Jab woh ho tu-tu mai-mai .

Phir chahe ho woh log sirf chand
Kar dete hain woh har ek ki bolti band.

Phir daraar padi

Desh ke ujjwal vartamaan me .
Jo dekhe ithihaas ko palatke panne

Woh kya denge naya itihaas banne ?

Woh bhavishya hi kahan , sirf andheraa hai

Jin lapton ne Bharat ko gheraa hai .

The agitation against the presence of North Indians ,particularly the UPites and the Biharis on the state of Maharashtra and the ensuing meaningless violence and death of a Maharashtrian and a Bihari at the hands of these misguided political goons are a background to these two poems.

13th Feb 2008.
Riots of Feb 08
An insane fire burns on the horizon
The burning shell of a waylaid car
Unfailing signs of a waging war .

Blood taints the sweat that nurtured the ground
Where stood swaying in the communal breeze
Dreams of a people , who sought to live Life with some ease.

Unafraid of extinction as he continues roaring
A man-eating tiger creates mayhem in the city
For no one wants to bell this kitty .

Whipped to a frenzy , this disheartened mass
Clambering onto train , truck or a bus
Gets red-eyed as Sorrow and Fear infect the exodus

Will a flood of tears even douse the burning pyre
Of Indian dreams that Indians are now burning ?
Is this what the world will see, an un-glorious India shining ?

Competition

Competition.

A curious twinkle followed the scurrying ant.
A waving finger accompanied the gibberish chant.
Each paused as if enchanted by a magical spell.
Trying to see if the other, any trouble would foretell.

Then as if by mutual consent, they set forth in unison.
In synchronized step, like two soldiers of a division.
A few short steps and the sugar crystal drew near.
The march was halted by the one in the rear.

He drew up his knees and landed right on his derriere
While the ant eyed its prize with some renewed fear .
A heightened frenzy made the chants more gibberish
With a determined effort the ant’s movements were feverish.

But ooooooh , just what was this liquid pool ?
Unleashed it seems was oodles of baby drool !
The ultimate weapon had been used in this war
While the ant was only prepared for a dental spar !

But this toothless wonder had won, it did seem
For a triumphant smile the chubby face did beam.
Jabbing the air with a wand like finger
The decisive mind not a moment did linger.

Gathered up the loot like a swooping sea gull
Dropped it in the mouth on its tastes to mull
Yummm..mmm..to be filed under ‘likeable’
Now to resume the hunt for things as remarkable!

The ant , the little thing, despite a broken heart
Had embarked on the very thing with a reasonable head start!
Now the two of them are having another exciting chase
The essential early practice session for Life’s rat race !


Writer's Island Prompt: RIVALS ( 04 April 2008)

1.No-sense-city

Every lamp post, tree and wall

Bears witness to nature's call.

Dogs are dogs and they will not heed,

But men in India, are in perpetual need....

The permeating stench and the spreading stains

Are circumstantial evidence to human drains.

The amber tell us to slow down.

But is merely greeted with an irritated frown.

For irrelevant of whether the traffic light

Is red or green, it's always your right

To speed if you like or stop if you dare.

And the traffic police..they don't even care!

Now let's shed some light on electricity

And the shedding of load with impunity.

For the city dependant on computers and the net

Has a deplorable lack of electricity constant.

Back-ups and inverters are up for offer

If flickering darkness you don't want to suffer.

“It's the rains” they very categorically state

When confronted by protesting citizens irate.

For the potholes are many. And deep. And wide.

Making travel a very bumpy ride.

You reach your destination with a pain in the neck

Having ditched your mind and a total nervous wreck.

But through the polluting morning haze

If you cast a sharp penetrating gaze,

You will see blue hills and green tops of trees,

Smell jasmine and champa wafting on the breeze.

And then, when I hear the trill of a birdsong

I know in my heart this is where I belong.

Untitled

The outlook is bleak …and the sky grey.

My mind as jaded as my Life’s fray.

My boarded tenement has sprung a leak.

Respite from the onslaught of rain I seek.

But there is no where to go , not a corner dry

My tired heart does not even let out a resigned sigh.

Today it is rain, yesterday it was hunger.

My lowly birth has made me devoid of anger.

Since I am born to it , my hunger I do bear

Of just gnawing pain , why should I care?

Come rain come sun, whatever the season

Poverty has never ever committed treason.

To my mother I have been as good a son I could.

To my best ability, by my children I stood.

My wife , now she used to be good to me

Till one day I turned up after a drunken spree.

I think of my son, now soon to be eight .

Of my older daughter and her teenage gait.

But my daughter of ten is the apple of my eye.

Can make me smile even when I want to cry.

On this dull afternoon, through my stupor I can see

Poverty, hunger and my wife all three mocking me .

As light at the end , my death I do not see

Just means to end it all , and set us all so free .

They washed my stomach and tried to drain

The insecticide but what of all this pain ?

Breathing so feebly under an oxygen mask

I lay subconsciously assessing Life’s daunting task.

Mother brother sisters children all now shed a tear

Cries copiously , my daughter , favorite and dear.

The quagmire of Poverty will suck them in, sure and fast.

Soon a mere indistinct memory , I’ll fade into the past.

Follow the fly ridden open drain down the road

Till you come up to a dank and dilapidated abode.

Where despite the squalor they are toasting a new Life

One more to share and bear the cross of never ending strife.

With all my soul I had wished and wished

This Life of penury and desolation finished.

But oh this never ending soul searing pain

For O Heartless God , I have been born again.

2.The Table

A table was fashioned from that sturdy tree.

All polished and round with long legs three.

It came home riding a red furniture van

Mustachioed and overalled was the delivery man.

The newlyweds stood it up in a place of pride

Holding up the phone, at the doorway’s right side.

It stood there for days, months and then years

What scoops it might have for gossiping ears !!

Then one morning on a wet and rainy day

It was decided that old faithful had to make way.

Give up the spot for a model, funky and new.

So it climbed to the kids’ bedroom , for tasks anew.

It held their play putty, some ribbons, a story book

Quite reveling in its new and homely look .

Soon the children grew , all gangly and tall.

Looking down at the table, now jaded and small.

It now stood in a corner , its old legs rather shaky.

Having lost it polish and it veneer very flaky.

No amount of polish could give it a face lift.

One eroded leg would cause things to shift.

As if for some warmth, it wore a white damask.

Holding up the crystal vase , was a veritable task.

Then one day it got a right royal thump.

Its now broken leg , had caused it to slump.

Without another thought, to the attic it was taken.

Where it stands to this day, alone and forsaken.

It can often hear the phone, the misses and the master.

The family dog bark, the children’s playful laughter.

Sometimes when it stands brooding and alone.

It yearns for the incessant ringing of the phone.

Or it thinks of the cool and comforting vase .

All his friends from those young and carefree days.

Feet would often trudge up and down to the attic

Bringing up a chest , some pictures or a stick.

The weathered table now grew a grey cobwebbed beard.

Regaling the motley crowd with the stories he had heard.

Then one day up came the attic’s latest member .

The talkative phone, as red as he could remember!

The vase soon joined in the friendly fracas .

Making the Jones wonder at their attic’s weird ruckus!