SVAN

Fingers at the ready,

Hammering the keyboard with a stance.

As silly jokes they crack,

Watch their eyes do a lively dance.

'Cut me some slack,

from your PJs', they say.

But you know they're really enjoying away.

Poking fun at Taklu and "Right!" and "Correct!",

Looking for a new victim to select.

Laughing loudly in a hallway of silence.

Not caring if, they cause nuisance.

Free-willed, marauding, conquering towers,

Gulping down on Fridays to diabetics' wonder.

One stands like a tank quenching his thirst,

The other full of pride of his name- fit to burst,

Laugh as one starts laughing like mad,

The idiots now like musketeers they stand,

Dedicated to those who understand...

Daydreams at Midnight

The air in the dining room is fresh and cool. The aroma of the fish curry served for dinner still lingers. It brings back memories of vacations spent at home in Kerala. The sweet scent of Ma's creams and lotions wafts from her room and fills my lungs reminding me of Umma and the nights spent watching her sleep in peace.

My grandmother has always been like a mother to me. The way she sat at the verandah early in the morning amongst the dewey and misty atmosphere whenever we would arrive from the station; the manner in which she would doze off at night after loading herself with her medicines, lotions and ointments; AND the way she's always beaming- memories come flooding back and make me long for her.

'THAAAATHAAAAA!', my sister calls me out and I am rudely shaken out of my trail of thoughts. Ruefully, I move from the spot where I was rooted in equilibrium, a few seconds back. Her room feels like an exhilarating tropical monsoon hut as the fan overhead churns the warm and cool air and brings independent currents of both down, around the room. The rain is pattering outside, provoking memories of Kerala again- the balmy air after the rains near the beach, the fishing ponds where me and dad would finally catch crabs because they made easy catches on the rocky surfaces...

My sister is complaining of her missing book and I only partly comprehend what she says because her words beating on my eardrums are punctuated with faces of relatives calling in on us to ask about my studies, about when Dad would join us and about everything they can ask. Then the stock of sweets, crispies, baked biscuits and "kattan chaya" (black tea) would be served, someone would make Tang for the guests and hearing the sound of guests, more of our relatives from the neighbourhood would  come. And when they do, they do so from everywhere- the front door, the back door, the kitchen door, neighbours with their relatives, relatives with their neighbours. It soon becomes a carnival inside the house- some kids surrounding a kid playing games on the computer, some who've come over to watch the TV, a few ladies in the kitchen helping themselves, elders at the dining table- talking of who is up to what, some men-of-the-house discussing important matters in the living room and verandah. And me? I am sliding back quietly into my Umma's room filled with her delicate essence everywhere, just happy to hear the chatter outside in the conundrum I call home. 

Guess!??

My monotony shears past,

the most lively nights,

teasing child like minds,

to not let me last.

Uneasiness is my jewel,

for the restless souls,

To those enveloped in hell,

Peace- I gift in doles.

You'll find me by lakes and ponds,

disturbed by occasional prods,

of quacks, cackles and chatters,

by ducks, geese and ganders.

I have a song attached to me,

my own music echoes in valleys,

lovers understand my language,

I am appreciated by the wise.

I'm called for by librarians,

Asking for me to be obeyed.

I dare you to break me,

If you'd like to invite unapproving stares.

Harbinger of peace I am,

Sometimes described a deathly blow,

I prevail over the audience of Shakespearean shows.

Hopefully you know me by now,

I majestically declare: Silence I am!

Things Afloat

The winds carry me,

twirling and swirling,

swishing through rooftops,

As high as you could see,

I'm a wrought starling,

Almost ready to drop,

Tired of fighting the wind,

Until a friendly gust,

comes beneath my wings.

I am a piece of paper,

perhaps a bard's symphony.

Now singing to the clouds,

the lines composed for his loverly.

I am an autumn leaf,

my friends red and yellow.

Rustling along the greens,

and the raked meadows.

Dust and raindrops I could be,

holding some faraway fragrance,

Tempting people elsewhere,

of delicacies and treats.

I am the gusty wind,

Sometimes the gentle breeze,

Climbing over rooftops,

with reckless ease-

I twist, I turn and leap and swoosh,

but, for now I am a poetess' muse

My Diary On the Roads of Hyderabad

There are so many experiences to be shared, so many sights to be taken in, so many thoughts to be reflected upon as I look up occasionally from Gone With the Wind.

Travelling in the local buses I see different kinds of people. People of all shapes and sizes trying to squeeze in first through that tiny door of the bus, people who have had compounds and mixtures of experiences earlier in the day, people who have different backgrounds and upbringings- and sitting (or standing) in one place I am the witness to this huge multitude of human matter and their actions.

On the road I see a woman in a burqa and her jeans flashing at the hem. Somehow this makes me smile. No doubt! She has all the right in the world to wear whatever she wants in or out but the contrast among the two still prods at my funny bone. A certain person sits in a very pensive mood, looking particularly wistful and funnily enough he's sitting in front of building named "Marital Palace" (now could he have been the groom?)

A two year old kid was sitting behind his dad on a scooter and- Aw! His cheeks were wobbling like jelly 'cos of the wind and you can imagine how cute he must have looked when the bundle of curly hair danced around his tiny head and Oh! The open mouthed, innocently lost look on his face!

Then there are always those people who start eyeing around for a place to sit. Watching every nuance of passengers, hoping someone would make a move to get up for them to swoop down on the seats like kites.

These are the most aggressive and competitive people. They will plan their strategy to get into the bus first, they'll map the bus and scan all prospective seats, overhear conversations to know who's getting down next, plan their arguments for balance of change with the conductor (sounds somewhat familiar, eh?)

Two women once offered me a seat. Somehow after a lot of nudging and shifting they made room for me in a seat meant for two. Just as I was about to sit I saw a somewhat heavily built woman looking travel-fatigued and offered her the seat. As she moved towards the seat the other two women silently undid all their shifting and looked up at me as though I had lost my mind. And the two of us were left standing.

And then the argument over the "Ladies' seats". Why should a woman be restricted just to those seats when other seats are empty too?

When you take it all in it is such a queer and funny way how people's brains work and how they choose to react- glance reprovingly, fight voraciously, grab seats triumphantly, punching the air in their minds as they sit and then- glow happily!

If ever you travel by the local buses here, you never know- you might catch me somewhere in there watching your actions and probably smiling.

But for now, sitting in a World War II house, listening to the rain outside over the din of the cooler behind me thinking of the history of this place in sepia tones.

Singing out!