Harvesting Girl

 

Harvesting girl, thy wheatish brow,

Thereupon shine the labour crops,

Receding furrows of wheat heat thee up,

And thy sickle becomes shakti.

Parched lips, work strain on sweating face,

Trickle which upon eyelids and 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 the reality one:

Look at the furrows swaying ahead,

Hot noon, flying pollens show them oblong,

And thou start slowly-slowly again,

Brow thine meanwhile glitters with sweat drops 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 pollen stricken; wind furrowed,

O windy girl, now when the 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 some 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.

Why I Love My Country?

 

O my country, how much I love thee?

Only swelling bosom can tell;

Head when held high and face glee,

Glitters when a diamond out of the shell.

 

Defeat mine fall worthless

Before thy single victorious step;

That tear in eyes winless

Begins to shine for the new born in thy lap.

 

Yes, Indians we are, just Indians,

Please, define us not,

Or you will counter definition billions;

So many turns for a single knot.

 

O my India, so large and spread out;

Extensive to humanity’s all parameters,

Still comes across a single shout,

Which every nook corner hears.

 

Religions here flow river like,

Doing what’er is required naturally,

And people dip to turn Godlike,

Nothing ends, of course, even after forehead lily.

 

O my country, I simply love thee,

Asks me if somebody, why?

Reason any I can’t see,

And if still tell, then I lie.

 

Still, O my country, love is love,

And one loves without reason,

Confident I am only of one vow;–

‘Work tirelessly for the golden vision.’

Who Fuels Bad History?

 

Anger comes just like a cloud;

As if a shadow over the sky’s head

Obstructing the light of reason.

And what do we under its spell?

Nothing but the reaction,

Which our present doesn’t

Want as its wanton past.

Let me wonder not, why

We have’d such garbage in the past;

The loathsome part of the era gone,

Loomed when dark clouds

On human head and reason failed;

Red veins attacked when temples,

Butchered love messengers midway,

And ill advised machine then

Went on rampage; mechanics bad.

O anger, perpetual source of destructive machine,

Thou energise human mechanics

To move towards destruction,

O annihilative instinct, why thou exist?

Success Thou must not Carry Me; For I Myself Carry Failure

 

With every step, I add to my failure,

Walks it with me or destiny?

They say victory doth always lure,

But I doubt if there exist any.

Still I work forward,

At least for not getting failed,

How can victory pour reward

On someone whom destiny jailed?

And I have to go till my last fall,

These small tumbles make me look below,

Victory would’ve only made a call

From the sky to cajole a blind follow.

 

Thus I like my failure,

For there is a constant knock at my door.

Bye, Bye ............, Far Away

 

I try to look at

Something far away,

But alas! Like a short chat

Discourses fall far away.

 

The wilderness strayed afore,

Trees, terrain obstruct the show,

Walled, blinded feel I before

Nature’s spread; feel low.

 

With narrowed eyes

Me cast a pinching sight,

Lost it is but in skies;

Something far and above the flight.

 

One picture is above:

From that far to my back;

Other end eyes don’t show,

Multi-coloured in between hack.

 

I gaze the one vaulting

Like the brow upon eye,

Below goes the sighting,

And the ‘far’ bidding one-sided bye.

The Place where Time Doesn’t Find Space

 

The sun is shining brightly,

And sky if never painted cloudy,

Tranquility arises so highly;

Aloof from any reversal tidy.

 

Everything without a hurry;–

Man, material contended, satisfied,

Relax for calmness to carry

Them away from hot pursuit which once tied.

 

Where hast that urgency gone?

Makest which time too small,

Single instant now run

Endlessly without a fall.

 

Who sayth time never varies?

And instances are all the same,

Now each duty-less unit

Carries on and on without a name.

 

Ageless they now become,

Those who share this silence,

What are few sips of rum?

Here time drunk loses sense.

 

Transience wails somewhere far,

As it can’t hurry over here

To create same killer war;

The war which permanence fear.

 

Thus, the time gost on living,

Surviving without any rebirth,

And clock’s hands stop circling,

Lo all watches without worth!

 

O God! Make places such

Inside our restlessly bumping hearts,

Calculations where don’t matter much,

And soul where only happily flirts.

Springy Songs from Far

 

Now when the spring comes,

Attired with floridity, sprouts

New leaves, greenery new,

Alas! Visitors but prepare to go:

Ducks, storks, wadders,

The wagtails and the cranes,

Spent who chilly winters here,

Prepare these now to go.

Beatles, bees and insects,

Make merry meanwhile,

Sing a song of farewell,

Their small hymns and flights,

Wish the goers a happy journey,

Prepare as they for distances far,

Woodpecker, wren, sparrow,

Along with natives other

Rejoice over fruits ripening,

O gipsy birds, mind not!

Spring here if not thine,

Waits it somewhere else too,

So fly thou strong birds,

Spring somewhere calls you,

Sings a welcoming song,

If the spring flowering here

Bells departure thine,

Waits it gazelle eyed somewhere too.