Far ! Far ! Somebody is in need

Far ! Far ! Somebody is in need--Let me soak miseries all
Let my tear drop

Where there is hunger and pain

And too many sandy grain

For a single drop of rain;

Where in eyes drained, hopes never prop,

Lord! Let my eyes give fullest crop!

For their slightest pain

Let my heart bloody drain

The terrain, where death grope.



Let that infant’s puzzled look,–

Due to unholy experiences first–,

Cast gloom, pain over my face

For the childhood hanged by hook,

Let me begone of my thirst!

Hold me back from life’s race.

Moral Dilemma

A tiniest of puppy was stranded on a busy road. Before it added to the sins of a fastly moving wheel, I picked it up and placed the tiny being on pavement. Driven by larger selfish cause of reaching office on time, I hastily moved ahead. But the obliged little thing was running after me as fast as it could. I just ran myself out of its reach. But while doing so I felt like doing more bad than good.


Now the dilemma arises. Is it possible to do a good deed in part? Or goodness requires the completion of a cause? Just because most of us are incapable to see through our act of beneficence to its destination, is it justified not to take that littlest of step which might keep the chances still alive for someone in need?

On Intimacy with Mysterious Moment

99. On Intimacy with Mysterious Moment




Hath I known the time

When the sleep came

Over me like the name;

Thou great mystery infinite!

With that instant to ignite,

I could light small rhyme :

First maiden to be kissed firstly,

Or, ye lightening sky briskly

To quench the thirst of yore

Eagerly awaiting first downpour.

Me doth but fail,

Like a disappointed lover hail

The start of love days :

Gaze first, first meet,—

Time caught in crazy ways,

Again but sadness beat

Its unlyrical, unrhymed tomber,

Lost is that instant

In noise huge of the bomber.

Pseudo-secular drama

Well so much for deliberately leaking the Liberhan Commission’s report to divert the public angst against the Hindutva proponents. What about massacre of 5000 innocent Sikhs in 1984. Any takers for justice in that? In 1992 a structure was stage-managed to be broken for political gains. In 1984, it was the real flesh and blood that spattered streets of Delhi. Who was ruling at centre in 1992? How can the central government wipe its hands clean of an act perpetrated in a state when there were intelligence reports regarding the impending destructive task by the Kar Sevaks? It was just like allowing your enemy to commit a murder so that the foe can be held guilty. Congress government did only that. And ask the pseudo-secularists isn’t it just plain communalism to politically appease a particular section always citing the wrongs committed against it by the political opponents? Political action and reaction mean the same as far as communalism is concerned.

100. Summer Flower

100. Summer Flower




I was born on this day,

Quarter century old,

Time's scythe takes hold

Around years, months on 5th May,

And the hot summer pay

For the cake gold,

Lies which in barn to be sold,

While sandy swirls make hay.



Thank thee O summer,

Only thou show passion for the child;

Arriving like the flower late,

Becomes who then a dreamer,—

Summer flower; without singlest trace wild,

Oh! The flower with unflowery fate.





101. Night Song



O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,

Singst thou now nigritude :

The beautiful rhymed song,—

For whom? Wait who hung

In adopted nest and parents deceived;

Mistook as nestlings conceived.

O singer of conceited bravery,

On this night dreary,

Drive they competers out

To eat whole food; become stout.



O foolish songy mother,

I blame thee not; migratory, wind flown,

Spring abandoned thou either,

Summer gusts left thee alone,

Now, like nightingale thou singst

A long song for night :

Feel I thy Florence nurst;

The rhymed heal over distruct,—

A day's war we swampt,

Thou now wander with lyrical lamp.



How unmotherly thou art!

Not to pour ditty whole

Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,

Like black Goddess, thou dart

The blackness as mother sole,

Lulling lolly thine match,

The life song over night's camp,

Thou keep life's lamp

Burning with thy awake,

Please, keep singing for our stake.

101. Night Song




O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,

Singst thou now nigritude :

The beautiful rhymed song,—

For whom? Wait who hung

In adopted nest and parents deceived;

Mistook as nestlings conceived.

O singer of conceited bravery,

On this night dreary,

Drive they competers out

To eat whole food; become stout.



O foolish songy mother,

I blame thee not; migratory, wind flown,

Spring abandoned thou either,

Summer gusts left thee alone,

Now, like nightingale thou singst

A long song for night :

Feel I thy Florence nurst;

The rhymed heal over distruct,—

A day's war we swampt,

Thou now wander with lyrical lamp.



How unmotherly thou art!

Not to pour ditty whole

Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,

Like black Goddess, thou dart

The blackness as mother sole,

Lulling lolly thine match,

The life song over night's camp,

Thou keep life's lamp

Burning with thy awake,

Please, keep singing for our stake.

Always there are easiest of routes to the toughest of destinations. Every hard situation has the softest of a solution. So there is no hard problem in the real sense. Our solutions make them so. When in the face of a tough situation blame your solution not the situation. Isn’t life all about taking smart short-cuts to beat the puzzling array of problems randomly cropping around us? So be the solution provider. Behind most complex of a phenomenon there is amazing simplicity. Read that. Those cute fundamentals will tell you that every situation is a living being. It has a soft and sympathetic message for you only. Listen to these delicate murmurs and it will help you in breaking hardest of superficial, outer cores.

Just try to do one good deed per day. Hey, don’t worry; it’s not that classical preaching and all that. It’s just about one of the commonest thing coming your day on a daily basis. It can be just a coin given to a really deserving old beggar. Please forget about those stylish naysayers who will spew out millions of anti-beggary words and won’t do even a single deed to justify their theories. Forget whether your one coin will change the life of that person or not. All you need is a big heart and genuine sympathy. A coin given with respect to a fellow human being is far-far more valuable than a hundred rupee bill given we some inhibitions. The lesser fortunate will feel the humanism behind your gesture and reciprocate in equal measure.


Your daily good deed might even include sincere sympathy for someone in emotional turmoil. Just look around and you will find so many ways to fulfill your daily quota of a good deed. Believe me it will require so little from your financial, physical and emotional pockets. Just imagine billions of such little stars of goodness being lit in the lives of countless unfortunates. Don’t you think it will remove so many darker shades from the nooks and corners left out of the mainstream of progress? Give it a thought. Please forget about the larger perspectives. These are simply tiny means to escapism. If you are a real miser and are plainly helpless to dole out anything out of your daily scheme of things, still you can at least give a genuinely good thought. Some say thoughts are things. For the real misers even thoughts will do. But as it can be safely assumed, if you can’t act honestly, how can you think with a pure heart. So be on the safe side and do a tiny Good Deed Per DAY.

Anyhow, a political talk always rejuvenates. It might be a fact that our kitty of woes at the hands of our chosen governments just piles up like never before; still political discussions are taken so seriously by the people as if Indian democracy will crumble to pieces without their tongue-tiring part in it. So the smoggy, polluted wintery bride in Delhi is being welcomed by so many political bickerings. The man on the street is afraid of an impending living-cost disaster. Most are convinced that if things are not controlled, the already polluted air in Delhi will become plainly suffocating.

Go anywhere in Delhi and you will find people muttering. Yes, the common man is just groaning with the pain of almost unprecedentedly sky-high cost of living. Bus fare is high enough now to give this pinching feeling to any laborer that he/she is contributing to infrastructural growth of Delhi just for free. The same people, the people on the street and roads—almost antagonized against the capitalist class, the class of well-to-do families supporting the BJP—are now just rubbing their hands with helplessness. Just six months ago they had come out so proactively to give the new iron lady another five years to further consolidate the first political family’s roots. Common man just wanted to define Indian democracy within the strictly defined loyalties to the Nehru family. Well, is it a real democracy? I have serious doubts. Anyway, the acceptance by the masses of the undisputed axial status of the First Family in Indian democracy meant the Prime Minister in waiting was not allowed to change his status. Now, after so much of polluted sewage has gone down the drains to merge the holy waters, the illusions are giving way to harsh realities. I can see a pleasant smirkness on the faces of rich people from the safe confines of big cars. ‘It’s your government buddies!’ seems to be the message from their side. In a suffering a tone laborer was muttering, ‘Only if there would have been elections as of now!!!’ ‘Spare your voter fury for the next five years!’ a portly fellow mused. Evidently the latter one appeared hit to a lesser degree.

34. Ode to the Early-Winter




Autumn thus goes for the early-winter,

Coolness now starts to tinker

Topsy-turvily; like an anchor

It takes hold through its lazy days,

When the sun with its cooling-grey-rays,

Sprays a musing-tender-maze.



A new canvas on easel for painting :

Farmers go working as if hunting,

Paddy’s brown-sweep vanish to nothing,

And the barren fields get new beds,

Such a soft soil for the numerous heads

Of wheatlings, to prop up for breads!



Look autumn’s leaves brown!

Finally, foliage gets them thrown

From the deciduous with a shivery frown,

While the winter sings a lullaby,

As if to sleep a baby :

‘Too much thou played with summer’s gaiety’.



Winter flowers blossom bold,

Lo the dahlia, pentunia and marigold!

Wonder, soft petals fear not cold!

And feathered friends from distant arrive,

As if only here life thrive,

Ducks fly V-shaped to nature’s drive.



Rosy paster, tailor bird and wagtails,

Painted stork, painted duck and common quails,

Because those wintery hails

In mountains force their sojourn here,

And same winter will take care

Of the visitors; whom season’s scold not dare.



Mynah, drongo and ecstatic barbler,

Depict they cool-spirited farmer,

The air now bother not above ‘warmer’,

Its sulphureous ebriety doth sweep

The hairy-velvety-grass and keep

The intoxication perpetuated to the deep.



The egrets fly drollingly,

In the air blowing genteely,

The air! As if its spring coming courteously

With its flowery shiver,

Yes! It is airy-fairy’s spring here,

While, ebriated birdies fly as its flowers.



Such are the days of early-winter;–

Fog, mist, dew, cold quietly enter,

Robustness, meanwhile, makes a small banter,

Vow, the invigorating Goddess smiles!

Blessing of wellbeing for miles,

While, the autumn goes for annual exiles.

35. Ode to an Early-Winter Afternoon



The early-winter afternoon singths

A rosy-song for the balmy day,

The lyricist with littlest lines,

Whose beauty shines with silvery-sunny rays.



Stoic storks having spanish-siesta,

While her cooings voice floral-pink,

Oh, the snaily standstill fiesta!

The sages, guess what they think?



The sky’s muse from above,

With fancy-lorn eyes,

Bless-lorn it doth bow,

Vow! Small-sashaying-misty blessings.



And the evening all fancy-free!

Because whatever we can imagine

Becometh real with a glee,

With luxuriating steps she doth begin.



Spread out emotional landscape,

Protruding paw in friendship,

Its wild instinct nobody can escape,

And congratulating passes fresh air’s whiff.



The softy with its soft words

To her–the love lorn farmer girl,

Whose fun and frolicity buds

Open like a robust hued pearl.



What a delicate weather it is!

As if clime is opening its taste buds,

Bravo be the beauty’s bliss!

Petal power smiles above muds.



Oh the evening like a chubby child;

Eye-catcher and pleasantly-plump,

Half-listens to the sun’s mild

Request for the reddish slump.



The evening with such rhythm

As the feministic ease of a belly dancer,–

The soul-stifler to its fathom;

Wheezing metre by the curvey winker.



Therupatic it seems

To the day’s bumps and bruises,

The day which wailed thinly, now beams

Gossiply; leisure-lorn it cruises.



Too quiet like serenest shower;

The fair hussy without fussy,

Like Chrysanthemums for Christmas

Show no heed to the bee’s hurry.



Everything as if meditation-brained,

And heart with all its waters coloured,

While foxey logic all drained,

As if a cradle from heaven gets lowered.



And when the night starts to fall,

Vanishing paradise doth it seem, aye!

While, the paradise giving a call,

‘Say me not a weepy-eyed bye’.

33. Ode to the Winter




The winter pouts its fishy full,

Shiver as we beneath clothy wool,

It jerks its foggy locks,

Fed up with chilly love, ye agrestic folks.



The mornings, with Silver-Goddess

Spraying silver amidst the greens,

Feathering-furs get drenched,

Veer as birds across tiniest droplets.



And the trees seem so stoic ;

Immortal shades from His brush,

Whom misty-mortality fail to crush,

Vow, as if inspiring spirit from the gothic !



Look how the rural damsel goes!

As if dew diamonds a perfect rose,

Her salad gyration at misty dawn,

Anklets jingle to her music own.



Birds fly in the foggily-low-sky,

Earlier they took autumnly sigh,

For, too high seemed the teasing blue,

Now the flight without any rue.



The noon with a milky smile,

Like a bride after first night

Comes out dreamy and royal,

Others, while, enjoy her facial delight.



Aha the light breeze!

Stoles dewed-diamonds from leaves,

The airy-fairy, it doth tease,

Frees as it the beauty from a seize.



How wonderfully day weds its night!

The crimson setting behind the mist,

Intoxicated gets the light,

Worries not lostness, as the couple kisst.



Night fog veils the stars, –

Millions shy beauties

Cajole the dark-misty-lover below,

Whose stoic-chill gives a look of neglect harsh.



And how lonely the night feels,

As everything takes a shelter,

Orphanely it tries to enter

A homely warmth in some corner.



How sleep robusts under quilt!

The sleep fed by bodily warmth;

Humanity energising itself,

As myriad dreams get built.



But, also the merciless cold

For the calf and the old,

Both cold-preyed and hold

Their souls inside life’s fold.

31. To the Solitude




The jungle and its solitude,

As if a destitute;

Alone and forlorn,

Still-silent, but happy to be born!



Silence rustle through twigs,

While, wilderness wispily digs

The deepest grave for its opposite,

And peace doth invest in windfallen deposit.



Away, away it seems,

Far away! Thus dreams

Here smile like a reality,

Same dreams, which suffocate in a city.



Like a mystic gone serene,

Environment here had been

Meditating from the yore,

While, rain poured with heavenly lore.



Like a lass too shy,

It doth try

To preserve its chaste privacy,–

Shrink away from any gaze lacy.



Wonder if everything here goes

On awake or enjoy perpetual sleepy dose!?

Perhaps, both enjoy synchronism,

Aha! The heaven without any antagonism.



Love oozes here without paired chemistry;

The love purest in history,

As everything here is a born lover,

And will remain such forever.

15. Deep, Deep! Water Exists Somewhere




He went on digging a well,

With his spirit valorous,

Deep, deep! For success smell,

His battle-song like divine chorus

Waxed the belief to most solid-state,

Only to such heroes, God’s emblem relate.



The water at unfathomable depth,

Still, hardest effort’s divine force,

Kept him going and he never dejectedly slept,

Far, far! soft-light’s mild source

Kept up this cloud-light’s thunderous spark,

Vow, puritan at war with the dark!



Fighting he was from God’s side,

Against devil trying belief’s downfall,

On his brave back Godhood ride,

Like an awful radiant ball,

To reach the goal, piercing earth,

And play with deepest water in mirth.



Volcanically he went,

Cleansing earth almost spiritually,

Digging, digging with back bent,

To reach water, somewhere gushing fully,

O thou free roaming soul,

For how long could escape thy goal?





16. The Music in Solitude



He just went on a long journey,

Which the soul lighted upon,

While, matter’s stern pride

Trying to stave off the fighter.



With his great heart glowing;

The living fountain of light,

Went on fighting the darkness,–

Heavenly luminary kindled this lamp!



Sacred mystry giving him safe passage,

From that bottom of appearance;

The sorrow-stricken bearance,

Aha, nobler destiny awaits somewhere!



The musical journey!

Music of word, heart and nature,

For that fountain of splendour,

Gushing heavenly at infinity’s fringe.



Traveller himself amuser and the amusee,

Such is the inward symmetry,

His rhythmic footsteps with a song,

While, divinity sways to his tune.





17. Processing of Greatness



A fluety-wail from the well of woe,

With angels playing harp softly above,

Dumb music from this most tragic tragedy,

Go on, Go on! Crown of mercy too greedy.



The tragic-saddened heart,

Where the lamp of longest pain burnt,

Its light reaching transcendental eye,

And the oil of fallacy saying smoky bye.



Aah the ways of destiny!

Who can understand its allegory?

Why doth purest affection of human soul,

Gets crushed for purest emblem of whole?



Too far is heaven’s corbel!

There sanctified souls dwell,

They sing, go to tragedy’s depth,

For, without pain’s awake, no one ever slept



Perhaps, too vivid is pleasure after a long pain;

Golden glow of morning after night’s rain,

The pure star in clearest sky,

After worst elements, now shining high.

Everybody believed I had all that requires to be a civil servant, so driven by this belief, I just gave peak years of my life preparing for civil services. Got interviewed once, but the real dilemma started when I came to the bitter truth of having spent all my four chances. Then PCS was left to keep the flame of the undying passion still alive. I belong to Haryana. As all of us well understand, our choice of PCS is just limited to the home state, because the way SPSCs function it is the least of secret. Well, in India most of the corruption breeds from the safe corridors of constitutionality. State public service commissions function as personal fiefs of the ruling party. It was Chautala government when I put up my well polished claim for the state civil services. Easily I crossed the hurdles to reach the interview stage with very high marks. But the all-sweeping powers of the interview panel saw me being rejected with just 28 marks out of 75. There were cases where candidates got as high as 70 marks. Anyway, I learnt a few political lessons, so during the next recruitment, I knew exactly well how to go through the interview stage. But believe me it did not involve any money going out of my already famished pockets. So, all cheers. I went comfortably home with an SDM rank (HCS, 2004, Roll. No. 1093) and the future all bright. Everybody knew that nobody deserved to have his say in any type of favor done to me, because I thoroughly deserved the post.


But Chautala proposed, Sonia disposed. Before we could join, she had the CEC Krishnamurty dashing down to Chandigarh, announcing state assembly elections, putting all appointments on hold under election code of conduct. And during this time the type of wanton drama played by the Governor, state principle secretary and everybody else, it does not even deserve to be narrated by the civilized being like me. Congress came to power. Only after entering the precincts of Punjab and Haryana high court I realized what a powerful entity state is. It is a big behemoth. The way proceedings were monopolized in the court made me so helpless and victimized by the same state which is constitutionally obliged to protect my rights. But here I was paddling like a skinny dog, trying with my meager financial resources to beat the mighty current of state. Is judiciary fair? I always had doubts. But with each day, the realization dawned how fascistically this system of justice acts. Who appoints the judges in the first place? Directly indirectly the politicians hold the string of the puppets dancing on the political stage. Each day for a talented unemployed is torturous. Here after spending thousands all we got was a few minutes stay in the house of justice. For two years the Lord of justice did not even open its ears to our ever increasing clamor for justice. And then the verdict came, it had all the loopholes to make us sit out of employment for as long a possible. We went to Supreme Court, but I don’t have any hesitation in saying that like state high courts are playing puppets to the state governments, the citadel in Delhi is always under the influence of central government. After all who appoints and promotes the judges at all levels. It’s just a well oiled machinery of mutual benefits, that’s all…nothing else.

Chautala had been wrong in installing his stooges in the HPSC before being voted out of power, because many board members were made to resign just in the middle of their term. So when Hooda came to power he found a board full of members with terms for the next 6 years. One unconstitutionality gave rise to another. The new iron lady of India easily got the hand-made President to issue a notification suspending all the HPSC members. Meanwhile, while all these stronger wheels clanked on the high road of power, ego and what not, our heads rolled.

Congress said Chautala had manipulated the selection process. Ask them what they have been doing all these five years. For one wrong of Mr. Chautala they have ended up doing tens. In both supreme and high courts, government of Haryana had given the plea that it has not any vacancy to fit us in. But see what they do. In January of this year, they put up this notification for fresh recruitment. Isn’t it the contravention of their own pledge to the court that they do not have any vacancies. We went to get a stay on the fresh recruitment. But the great legal luminary—having the infinitely open-ended space to write anything suitable for whatever ends he might deem fit—just smartly said no, the government can do as it likes.

Now, having robbed of a decade of my penance for a cause, I do slog out in the private sector. Believe me, my pain is double, because as an educated and law-abided citizen of this country, I always had this notion—born of my bookish knowledge—that state is there to protect my interests and courts are there to save my skin from the larger forces. I but stand robbed of my fundamental belief. Its not just a matter of losing a job, it is the matter of losing your identity as an empowered citizen of an independent country. Now when I slog out in most crowded buses, where getting a foothold is as precious as getting bonus from the government, I certainly don’t feel like an Indian. I feel like an emigrant in my own land. I REFUSE my office colleagues when they try to put the tricolored toy on my desk. Sorry, but this is my tiny revenge against my own state. Somehow, when terrorists strike against state in any part of India, against all my wishes, I find myself giving them a silent salute.

Sorry, but its as natural as this. Just wanted to say something on this. Thanks if you have borne the trouble of bearing with my brow-beating thus far! All in all its just sham democracy in India. We are just puppets dancing on the make-believe stage while the real game is behind the scene.

18. Surrender




God! Here and now I surrender before thee,

Let fate onwards be

At war with the prime deity,

Let it draw all arrows from its kitty.



Surrender to the nectarine form,

God! Brave now thee, thy own norm,

For I have lost the battle,

And leave war for you to settle.



I bow before thy supreme grace,

As defeat proudly brace

The low held head,

While, all will-power gone dead.



Too loudly victorious conchs blare,

And the defeated, wounded can’t dare

To touch the weapons in dust lying,

For, winner’s fatalmost arrow still eyeing.



So many efforts butchered this macabre,

Aah! The annihilator with its tabor,

Its ghastly, nasty dance,

Gives me not the singlest chance.



God! Now I lie at thy feet,

And see how thou beat

Someone who fought so valiantly,

Fell then down silently.

22. The Oldman and the Night




The Oldman and the Night,

Both of them lie awake.

His life fading out of sight,

Cough, meanwhile, doth a serious-shake.



Lost out dark world around,

Times ago he was born,

The soul when got aground,

Old, old ! Now it is other world-lorn.



Night is his companion now,

The day too hectic and bright,

So many of them swiftly passed, how?

Now the night comes, fades as sight.



The night tries to bring sleep,

O mother, child sleepless for too long,

Time may come for a slumber deep,

And motherly it whispers a song.



Too much hurried was the day,

While the night hast much patience,

The day only for the hair’s grey,

The night doth die it black in silence.



The oldman and his old mother,

Thus, stand by each other,

Stepmother will come with sun-rise,

How will then cope the sun wise?

9. Alas, The Orchid Too Far!




Rising rays fell upon a dream,

Shining future got flowerly glown,

And expectations windily blown,

Nobody, meanwhile, listened destiny’s scream.



How painfully he nourished that dream!

The sweaty toil to nurture

And water the bud for flowery future,

How rugged the chosen path seem !



The path to that

Lush green orchard,

For whom he went diehard,

While, the fate chuckling for a bet.



Went flowerly on the path,

Following the flower of life,

Alas, the ‘predetermined’ preparing its knife,

To cut the bud for its bloody bath.



Reached he when there,

With his feet all bloodied,

The bud lay already buried,

And the orchid gone for cemetry’s bare.



God, why sincerest efforts fail?

Perhaps, victory too loses

To huge efforts, which give it repeated bruises,

The unsung heroes, whom it doth hail.

78. Harvesting Girl




Harvesting girl, thy wheatish brow,

Thereupon shine the labour crops,

Receding furrows of wheat heat thee up,

And thy sickle becometh shakti.

Parched lips, work strain on sweating face,

Trickle which upon eyelids upon dreams,

Keep heart O girl, prism they are,

Showing imagination hued coloured hopes;

Hopes of a good harvest; home upstaged

Or groomed dreams about marriage.



The wheatish colour strewn around,

All eager to be cut short by thy hands,

And there thou move ahead leaving stumps,

Wiping occasionally brow thine;

Dreamt harvest go off with a swipe.

Real thou become for reality one:

Look at the furrows swaying ahead,

Hot noon, flying pollens show them oblong,

And thou start slowly-slowly again,

Brow thine meanwhile daughters sweat tiny.



Drops which fall upon thy eye shelters,

Beneath narrowed eyes due concentration hard,

Still sun reflects through them,

And rainbowed vision thou have.

How much to be finished? Worry thee not,

Lost again in a dream, O girl, thou mingle in gold,

Work as thou bent headed; pollens fall,

Seems it thou harvesting, give offerings,

Blessed such thou reach furrow end,

Tire not O girl, furrows lie at thy feet.



Small sand-swirl passes as by,

Leaves it thy hair more pollened; wind furrowed,

O windy girl, now when loo is forming,

And all are afraid of sandy gusts,

Thou, but, have fire more inside thee,

Hence listen thou not its voice around ears,

Thus defeated it passes to flutter those leaves far,

Now when sun is shining overhead,

Like a father feeling for his daughter,

Stays it there to avoid thy face directly.



Thou smell the smell of ripened gold,

Sweat scented body thine sources it,

Mingles it with the blowing hot air,

And the message spreads over the vast fields,

The message of hard work without complaint,

Makest it the golden wheat more so;

Inspires the lonely hands struggling across furrows;

Beats away the looming defeat.

Harvester! Thou art the only flower,

For the spring begone, and honeybee wandering.



Peasant girl, stand thou upright for backrest,

And look around into wheatish wilderness,

Nobody is there except some heads

Bent before the furrows and sickled hands,

Feel not forlorn O golden girl,

For thou art the brightest grain,

See! Each lesser one is looking up to you,

Become their role model for brightness’ purpose;

Grinding awaits them after all,

O apostle grain, go on with thy mission.

8. Journey with the Autumn




Autumn, become my friend,

Thou holding my hand,

Take me through windfalls,

So that worry I not about my own tree’s calls.



The tree where summer’s ripenings,

Too fruity, heavy for branch’s likings,

The air through their fall singth,

While, thou make me follow thy greyish path.



‘See not thy own windfalls’,

Thou say, dodging thy falls,

And push me from my tree,

So that I become mourn-free



And the autumn path brownish,

Summer’s warmth vanish

Joyfully from fruits, leaves,

Vow! Fairy for its beauty not grieves.



Happily I run with thee,

Away! Away! Where another season be,

Where a tree, glee with fruits more,

Where the frigidity opens its springy door.





9. Alas, The Orchid Too Far!



Rising rays fell upon a dream,

Shining future got flowerly glown,

And expectations windily blown,

Nobody, meanwhile, listened destiny’s scream.



How painfully he nourished that dream!

The sweaty toil to nurture

And water the bud for flowery future,

How rugged the chosen path seem !



The path to that

Lush green orchard,

For whom he went diehard,

While, the fate chuckling for a bet.



Went flowerly on the path,

Following the flower of life,

Alas, the ‘predetermined’ preparing its knife,

To cut the bud for its bloody bath.



Reached he when there,

With his feet all bloodied,

The bud lay already buried,

And the orchid gone for cemetry’s bare.



God, why sincerest efforts fail?

Perhaps, victory too loses

To huge efforts, which give it repeated bruises,

The unsung heroes, whom it doth hail.

6. Enlightened Moon




How mysteriously the moon

Was shining last night !

Dim, oblate, struggling half,

As if a fallen hero

Trying to arise for a fight.



The great souled !

Waging still a righteous war,

Though shadows were subduing light,

It did not seem faint hearted,

Went on fighting, without caring

For the infamy about look,–

The popular esteem of a full moon.



How divine was its even-mindedness !

Exempt from pleasure and pain,

Loss and gain,

Thus, free from pairs of opposites,

This scion of warrior class

Went on with its dispassionate work,

While, the sense objects around,

Scattered sleepy across the ground,

Find this seer of truth,

Quite unfathomable.



7. Too Far the Birds have Gone



Where the birds have gone ?

Too many of them used to roam

The sky over villager’s head,

Yesterday, I saw a couple too sad,

Are many of them dead ?



The parrots, pigeons and sparrows ;

Humanity’s flowery arrows,

Have they gone too far ?

Away ! Where man is not at war

With the nature, –

Awaits where future

Like a self imposed zoo,

While, vast treeless tracts rue

For the natives now exiled.



Sometimes, the winged visitors come

To solace the mighty tree gone dumb,

The houses now without corniced crevices,

Oh ! The niches, holes from the wall

Enter the plastered souls,

Architect, thou grow too tall,

Too spacious and monotonous fouls,

Accommodate which only human,

Oh! Why thy constructive acumen

Sprouts only from nature’s grave?



The birds thus try to reach

Where we still have not,

The beaks which used to teach

Our siblings, evade now our civilizing shot.

2. Sea’s Home-coming




Waves sway in the rocky bay,

Sea in this small playground plays,

Such vastness engulfed amidst rising rays !

Father comes to the daughter from far away,

While, scattered, toyed, rocks lay

Numb to 'father-child' who gyrates,

And daughter’s lullaby exhilarates,

Sky, meanwhile, claps its cloudy array.



O visitor waves,

Existence-lorn, thou come

Here for a homely swash,

Peep playfully inside coastal caves,

Bring aquatic gifts for some,

Along with gusts of air fresh.

3. Lady on the Canvas



When a painter paints his lady,

Even the colours seem ready

To sacrifice theirs and turn hers,

Vow, colours ebriated form a painted verse !



The brush too gyrates,

Softly, softly it narrates

His love tale,

Blossomed how a flower in a dale.



He, the love’s portrayer,

His soul immersed in a deep prayer,

Her features emerging,

Aha, love through his hands oozing !



Those eyes now ogle at him,

Deep, deep to the soul’s dim,

And his eyes at hers,

Goes on painting the verse.



When the love is fully faced,

Brush suddenly stopped and fingers braced

The pretty face eager for a praise,

Fallen sage got the colour erase.



The funny lady on the canvas,

Stared at him with extreme alas,

And furiously said,

Dear, have you gone mad.



4. The Nature in Love

The singing vales and flowery dales,

Away, somewhere in nature’s cradle,

Dreams open arms, with all charms,

Come here, come here ! Worry not hurdle.



The place in isolation, with Godly intuition,

Too excited to meet someone !

Come dear ! Come dear ! Don’t thou hear

And remember that fun.



The musical rivulet, and thy hut,

By fullest heart they call,

And the air awaits with thy breath’s share,

While the clouds still remember that playing-pal.



Trees sway with breeze,

It whispers patience in their ears,

Come he will, on thy hill,

In dreams, thy call he hears.



Little pathway, companion on that day,

Embraces those footsteps still,

Hums that song, sung in shadows long,

Where is he ? Asks the cloud passing hill.



Wild beauty of yore; opens heart’s door,

Remained I loveless for too long,

Then thou came, with thy love’s tame,

Resonates here now always the love-song.



Thus the lovely vale, falls in love’s dale,

The love-lorn lady ; silent beauty moan,

Dreams moments those, blossomed when love’s rose,

Come, come ! What serves the purpose beauty alone ?

5. The Night in Revolt



The sky is too starry today !

As if night too wants a new ray,

Whitish shine of mother milky-way,

In her lap numerous stars play.



Stars visible to the horizon,

As if the night has arisen,

In revolt against dark ; with a vision,

While, the darkness browbeats for treason.



Like martyrs the aerolites go,

As if to show :

Burn brightest, but not bow

Before the dark, which destiny casts over the show.



Their escapades over blackness' chest,

Aha the life lived best !

Too much fiery light, then salvation-rest,

Break they out of binding circle; much to destiny’s detest.



The sky with its vault starry,

While, the dark seemst wary,

Its fearful ears too heary,

Oh ! Feeblest shine of farthest star seemst so nearby.



Thus the night glows in revolt,

Depredations in every nook corner, to bolt

The dark behind the strongest door, and halt

Its march ; shines every eye with a colt.