Flowers by my windowsill

The pinks blushed crimson
the violets seemed bluer
And every now and then
they smiled and quivered,
as the first rays of morning touched
the flowers by my windowsill

They stood, faces lit,
cheerful and vivacious
yet singed, bit by bit,
by the sun so ruthless
The noon burned on and so did they,
the flowers by my windowsill

The pinks had withered
the violets hung their heads
A few petals fluttered,
others fell in shreds
I watched the night engulf
the flowers by my windowsill...

Homely Minister

Our dear Home Minister

Chieftain of our clan

The benevolent deliverer

Of the common man

Mighty guardian of our land and water

The phantom of terror grows

Haunting new cities

Its sceptre of death, cloak of sorrows

Snubbed authorities

And bombed Delhi under his righteous nose!

"Oh, yes!" he says with a frown"

I addressed the press

Dressed in black, and later changed to brown

For that suits me best

And chaperoned her highness ‘round the town."

What a stately attitude!

Attires are crucial

To disasters of such magnitude

And yet some dispel

Such humble gestures as being vain and crude

"They pick on my speeches too

Brand them insipid

But though I don’t say anything new

And appear placid

Doesn’t the oft repeated start to ring true?"

Ah, that’s a sure sign of might

Taking a tough stance

Condemning the act, resolving to fight

And who knows, by chance

A few jihadis may even die of fright!

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Morning Saga

She breezes in every morning, sometimes storms in
At ten or eleven or thereabouts
Accusing her peers of being lousy louts
Sending my staid household into a spin

She then sums me up with just a blink of an eye
"You went shopping yesterday, so I’m told
Bought three silk saris and saab’s got a cold!"
"Yeah..." I think, "Even the cops could use such a spy!"

She starts with the kitchen sink, rambling in full flow
"Rather hot today!" she says with a frown
I feebly smile as my pots and pans drown
In gallons of water mixed with soap by the kilo

"Have you heard of Mr. Mehta’s latest fancy?
His wife has - and been quite livid ever since."
She gives the dishes a cursory rinse
"Now he’s moping around like a wilted pansy!"

"How delightful!" I say even as a cup chips
She shrugs and dares me to utter a word
I grin, for my courage has turned to curd
And though I seethe, not a whimper escapes my lips

She wields the broom next, with a flair most uncanny
Two strokes here and three there wrap up each room
While spiders cheerfully spin webs of gloom
Arty anthills ravage surface, nook and cranny

"There’s a tawdry new watchman at the building gates
Just as bad as the old one, I suppose
So rude and snootily turns up his nose
Humility and grace are long forgotten traits..."

The swabbing is a less elaborate affair
And her temper is decidedly dour
For the clock has already struck the hour
Aren’t there more important matters under her care?

"Today, the Kumars gave their maid a hefty raise
It is high time now you revised my pay
Though you do give me a break each Sunday
It is but a hi-tech cellphone that my son craves!"

"But," I cry, "It’s been just two months since the last hike!"
"Haven’t you heard of inflation, my dear?
You must watch the news..." she says with a sneer
"Or read up... for it plagues the rich and poor alike"

I grow pale for I can find nothing more to say
"I’ll come tomorrow," she says soothingly
Innocent of blackmail and polity
She shrugs at my disquiet, smiles and calls it a day

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Point and Shoot!

You missed the savage boom
That tore its way through ear-drums
You missed the ferocious flash
That blinded all it touched

You couldn’t watch the steel melt
And scorch inanimate and living alike
Or see the million shards hungrily
Strip flesh from bone

But you don’t miss much, do you?

The first shrieks still echo as you arrive
The dust barely settled
Your lips twitch in mock smile
For official sirens haven’t screamed yet

There are bodies - plenty of them
Some still, others writhing
The tears have just begun to flow
And the lighting perfect

"Breaking news!" your mind repeats.

So off goes the lens-cap
Your trained eye zooming into
Just the right picture
A little fire, a little smoke
An upturned car, perhaps?

Concrete rubble, disowned slippers
Blood strewn on vinyl floor
A gory corpse or two
And an abandoned little school-bag

"Damn you!" you sigh, as onlookers arrive.

The scene livens up
As reality begins to implode
Slapping the stupor out of life
Bringing it to face
the grim spectre of death

The anxious eyes that rummage
Through broken glass and twisted frame
The pitiful wails, the horrified looks
Some devastated beyond expression

"How do you feel?" you ask, quite seriously.

The cops and medicos arrive
Quite an interruption, really
Cordoning off the best areas
And whisking subjects out of sight

Not to be outdone, you follow
The dazed man on the stretcher
No harm in a few more sound-bites
After all, he can always recoup later

"What happened here?" you ask of him.

Ah, the voice of the common man
Tinged with drama and emotion
A few cues here and a couple of questions there
And he describes the blast just right

A lot more faces fill the frame
Smoothing their hair, craning the necks
Calling home anxiously, saying
"Hey... I’m on TV!"

"What a day!" you exclaim, winding up.

Your eyes shine as you carefully
Stow the camera away
A promotion for boosting TRPs
And of course, an award-winning story!

And it was only because your ears
Were brimming with imminent praise
That you missed the faint voice
Which said, "Leave us alone... at least now."

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Gulmohar Trees

Come summer and the world suddenly seems drenched in colour. I love the gulmohar trees in particular, for their vivid colours and pretty foliage. The intense hues and cool shade make summer a delight to savour!

Gilt canopies studded with shimmering rubies
Set amidst dainty emeralds
Majestic as summer heralds
Swaying in reluctant deference to the breeze
They oft beckon many a weary traveller
To spend a few moments of bliss
Under their protective aegis
Crimson carpets lulling them to restive slumber

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

A day in summer

His red banner brushes the stars away
Sharp spears of yellow pierce through the night sky
With pride, the sun announces a new day

As sleep ebbs away, bright hues sting the eye
Birds hold council in deafening clamour
Perhaps exchanging notes before they fly

Cuckoos croon, parrots prattle and holler
While mynahs titter in good-natured jest
And rambunctious crows squawk without manner

Every being seems on a singular quest
Scurrying through day’s work in a frenzy
Before the golden orb attains its crest

As a white-hot sky spits fire and fury
Stifling all activity in its wake
The heat soars with ruthless ferocity

The earth itself starts to simmer and bake
Morbid, steamy winds bring little relief
Wreaking thirst that water can hardly slake

A weary silence looms, as though of grief
And yet the bountiful flowers smile bright,
Amidst lush foliage, like a motif

At last, the sun descends, yet full of spite
He blazes and fumes even in retreat
His banner sets the horizon alight

Life starts to billow, humble in defeat
Spurred by the gentle evening breeze, it grows
Into a flurry, enthused and upbeat

Birds sing of their travels, of highs and lows
Trees rustle softly, as if to whisper
About day’s travesty and night’s repose

It is the crickets’ mellifluous banter,
The gentle moon and night’s star-spangled grey
That immerses all in restful slumber

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

The journey

It was a hot Friday afternoon
I set forth on an unknown journey
Knowing not what I ran away from
Or what my destination would be

Life was a bit too complicated
It held but little pleasure for me
Peace had deserted me long ago
Leaving me alone and unhappy

I had a career to boast of
A plush home and loving family
Yet grief found new ways into my heart
Filling it with restless self-pity

As I drove through parched, arid landscape
The sun blazing with ferocity
The winds mourning an unknown sorrow
Seemed to reflect my own anxiety

Something beckoned me to stop awhile
As I came by an ancient birch tree
For there, in the midst of wilderness
All alone, stood a bantam shanty

Two children played hopscotch in the yard
Laughing with unbridled gaiety
While their mother sat at the doorstep
Watching them, smiling ever so slightly

She was mending a frayed little frock
Her gnarled hands must have once been dainty
Her sallow face was pale and tired
And yet she seemed so very happy!

Her weathered face told tales of hardship
But her eyes bespoke maturity
A faded dress covered her gaunt form
And yet she seemed so very happy!

Each day must present a new challenge to her
Whilst her nights would be fraught with worry
How on earth did she make two ends meet?
And yet she seemed so very happy!

I watched her fingers dart to and fro
Suddenly she looked up to see me
In her face, puzzled, and yet, smiling
I finally found tranquillity

The sun set into the distant hills
The gentle breeze hummed a melody
For the first time in years, I found joy
As calm night subdued day’s vanity

I had missed countless little delights
In my quest for great felicity
I resolved to savour each moment
And smiled at the approaching city

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Short story: What’s in a name?

Like any other girl, Ratnapoorneshwari Mahalingam loved reading the tragic love-affair that was Romeo and Juliet. She begged to differ with the great bard on just one line – “What’s in a name?” It was a name that she regarded as her biggest problem – her own name.

Her unique name had a history that was just as interesting. When after three years of marriage, Mr and Mrs Mahalingam were still without progeny, it was a kind, albeit interfering, relative who suggested they undertook a pilgrimage to the ancient temple of their family deity. The couple complied and sent up fervent prayers at the holy shrine. In a further attempt to solicit the goddess’s favour, Mr Mahalingam vowed to name his child after her. The goddess was apparently pleased, for within a year the couple was blessed with a baby daughter. Although naming her daughter Ratnapoorneshwari did seem a little unfashionable to Mrs Mahalingam, but her husband would hear none of it – a pledge was a pledge, after all.

Little Ratnapoorneshwari was a charming girl with a sweet disposition. She was intelligent and incredibly well-read for her age. She did her parents proud by winning most competitions at school. Except for a few pesky boys who derived sadistic pleasure in her irritation at being addressed by her full name, most of her classmates called her Ratna. Expectedly, it was during the roll-calls or when the prize-winners’ list was read that one could find her in her worst tempers. She would cringe and frown in embarrassment, and even an innocent cough sounded like a stifled snigger to her.

Her good form in academics continued as she secured admission into a top-notch girls’ college. With age came maturity, and with it the understanding that certain things in life must be accepted as they are. In fact, she even used her name to her advantage during the college elections. After all, a slogan like “Vote for S. Padma” barely stood a chance against an impressive “Vote for Ratnapoorneshwari Mahalingam”. Needless to say, she won the elections hands-down.

After graduating with honours, she found a job at a call-centre. It was the best time of her life owing to the fact that for fourteen hours of the day, she could be Rachel Mendes. She loved the work, in spite of the odd hours, and it was here that she met a colleague called Harish. It was love at first sight for both, and the relationship grew stronger as they discovered they had so much in common – right from their favourite movies to the restaurant that served the best dosas in town. Incidentally, Harish always knew her as Ratna, and though their conversations sometimes carried on for hours at a stretch, she somehow didn’t find an occasion to tell him her full name.

After about six months of courtship, they decided it was time to get married. While her parents, being of modern leanings, raised no objections at the love match, Harish was not so lucky. His father still believed in the virtues of an arranged match, and didn’t merit his son with enough wisdom to choose the right girl for himself – or for the family. However, being a staunch proponent of secular ideas, he couldn’t make a case on the grounds of difference in caste. Instead, he sought refuge in more scientific means – he consulted a numerologist.

It was a perfect move – Ratna and Harish could never make a match, so the numerologist declared. The marriage, if allowed to happen, would spell untellable doom for both families. Harish’s father had all the ammunition he needed to shoot the proposal down.

Defeated, Harish apprised Ratna of the situation the next day. She couldn’t believe how her life was going to shatter for the sake of a few numbers. However, after a few minutes of cursing luck and everything around her, she was struck by a sudden brainwave. She told Harish her full name.

The goddess seemed to be smiling upon her once again, for this time, even the numerologist seemed baffled by the perfection of the match! With no more excuses to make, Harish’s father had to give in. His mood improved appreciably when he discovered that his son’s choice was of good upbringing. He further melted when he found her family to be quite a well-heeled one.

And so, like all good love-stories, Ratna and Harish lived happily ever after – well, almost. For, post marriage, Ratna was known as Mrs Ratnapoorneshwari Swarnamurthy which irked her even more that her maiden name, but that’s another story.

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Minutes of a Meeting

Here is a message for everyone who must attend long meetings at their workplaces - "You're not alone in your suffering!"

I take notes
As didactic bosses
Assail stormy seas in paper boats
Analyse frivolous gains and mighty losses

I doodle
Or play noughts and crosses
Or think of home and my pet poodle
Far away from vexing schedule variances

I half hear
Blame going in circles
Of slack workers and tardy managers
For promotions are at stake in these deadline battles!

I argue
For some semblance of sense
Icy stares freeze me to a statue
The world, I think, is best viewed through a fisheye-lens

I delight
My mind at sudden ease
So I clear my throat and sit upright
And say aloud, “Can someone pass the wafers, please?”

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

It's all Maya!

What would Indian politics be without its fair share of caricatures? Here's an ode to one of them.

Ours was the land of dust and grime
Life a motley mix of anarchy and crime
And yet they said all was just fine
“A lot better than the rest” was their line

All that is a thing of the past
For you’re finally here to save us at last
When the majestic elephant trumpets thither
The men on bicycles run helter-skelter

Just your name makes them shiver
The king, the joker and his elder brother
For when you conquered all races
They now keep busy with court cases

But O messiah in pink, daughter of the earth
Hear our humble plea for what its worth
There are still a few wrongs to set right
Our children still cry of hunger at night

Concernedly she said, “Not to worry my dear subject
I have the perfect remedy for poverty so abject
A beautiful park beyond compare
Hundreds of my idols here and there

Oh, wouldn’t that make a pretty sight
I, smiling upon you day and night
With your heart full of praise and adulation
Will there be time for minor tribulation?

A few crores it will cost though
And a few will kick up a row
Nothing new for me, a seasoned campaigner
For I can twist them all round my little finger”

Thank you, O goddess of mercy!
But for your kindness, where would we be!
Some citizens, though, don’t understand your generosity
And threaten to don black with impunity!

“Is that so?” she replied, somewhat irritated
“Such insolence can never be tolerated
Till they are brought to book, I shall not rest
No black shall be tolerated, whether a shirt, pant or vest”

Ah, just the treatment they deserve
For assuming democracy to be their reserve
For when we have a ruler so wise and just
Is democracy really a must?

“Yes, my dear subject” she said with satisfaction
“What is democracy, after all? – Freedom of expression
So what if it happens to be only mine

Freedom or expression – it’s all Maya!”

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Treasure Trove

Memories are probably like good wine - they just get better with time. The sour twinge of pain fades away, and what remains is bitter-sweet molasses of our fondest recollections. Often, objects that people would solemnly castigate as "junk" are our most prized possessions. They lie in an obscure corner, to be unearthed whenever we think of those treasured moments.

A twisted trumpet, a fallible flute
A toy-train with a shrill whistle to toot
A doe-eyed doll and a stodgy soldier
A few pennies in a modest coffer

A humble house, a river rippling by
Ragged mountains and golden crops of rye
A hideous cow and a fat, harried hen
All part of a painting marked ten-on-ten

A broken buckle, records of art rock
A faded photo in a bright red smock
A crumpled rose amidst sheets of paper
A golden pen, an unfinished letter

A shabby stash in a creaky old chest
Memories lying in a lone corner
Reticent yet steadfast allies of mine

Filling many a dull day with sunshine

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.