Tag Archives: politics

Eid In India, 2017.

A message from the Moon

Was just received,

That this Eid, he will arrive

A little later than believed,

For that silver man is yet confused

About what to do,

If Indian railways can’t be used.

 

I tried to converse with him for a bit,

And question what left him this perturbed,

To allow the sumptuous delights

To be served,

Under an unlit sky,

And to this he very eloquently replied,

 

Sir, this happens to also be

The first Eid,

Where even Allah can’t say with surety

If those that hang on seekhs,

Are carcasses of poultry,

Or the body of an innocent man,

A Muslim, who enjoyed his share of meat,

Being roasted till cooked just right,

while the keepers of our democracy fan

The fire of the tandoor.

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Onomatopoeia

At breakfast,

you read to me, from your favorite newspaper,
articles about intended duplicity. The World was
quiet for the Dawn to unfold, in its mellifluous
entirety, and the only sounds I could make out, in
my state of hungover reverie, were,

 

your muffled sighs, hmm and ch ch ch, escaping your chapped lips like the whispered whistle of my antique electric-kettle, expressing your discontent with the unlikely turn-of-events that haunt the modern World,

 

your words, de-st-ruc-tion and car-na-ge, carefully let out, each syllable, made love to, uttered with affection and regal gentility, with due care afforded to each of their individual fragilities, like baby birds, unfurling their wings and chasing the dawn for the first time,

 

and, the gentle tapping of your feet, tak.tak.tak, on our concrete floors, like morning dew, falling, leisurely, on dried and withered autumn leaves

 

and, the clatter of your teeth,(it was slightly chilly) a monotonous tone with no ups and down, like the clamor of those thousand pairs of feet, rushing for the first metro, trying to avoid the curse of traffic and imminent banality,

 

and, the crunch of bread under a blunt butter knife and a melted condiment, shining in morning shades of amber, just as in verse and rhythm as the drowsy and cursory pleasantries of children being dragged to school at ungodly hours,

 

and, the rustling of the cheap recycled paper stuck in between your sweaty thumb and index finger, the rustle of leaves from the first gush of the wind that heralds a new Spring every December, and,

the beating of my heart against its bony cage,

nothing but a silent observer.

 

It was then that I decided if you were ever to be

a figure of speech, you, darling, would be Onomatopoeia.

 

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To Amma, From Chennai.

J Jayalalithaa was an actress, a politician and a figure revered as ‘amma‘ by the masses of the state of Tamil Nadu. She was the Chief Minister of the state for five controversial terms and passed away on the fifth of December, 2016. She was buried, in a sandalwood casket, at the Marina Beach, on the sixth and the hurricane-cyclone ‘Vardah‘, which means ‘rose’ in Urdu, struck Chennai, soon after.

Amma,
Remember when I was young and 
you would take me in your arms 
and read to me, bedtime stories, in varied voices:
turning your pitch up, one minute, 
to sound like a wailing mother 
and lowering it to imitate a fisherwoman 
clutching the rudder of a sinking ship, 
trying to keep it afloat, in another?


Remember when I lost my way and 
ended up on the path that lead to 
tempests and belligerent waves and 
you held my thumb, with an unlikely 
zeal for aiding me, your blood, and 
a conviction in my abilities, 
to show me what turns to take 
to save myself from carnage 
and, humbly, grow out of my temerity?


Remember when they called you names 
for doing me wrong and inflicting pains 
of beastly order on my withering entirety 
and also, when they blamed you for 
adultery and infidelity, but I held you close
and allowed myself to heal in 
the warmth of your invigorating bosom?


Ever since those days, you’ve 
never let me leave your side 
and have, gladly, helped 
in weaning me off your love and care 
and standing, on my own two feet, independently.


Now that the Sun has set and 
the waves have retired to their sombre corners,
your favourite tale, to tell, comes back to me—
A sandalwood tree, slightly bent at the knees, 
lent some scent to a forlorn seed 
that arrived with the monsoon winds 
and nurtured it for twenty years and 
as the tree neared its end, the nurtured gifted 
the nurturer its first blossom, fortuitously, 
of vibrant roses that held in them 
the passion and perfume to unearth towers 
and free the reckless and the rebellious waves 
that had, for long, been trapped and chained.
Vardah, the rose, had always fancied
magnificent endings and storms-untamed.

 

 

 

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