words

Consonants and vowels strung together
Scribbled carelessly on a paper scrap
Mumbled softly in a lover’s ear
Sung, forlornly
Painted huge, proclaiming
Typed hastily
Whispered surreptitiously


What is it with these concoction of syllables that makes us think, want, do?

Pusa Krishi Vigyan Mela

Rustic country bumpkins love agricultural fairs. They have gathered from different corners of the country to attend the three day Krishi Vigyan Mela at Pusa. There are plenty of food stalls and farmers flock them in large numbers once they are through with conversing with farm experts. Their noisy kids blow those squeaky-trumpety things that come with shocking pink feathers. “paaarp—squeeeeak” and out rolls a silvery chamaleon-like tongue. Egad. Anyway… smug agriculture experts display their satin badges while some meek weather beaten farmers approach them with questions about the latest pest that’s been bothering their potato or wheat. Some prosperous farmers linger around the implement stalls eying the latest tractor attachments. Some farm women are gleefully carting back mango and guava saplings while sinewy lads are lugging sacks of paddy seeds. All happy :)

Pooch

A blue string bites deep into the mangy scruff
He snaps at pesky little flies in the dusty sunshine
His coat is threadbare and rough
But if he gets crumbs from here and there, he feels fine

He chases tyres on the road
And barks when urchins pull his tail
The crumbly footpath is his abode
And if you whistle, he’ll give you a wag without fail

wrong job

puerile attempts at prose

grammatical mistakes so gross

the line of work she chose

and her capabilities, were't even close

truancy on the job

hand mostly on the doorknob

dying to run out and sob

when her peace, her colleagues would rob

tick tock

Time abrades rocks to grains of sand
Time bids rivers to cut gorges grand
Time heals a broken heart
Time brings together, time takes apart

Time passes you
As you pass it

Rajjo

She hasn’t eaten green vegetables in weeks. Even a coriander-chutney or chillies seem a luxury as they go to the male members of the family. She doesn’t mind. Her broad shouldered, had working husband needs it more than she does. Her bosom swells with pride at the sight of his shoulder blades peeping from his vest. His expanse of a chest was like the desert around her – vast and rippling with sand dunes.

Her anklets clink and the faux ivory bangles clack as she washes the dishes. Just a little water will do – there’s no grease. The clanging vessels smother the sounds of her rumbling stomach.

“Rajjo!!” summons the mother-in-law. A huddle of old women are cackling and cawing in the courtyard and they fall silent as Rajjo enters. “Four years. Four years since this ill-omen of a woman entered this household, and there’s no child.” screams Rajjo’s tyrant. Rajjo bites the dupatta to keep it from flying away from her wheat brown face. The sludge of tears and kohl- murky as night, spreads under her eyes. They know nothing of the miscarriages, the pain and blood. “We’ll tell Manohar to get a new wife. Arrey Saroj… tell me who will look after the fields? And Paro, who will look after us in our old age? Will I die without seeing the face of a grandson? Oh how unlucky can I be?”. The women look at Rajjo, the harbinger of ill luck “Baanjh hogi” (she’s infertile) says one “she’s so ugly, he wouldn’t want to hold her” says another.

Manohar appears at the doorway. He growls at Rajjo to go inside. One look at his mother and she knows that the incriminations are futile. She sighs and whispers to her friend Saroj “Look, she has taken him away from me..”

14-02

another day replete with false promises
empty words
shifty eyed glances
large fur balls of teddy bears and hearts
a candy world full of candied dreams

Her eyes are glazed
with the stoic film of acceptance of her fate

The fine lines on the parchment of her skin
run deep with the stories of her life

She gives me her martyr smile
that is a shadow of her sadness

The once dark monsoon of hair
now a withered autumn of frizzed white

Is she beautiful?
I have seen her this way, always
I have not seen her in full blossom -
a tender bud, eager to burst forth
and spread her colour in the canvas of life

But now the colours on the palette are dry, are few
O Lord wield your brush anew

four lines

i found

that i had lost something

i lost

something that i had found

pilgrim's progress ;)

Varanasi or Vrindavan. There's a certain something common to these holy places in North India. The five senses have an array of things to absorb..

Olfactory: musky agarbatti fumes combined with heady fresh-cowdung and a hint of marigold aroma

Auditory: Resonant bells, urchin cries, the Lord's name being sung or chanted...droning in the background

Visual: Colour splashed around...saffrons, reds, greens... water in ever changing moods

Taste: Saccharine sweetness of prasada, charan amrit...

Touch: the textures... of fabric, of the gritty dust...

This year has started on a good note.. a trip to Varanasi in Jan, a trip to Vrindavan in Feb..
hmmm Ver next??

limerick no good

If it were to happen, it would
If I knew it was to be done, I would

I never even understood
That it was for my own good

I think of you often
The bitterness has now softened

But forget you, now I really should