lessons from a broken plank

she sits upon a broken plank,
cracked from the weight of people
and the sun, the winds and the rain.
beneath it flows a turgid sewer,
greyed with the dirty linen
of the city.

upon her lap lies an infant
and behind her an older dame
who picks nits from the lady’s hair
whilst running a commentary
on the lives of their neighbours,
tv soaps and their men.

i wind down the windows of
my air conditioned car to watch
this curious sight
of huddled thatches. homes.
and the lives they hold within.
but my conditioned nostrils
suffocate.
my oesophagus retches
at the smells.

between the glass and me
lies this unknown world
and i shudder at their misery.
then i look.
i look and see
that infant smile.
and the lady plant upon its cheek,
a wet kiss.

this must be happiness, i think.

and all this time,
i looked for it
in my wallet.

hurt

drip
drip
drip
blotches of red
on white canvas
mars the picture perfect world
that i have drawn within
my mind.

Hurt.
Stark, deep,
when it invades the idealism
i hold so dear
the lofty principles that i sadly cling to
believing that the world will one day see
beyond me
beyond what makes me.

it is now that i see
reality.
money is perhaps everything.
and because it means nought to me
i will have to live through it –
a blotch of red
permanently etched
on my stark white canvas.




there are people sizing you up wherever you go. your shoes, your clothes, your bag, your social standing. you mean nothing if you don't belong. you cease to become a luxury of acquaintance. you become a necessity that one must live with, when one wants to. society and its ways!

of alms and beggars

She must have seen better times. The glint in her speaks of them and yet, she stands, knocking glass doors of transitory vehicles that have stopped impatiently. I wind down the window and feel the gush of the afternoon sun invade the luxury of conditioned air within. I sigh, place a few coins on her calloused palms. She smiles. And reaches her hand above my head. Gently. And plants a blessing.

With it, she enlightens me. I know now, who the beggar is.

yesterday's is good enough

the memsahib has arrived,
hot, sweaty and sticky from
her forty-five minute workout.
the wetness of sweat has neatly
settled upon the even lumps
of prosperity,
even as prosperity strains from
the stretch of a
brand that screams fitness.

the table is set; spread in
delicate detail, awaiting
friends who will arrive
in shimmering georgettes, crepes
and muted gold.

in minutes she emerges, coiffed,
gleaming skin – the crows’ feet
hushed and muted for a few hours.

her friends and she
talk of how tiring it is
on the treadmill, of how
difficult it is to watch those
calories burn,
in between mouthfuls of
feta cheese, gouda, before
they wash them
down with wine.

five courses later,
the kitchen sink is full,
with half-eaten titbits,
discarded in haste,
when conversation turns
to those calories again.

tomorrow, memsahib will spend
and extra hour,
and come back hotter, and wetter with sweat.

but today, kamala must hurry.
she must finish her chores
quickly.
because today, kamala has a special treat.
her one meal of today's dhal and
today’s rice is
wrapped in a plastic grocery bag.
today’s rice is a treat, is it not,
for it is usually yesterday’s?

she is hungry, of course
but
the little ones at home
are waiting.
waiting
for today's dhal and
today’s rice.


Published in Muse India Journal - Jan-Feb 2012

this is a poem that started out as a short story. been in my head for years. put down sometime last year, i think. it's begging to become a short story. but somehow, the words have been evading me.

Lure of the green II

Night ascends
The depths of the dark
Swallowing the greed of the morn
The dance of the grey begin
Once more.

This is a world where I die
Nothing is mine, nothing yours
It's just the world as it was

No soul goes down on its knees
To be on the mercy of the rich's decree
No heart is sold for a penny or two,
No mind enslaved
No love betrayed

The cry of the dawn awakens the eye
I rise
One more.
I succumb
To the lure of the green.
Again,
I wait to die
Until the night


written on 25.11.2007

Lure of the green

Long forgotten,
The pen lies untouched.
Thoughts lost,
Each, fragmented

Wandering, stumbling,
Into the murky grey,
Images appear, beckoning
The mind to think again.

Alas!
The green
Lures.
Once more.

Enslaved hands
Don the paint,
Poring over notes,
To get someone else fame.

The window to the soul
Weeps.
In vain.

Thoughts stay forgotten
Bundled beneath the folds
The dreams lie unspent

The lure of the green
Overpowers;
Alas!
When it releases the grey,
It may be too late.


written on 15.11.2007