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.

for Malala

shoot me again, if you must
but listen first.

Let me shake your memory a little,
Lost as it is from truth.

it was i that birthed you
watched you slip,
bloody from my womb
and said a thousand prayers
for sparing me a child
in whose warmth i could forget
the emptiness of my heart.

it was my breast that you suckled from,
drinking from my life to keep yourself alive.
yes.
the same breast that now feeds your lust
and calms your depraved mind

it was i who taught you
first to walk. To talk. To think. And to love.
And sheltered you from the wrath
of your father and his tempers

i that you ran to when you were scared
it is still me that you come to
to spill your genes
so that i may birth one like you again

shoot me if you must
but listen to my last wish.
kill me until
i disappear in entirety
until i cease to exist

what a befitting way it would be
to end yourself.
All of you.

bottled. hope.

young little men,
whose moustaches struggle
to display maturity
of responsibility
whilst all the time belying
the frailty of hope
hidden in their eyes.

these children play with death
everyday.
every other night.
by throwing caution to the winds
and fear to their weekly pay.


and when payday arrives,
they hand over crumpled notes
to their weary mothers
and save some to drown their sorrows

just like their fathers did
a score or two years ago.


disparity is stark. it's everywhere. young boys of 18 or so need to work to keep hearths burning.they toil, play with dangerous stuff in factories and give up their own dreams. before long, they are lost.

lies

i know how it is to fly,
in complete abandon,
anchored by your love,
and believing so.

i push boundaries
defy convention,
to prove myself
over and over again
for no one but me
or was it for you?
that i did what i did
aim, achieve, reinvent and
chase elusive success
as you watched,
quiet. proud.
and almost made me believe
that it was love i saw
in your eyes.

i would have gladly clipped my wings,
and chained my heart
if only i had known
that you wanted me to trade my freedom
for your infidelity.

published in kritya

very humbling to be published in kritya, an online journal of poetry :)


http://kritya.in/0803/En/poetry_at_our_time.html

life moves on - II

The parade begins once again
Frantic phone calls,
Teary voices,
That cry for one’s own loss
And the struggles that the morrow holds

Formalities of dotted lines
Where one consents to leave behind
A sizeable chunk of notes,
Lest one gets lost in the surreal world
Of death and her angels.

The embalmed remains arrive,
Carried with callous care,
By masked care givers
For whom death begets life.

Others watch,
For a moment forgetting
Their own anxieties
Wondering if they too will cry.

The parade leaves for a brief stop,
Home.
Where bangles are broken
And vermillion wiped away
For the last time.

Rituals come.
People visit.
Rituals get done.
People cry.
And still the finality of it all
Refuses to sink in
Until an old memory is uncovered
From the depths of an old locked cupboard

Tears pour
Stop.
Pour again.
Stop.

And life moves on.

hourglass

Hour glass
Where sand pours
as fast as age carries you.
Or as slow.
Racing. Rushing. Pushing.
Or simply waiting for some.

At eighty eight, all I do
Is wait.
willing sand to flow
hoping that soon, there will be no more.

At thirty eight, my grandson
Holds it askance,
Trying his might
To slow the flow.
Ah! But time eludes him,
Slips faster
than he can hold on to it.

I wish I could slip him mine
And take his.