Night Song

 

O Cuckoo, thrown destitute,

Singst thou now in 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 competitors out

To eat whole food; become stout.

 

O foolish singing 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 the night:

Feel I thy Florence nurst;

The rhymed heal over destruct,—

A day's war we swampt,

Thou now wander with the lyrical lamp.

 

How unmotherly thou art!

Not to pour ditty whole

Upon thy eggs waiting hatch,

Like black Goddess, thou dart

Across the blackness as the 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 sake.

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.

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!

Encroachers

 

This thunderous beat of waves on the beach

tries to reach

the hardest core of the rocks standing

mute and sullen on the coast.

The sea and its maddening waves;

uproarious, stormy, and boastful most.

For years, its stormy passion kissed the rocky face,

The fury of its infatuation caught the unsoliciting

lover in a grasping embrace,

The rocks mellowed and crumbled as beach sand,

Once where there was land

now becomes the soft love bed

for the waves to shed

their gnashing fury on its soft grains,

where love sighs in gay abandon

and soft showers turn into torrential drains.

In this land—sea love pit—

a new passion gets lit,

Surrendered to excited storms

we forget all norms

and let loose waves

that break false rigidities and forced facades

build inside us for decades.

Waves to waves!

Rocks to rocks!

The sea just watches meekly

this sensuous storm on its bed:

The encroachers with all shame shed,

Its warning shouts ebbing away in distance,

as if afraid of this rival stormy surge

on the beach,

It recedes to save itself from this

huffing, puffing , grunting, tempestuous game.

The Prisoner

 

I’m ragged old,

I was once the youth icon

of the fauna around me,

Delhi was far and nonthreatening then,

We just enjoyed its lights from a safe distance,

The city didn’t seem at war with us,

But then it just spilled over,

Its bridges, roads, cemented pavements

ate into our innards,

I witnessed massacre of my near and dear ones,

I’m now caged in a high rise residential complex,

I’m just a poor banyan tree now,

Standing as an archaic symbol

in my cramped corner of this little park.

I go out of my way to give shade and cool air,

But I’m horrified and scared.

Even a kid picking a tiny pebble

to playfully hit my canopy

sounds like a terrorist hurling a deadly grenade.

So, against my nature

I’m always on guard,

crying for peace and mercy,

But it is too noisy around,

My mercy petitions fall on the deaf ears

of the stony facades standing haughty and proud,

I’m afraid any day the judgment

will arrive against me!

Iron Lady

 

It is noisy chaos,

Delhi at its best,

Impatient horns, smoky guffaws,

tired engines, shouts, dust,…

The lotus, but, shines in the mud.

Pulling the carrier rickshaw she is unfazed,

Two kids, a goat, a bundle of poor provisions

safely in tow,

Like a valiant captain at the best row.

Clad in a dirty saree

she shines like a queen,

I don’t think femininity had ever been

so illustrious in its sheen.

Meanwhile, madly mechanized world hisses,

But its lolloping tongue meekly kisses

the dirt on her hardened feet,

She pulls the rickshaw with pride

in full maternal heat,

Cramped for space she turns the tide,

The goat and the kids though panicked,

but the mother carries on the fight

in the traffic jam,

Fights for space with utmost grace,

and clears like a swiftest deer’s brace.

The Old Bull and the Dead Wood

 I’m an old bull,

My rock-hard bones heave and pull

the rickety cart,

I’m skinny but perfect in my belief

that I’ve to justify my morsels before I depart.

I carry a dead body that once was

a robust attire for some sylvan soul,

It was an honest being;

this sturdy, hard body,

It fulfilled all its duties without exception.

But then this is the age of vandals,

They can just vandalize only,

They axed it, chopped it.

I now carry the carcass

as the trophy of their triumphant glory,

I but silently mull over this murder story.

Delhi around me boasts of its mechanized colours;

cars, megamalls,  skyscrapers,

westernized guys and gals,

and thousands of glamorous pitfalls.

Haa..wonder they can’t do without me!

With salivated gusto

my laboured breathing eggs me on,

while my victimized skeleton creaks and bemoan.

The flyover is the challenge,

My owner beats my back like an enemy,

It is a treacherous task,

But it is my duty to carry the body

for its final rites,

otherwise someone will miss

many a drawing room delights.