The pickle seller

 

In this fast-paced, worried world,

he is slow-paced and relaxed,

The elderly pickle seller

who visits the village on Wednesdays,

Gently pulling his bicycle,

His wooden tray

bearing jars of different pickles,--

Mango, lemon, chili, mixed,

Made at home with extreme care.

He doesn’t shout,

He gently trills,

As you hear his kindly hawking notes,

you suddenly know it’s Wednesday,

He must be visiting seven villages

on seven different days,

A small target audience

for his little business,

Following his weekly rules

as obediently as his mixtures of spices,

It might be a world of

ultramodern foods, tastes and culinary techniques,

of home deliveries and swanky food courts,

But a bit of his pickle

still brings water and taste

to the poor disadvantaged tongues,

And even the well-off

may sometimes go for a taste change.

His Wednesday visit,

going from years after years,

from his youth to old age,

fills the vacant culinary space

left there by the economic disparities,

He has his little world

in this big, clamoring, clattering bazaar.

He doesn’t run,

he gently walks,

He doesn’t shout,

He merely whispers his hawking notes,

He isn’t bothered about factories and corporations,

He is happy with his portion of his room

where he prepares his pickles,

Beyond jet-flying complexities,

he is joyful on his bicycle,

Beyond celebrity chefs and their philosophical cooking,

He is happy with his ever-same pickles,

Beyond the stampede of more and more,

he still weighs his world

in grams of pickles

and calculates the finances in one, two rupees and paisas,

He carries lots of change in his pocket,

Small notes and coins to deal with poor customers,

But he brings big culinary delight

to many a poor heart.

He owns his Wednesday in the village

more than anyone else,  

It’s his day,

Arrives he with the sun’s fresh ray,

A gentle hawking walk,

And then goes away for the next six days.

A little game of loss and gain

 

The white-browed, fan-tail flycatcher,

Sallies which on airy pamper,

Now seems in offbeat temper,

It sits on the terrace railing,

Perched like the court’s king,

Looks down at a curious pigeon on yard’s wall,

Very curious is the pigeon,

Looking on the floor below,

tentative and looking to make a decision

to collect some grain with precision,

But the flycatcher seems to give a warning,

Its notes already in mourning,

And when its warning tweets fail,

It sallies down to avoid a tragic tale,

It’s sitting higher,

From there the situation looks dire,

A cat is behind a column to sire

a hunting chance to quench its stomach’s fire,

The low-sitting pigeon cannot see

the flycatcher’s warning key,

The flycatcher then does a heroic act,

Inspired by the book of birdie pact,

It sallies down

and almost lands on the pigeon with a frown,

The pigeon moves a bit

to doze the hit,

It but looks determined to pick its grain,

Focused is its brain,

For survival all this pain,

But alas all goes vain.

It lands with a flutter

to the flycatcher’s disgust utter,

All effort to life goes down the gutter,

Pounces fast the cutter,

Clutter and stutter,

The hiding cat is fast,

Emerges full blast,

Flurried flutter and agonized mutter,

Soft meat cut like butter,

Trail of blood on the floor,

Angrily the flycatcher swore,

The cat scurries away with its catch,

Carrying its snatch,

It has kittens to rear,

Little dumplings dear,

Maternal instincts sheer,

I see it relaxing the next day,

Post the successful slay,

A tiny teat

shines with soft pinkish greet,

The meat turned to milk,

Wonderful recycling of life and death,

The handover of breath,--

Old bodies changing into new bodies fresh.

A flower on the burning pyre

 

It’s fiery hot,

The sunrays  burn, singe and angry lot,

Almost like a vast open oven,

Everything and everyone

getting slowly baked with fiery greed,

I know we need

this heating to survive and grow,

Futile isn’t the sweat on thy brow,

This heat sows the seeds for

cool, greeny prospects in times to come.

The trees tested and shorn of leaves,

Their spirit grieves,

But they have to pass this test

for luxuriant growth and rest

during the monsoon rains,

Forgotten when will be all pains.

Tired birds, panting beaks

among sandy airy shrieks,

They have to keep the song going,

Keep the birdie boat rowing

for the sake of rainy days,

when there will be a joyful maze

of nests, hatchlings and love,

A brush with luxuriant canopy’s shove.

The land parched, cracked, rusted,

All spirits lying dusted,

With open wounds and cracks the land praying,

A piteous cattle braying,

Everything praying with full receptivity and faith,

Lying open like a vast open bowl

for the sky’s grace to fall

in the form of raindrops as blessings,

Having so submissively lain

waiting for the first rain

and dance among the fragrance of the soil,

Forgotten will be all burning toil,

The wind that burns the eyes now

will turn a soothing whisk gyrating

for cool shove

on frayed tempers and stressed brow.

I just have to wait

and not give into frustration’s bait,

while even the iron railing seems to melt,

and brace up my fortitude’s belt.

There is a miracle,--

A little flower in my small garden,

Singed with fire

but still smiling on the burning pyre,

While the burning sunrays

feel capable of burning

even the paint and plaster on the wall,

The sunburnt flower avoids beauty’s total fall,

A little bit of icing on the cake of miracle,

A butterfly on the sunburnt flower,

Carrying the colors of defiance

and survival against all odds,

A little chit of flying colors,

diving, fluttering among the

air on fire,

That’s enough for me,

This little miracle in this furnace,

All is well

as long as you have a little flower

and a butterfly

carrying the seed, the baton, the prospect

of cool, luxuriance, rains and loving breeze

liberate which will everything from fire’s seize.

A playful birdie guy

 

White-browed, fan-tail flycatcher,

A big name for a little bird,

But it’s a sweet, playful birdie

you ever heard,

For hunting is its play,

A lucky bird indeed

for having the survival duty

as a playful booty.

It chases the houseflies,

Dips, dives, sallies,

curves, twists, dallies,

moves, shakes and turns

for many a fabulous airy churns,--

Just a pleasant game

in survival’s name,

The flies don’t fly far and high,

Among them its playgrounds lie,

It chases them along

their zigzag flight with a playful throng,

Seeing it earning its bread,

as if chasing a playful thread,  

one may mistake it

as a cutely drunk birdie guy.

From a little distance in the yard

lucky is the bard

to watch the antics of this little hunter,

a funny, frolicking punter.

You don’t see the fly it’s after,

You just marvel at the

airy hoops, loops and even somersaults,

The fly is very quick

and to catch it with a childish squeak

one has to be the master of airy display.

It doesn’t mind your presence much,

Soothing, friendly such!

A very friendly bird,

It’s just bothered

about its playmate, the fly,

And isn’t shy

to fly near and around you,

You feel the soft brush of nature’s hue

as it sallies very close,

You get an easeful dose

of wellbeing and joy,

An untamed bird so near, ahoy!

An untamed bird flying so near,

So friendly and dear,

You feel good

And come out of your sad mood.

It gives me good company

in my little yard,

A few lines of nourishment

for the thirsty, hungry bard.

A perky, agile bird

it flicks its fan-tail

before going for the airy sail,

It moves sideways even while sitting,

So much full of playful energy,

A happy, lucky guy

to have its hobby as a profession,

A rare bird that

makes hunting look like a play,

All enthusiastic, spirited and gay,

It stirs the same cords in me

whenever I Look at it,

I marvel, muse and forget

the seriousness of life

among all the human strife,

How playfully it carries it survival duty

with playfulness and loopy beauty!

Lonely Trees

These are lonely trees,

Alone and forlorn,

Standing as the last fighting units

of the defeated forest army,

Their long and broad

robust columns of soldiers gone,

Trillions perished with a moan,

Now these last remnants

wage lonely battles in a brutal field:

Metallic haze, soot and dusty crumbling sky,

Outnumbered and surrounded

By the winning ever-axing army,

One after the other

they are cut, lopped, snapped and pruned,

so they fall,

Every single minute

thousands of these soldiers

are cut wounded and slaughtered,

Odds are all against them,

Even their own patron deity,

—mother nature—

now turns against them,

The windstorm aids the enemy,

The cemented houses are very strong

against the nature’s throng

Almost none of them break,

Just a few poor huts shriek,

But the lonely, thin, scattered

units of the trees are fragile and weak,

Staring at a future very bleak,

They easily give in with a creak,

The howling storm eats their jarring shriek,

So they fall

with a painful call,

They are already tired

in the brutal game of survival,

They cannot fight

as a robust, harmonized army,

a strong grove, a little fighting unit,

capable of bearing the stormy onslaught,

So the scattered soldiers fall easily

as their strength lies in groups,

absorbing the storms as a unit,

So the trees that have struggled

to survive and sustain

and luckily still survive the axe,

fall and tumble to the airy push,

Weak they are and lonely,

so easily they fall down,

Just like lonely and alienated humans

caught on the island of depression,

far away from the

lush green of human affection and connection

fall prey to

sickness, suicide and killing madness.

A soft assurance

Although there are cracks in life, 
she but smiles softly 
and whispers an assurance: 
"Don't worry, all is well!"

The storm in the night

 A furious night windstorm,
An angry dusty smash 
at the back of our head,
Some poor, weak roofs gone,
Injuries, deaths bemoan,
Broken panes, trees uprooted,
poles twisted, wires mangled,
Birds killed, injured, blown away, separated, 

Nests broken,

A poor family losing its mud thatch,

They cannot sleep,

nor can they weep,

They have a little way to kill the dark,

Subjugating it

and make it an ally

in cutting wood from fallen trees,

The trees that belong to someone else,

The day would show their ownership,

So they cut through the night,

The fear, the excitement, the rebellion--

stealing--

makes them numb to their loss,--

an anesthesia,

getting high on a paltry illegality,

A bitter pill,

And a practical drill 

for the young ones:

How to take small outlawed puns

in the face of miseries of life,

They cut with hard purpose, focus and labor,

They are used to hard work,

The chop-chop sound 

takes them in its sweaty grip,

The heap of stolen wood grows,

Caw then the morning crows.

They lost their humble house in the dark,

But they can be called lucky

to run out in time and avoid death and injuries,

Destiny can do only this much for them,

Now they balance the loss

with the heap of wood,

Then they quickly carry

the wood to their trashed home

and mix the stolen wood with the

house's mangled remains,

It now doesn't look a total ruin full of loss,

Carries it now the dusty gloss

of gain in the dark,

That little theft is the check dam

across the river of their misery,

They have saved something for a new day,

It doesn't feel a total loss,

This little illicit gain

helps them to forget the pain

of their busted little house,

The heap of this loss

covers their little nightish gain.

That's how the poor people live,

They use the heap of their miseries

in hiding their small short-cuts and stolen gains,

They then work hard on it

and knead it well

to make a weird concoction,--

the dough of life:

A mixture of hard work, sweat, focus,

tiny thefts, iotic cheatings

against all destiny's beatings,

They are busy again

to somehow stand against

some another storm

in the night.