The Foreign Trip

The wails of her younger sister wake up Anju. ‘Don’t sleep like a buffalo, get up and attend to your sister’ screamed her grandmother, in between her bouts of cough, caused by the oven than burns damp firewood. Anju got up, rolled her mat, picked up her younger sister and soothed her. She had a couple of hours before she goes to Rathi madam’s house to wash clothes and clean vessels. Today, madam had asked her to come early. Her son, daughter in law and grand children have come from New York. She is planning a special lunch. Anju always liked the family, as they are nice generous people. Anju knew that she will get some money, chocolates and so she was looking forward to her work today.  There was a lot of work to be done, the now Americanized daughter in law of Rathi madam felt guilty about how people were treated in our country. She gave Anju 100 rupees as bonus! Anju thought she should buy some trinkets for her and medicines for grandmother. The rest she has to give to grandmot

The Dream

Something is pulling my soul from me Like how my amma pulls a small ball of dough from a bigger one, Like how the earth was pulled from the sun, Or the moon was pulled from the earth. Every night, the sky searches for me, to whisper a thrilling plan If only, I come out of my house. Millions of rain drops wait to fall on my cheeks, If only, I peep out of my umbrella. Thousand blades of grass wait to kiss my feet If only, I step out of my shoes. The paper boats I made and let sail as a child, Have reached the streams of my future and are waiting for me to board. I will cross the seven seas and conquer lands beyond, If only, I Wake up.

Bubble wrap dreams!

The colours on the canvas fade slowly As the winds of life erode the surface Of my our imaginary worlds Those worlds that are made and destroyed By wills and fancies – ironically not mine! For solace we can fall back on Karma, Honestly where will civilizations be  if not for these philosophies? Well, for some, dreams are like bubble wrap, Meant less for nurturing, more for bursting Either for the pleasure of others Or for ourselves, as we have nothing better to do! But thanks to those fancies we beggars can ride once in a while.

The drunkard’s babel

Don’t call me a drunkard; I drink to be honest The world kills the candid men; you either lie or die Spirits make us blurt out the harshest of the bitter truths Hence listen, sober fools Often the protagonist and the hero of a tale are different The protagonist is destined to be, but to be a hero is a matter of choice The protagonist shoulders the responsibility because the hero bears the burden The protagonist was because the heroes rose Sadly, the heroes are forgotten as the legends are propagated No one knows which is inherent and which you absorbed over the years Tales are a grotesque mixture of innocence and vile astuteness They now spread rigor mortis slowly into inspiration Should I fight or should I love the death of the spirit The answer glows as the warmth spreads Leave the coils and be a free soul eternally And hence I drink and strive to peel off the layers to reveal the reality Don’t call me drunkard; I d

Last Drop

It is overcast but it would never rain like the trepidation will go unspoken Pieces of broken glass stick together like in one of those unbreakable glasses I grind my teeth and try to scatter them but come back with bruised fingers Its always about others.... or for them, themselves The best words are never said, they are the worst too I walked miles only to discover that it was a circular path Living in desolation would at least keep me grounded The last drop to fill the cup shall never fall Don't even bother what difference does nudity make when no one is around!

Madras through the Six Senses

As the eclectic smells waft through the air Of salt, sweat and the Cooum river And if the smells of the sea and Jasmine win Yes Machan ; it is Madras you are in! The roaring of machines & blaring of trains With a splash of kollywood and music it rains And if notes of Carnatic rise above the din Yes Machan ; it is Madras you are in! Fluffy soft idlis or hot molaga bajji With piping hot, strong, degree filter coffee   If that’s what the world is having for tiffin Yes Machan ; it is Madras you are in!   Residential flats, Glass Towers, pristine And temples of yore share the sky line If it is Medley of old and new herein   Yes Machan ; it is Madras you are in! Hot, hotter, hottest are the three seasons Blame the humidity and various other reasons If the same warmth is in air and also its men Yes Machan ; it is Madras you are in! No matter where you come here from If you feel at home and always welcome If the city grows on you

Gandhian Concept of Democracy in Power Distribution

The largest black out in human history, which India faced shall remain the largest for quite some time to come as it is quite impossible to replicate the same anywhere else, unless China also fails in an equal miserable way (the chances of which aren’t remote as China’s demand for power is also more that its capacity to generate). This blackout had left millions stranded in the dark for a long time, there were miner trapped, hospitals disabled. Those who could afford ran their back up systems and could maintain the status quo but what about those who are dependent solely on the power supplied by the government? They had no choice but to suffer silently.   In a typical reactive mode our government is now talking of reforms in the power sector. But one needs to ask what kind of reforms? Privatization? Even if the UPA government gathers enough courage to usher in such changes, at best it would benefit a few large corporates who will walk away filling their coffers at the cost of the