Die another day

Jets of fountain breeze through the skies, colouring the lining of clouds. Multihued and musical, the loops, commas and exclamations, in chorus, dance to the beats of orchestrated waters. Boom! Boom! Silence………………………………………………………………………………….. Bodies, which a fraction of a second ago were humans, lie dotted on the soft flora and fauna, crushing them dead weight under. The blood bath waters the cries of excitement down to ear splitting hysteria. Humanity dies yet another day. Life makes life. Love makes love and Evil makes evil. Scores of people breathe their last, and scores more, breathless in anxiety, count their life saved blessings. “Why me”? , ask the chosen few, moaning in punished suffering and ripped in life scarring deep wounds. These wounds stay gaping and gnawing into human hearts which witness unspoken voices and hear blasts which mute all degrees of reasoning. Indeed LIFE dies yet another day.

Idea Hatched!

A hen hatches on an idea one day And sits aboard, protective of its outcome. It waits and wriggles its ears Under a feather cap, Cocks to the left and right To hear the crunch... Rotten and broken and half Hatched they stare, the shells Lay bare open While the creative juices run scattered The colony of hens mourns for their loss. Alas!! Their ideas have gone for a toss. But this one sticks out, unruffled The idea within the bulge ripens To a week and a score almost full. Dressed in sun shades of yellow and watery white It awaits a dawn oh so bright!

My mind tree

Sun kissed leaves bathe In the morning dewdrops. They swish to the hymns Of the temple bells, Greenery chants and Springs to the season of the koel. Happy hues, the leaves cast Their shades on the pond, Murky green carpeted, covers The moss. While the spray of the dew, Leaves behind the watery pond Awash, anew. A fresh start this, Another day, yet another hope… Rooted in my mind tree.

The True Blue GOD

Dew drops of salt Drop down her eyes, Clouds of despair hang.. Circle-like dark eye under. Her pain blooms for HIS touch, Now missing and forever divine. She seeks for answers many Probes.. knifing deep Into HIS presence. Invisible by sight The mind's eye knows too well, And yet touched by HIS rainbow, Hopes... She stares at the hanging hues, Her despair curving, Melting the deeper blues away.

Some of my favourite quotes

"The only thing that stands between a man and what he wants from life is often merely the will to try it and the faith to believe that it is possible"-Richard M.DeVos. "Time is our most valuable asset, yet we tend to waste it, kill it, and spend it rather than invest it"-Jim Rohn. "Only in growth, reform and change, paradoxically enough is true security to be found"-Anne Morrow Lindbergh. "A difficult time can be more readily endured if we retain the conviction that our existence holds a purpose-a cause to pursue,a person to love, a goal to achieve"-John Maxwell. "Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless in facing them.Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain, but for the heart to conquer it"-Rabindranath Tagore. "Life does not require us to make good; it only asks that we give our best at each level of experience"-Harold Ruopp.

Second chance

Swaying slowly to the sleepy and soothing night, and resting on the long, drawn, comfortable (old) easy chair made me forget my worries as my mind traversed backwards in time. Living back then in a 23 member choultry (otherwise called home) was no mean task, and our(singularly plural) home extended from one long corner to the other, housing about 7-8 rooms. Inclusive of such vast space were drawing room cum bedrooms belonging to my uncles and their families (which my mom and i are part of) and an all exclusive poojai room meant for worshipping GOD of small and BIG things.2 dingy bathrooms (1 for the owner and the other for the others, and during pressing needs the "mending wall" philosophy was violated with at most freedom!!) A narrow verandah which was a mere extension to the rooms full of furniture, filth etc and complemented one another quite easily. Objects (too many) were placed in space (too less/little) easily reachable and usable (irrespective of its place) and our understanding of such imperfections, were in short quite "extra" ordinary!! The ensuing lack of comforts, commotion and ceaseless activities bestowed with unique opinions and judgments of the doers was not reflective of a picture-perfect family. Rather a haven for a score of individuals who blended as a unit, inseparable in spirit, and divided in assortments of distinct sizes and shapes. Our neighbours admired us for this accepting attitude towards such daily basis pandemonium, and that too at an age where small families were/are the order of the day. The rocky, barren backyard was made the best use of, especially during sultry summer evenings which eventually became cool and relaxing, and made our problems seem lighter and easily manageable. The thicket(s) of mattress spread under the starry sky and a plethora of books to choose from the dusty shelves helped the booklovers and story-tellers be in tune with their imaginations and hopes. The simplest of gestures shared and reciprocated in mutual trust and innocence made growing (of young and old alike) the way it is and not a mere technical process of ageing. Though not perfect personalities (now), yet, a memorable walk through such times of childhood makes the products of such a family walk the extra mile-for today and the days to come. I dearly hope and pray that youngsters of yesteryears take their much lived, slow/leisurely and time-tested past as a present (gift) and help spread smiles to those who "grow" much too faster. Let us give ourselves and our childhood a 2nd chance.

Love and Fear

Fear blocks the passage to GOD, whereas Love finds and presents a way. Fear makes one perceive what one wants to, while Love makes one wantless. In fear, one craves to enjoy life, while enjoyment becomes love. Fear courts illness and Love attracts health and strength. Fear can be "I" Love can be "Us" Fear is hardship and Love is simple. Fear opposes some while Love opposes none. To fear more is to flee life To love most is to set oneself free.

Mummies and Mothers

A lump of pain was bandaged across her knee, shelved off the dead bones and un lively tissues, a (Egyptian) Mummy now, a Mother earlier. Cast in her own life and by situations that bind, she tries to put her best foot forward…sometimes in vain…but now in pain. Mummies long live their past and remain a silent mass weighing down (historians) people’s memories. And similar are the lives of so many more creators who have mothered us, preceded by a cycle of their very own of longsome history. Time remains eternal while we change our roles. Walking on earth as tropical daughters who bloom breezing through springs of childhood, growing further through wintry pangs of adolescence and youth and when older, crucified in summer fires in silence. We are reborn through hard labours of seasons of life and emerge alive from dark holes of pain unto a life of bright hopes and happiness. Clothed in love by mothers, while bandaged by the hands of time that reverses our roles, we remain mummified-in a box of others requirements, wants and desires, carrying within our chest a strength to create and love. History repeats itself and so do We.

oatmeal porridge

The kitchen seems a boiling pot of a world. Each of us womenfolk at (my) home is one with the heating cauldron on the stove. Burnt from head to toe misshaped and yet strong...each such time-tested vessel has a story to tell. They aren’t empty , though they wish they were...empty of worries and pain as they stand tall making agony mixed noises, only to heard half full by others. As my aunt stood facing her world, the stove at work, stirring thick, creamy, oat porridge, she enquired the bubbling hunger silencer-"Are you a potion of ideas?" "Your bubble head bobs and dips so often, I wish I knew what’s cooking with you?" The exhaust fan hummed lazily and tried blowing air to minimize the steam off the porridge and its maker. The maker, my aunt, was churning things from her past while her hand carried these preserved thoughts, kindling them and making them come alive. Moist faces and dewy days flowed from her past, layer upon layer. A cloud of anger moved across her face, as the fixed deposit of oat chunks in the depth of the vessel stuck not budging. Her conquests to win this losing battle gave way as the smoothened porridge gulped the bubbles, now simmered. The exhaust fan was tired (by now) puffing the excess steam away, as my aunt downed a cup of this victory potion. She was ready for other conquests.