Grief

 
A day or two later,
You are not sure if you are weeping 
You are not sure why you are weeping 
There are times,
You are not sure why you smiled 
at that old woman on the street 

And then,
You wonder if you ever smiled
at dad while he was still alive. 
and chidingly tell yourself...
What kind of daughter you were!
And sulk even more.

After a few days of not crying 
You think you have grieved, enough. 
Or at times, when you don't grieve,
You say, 
'See.. I told you. Grief is overhyped.' 

But, No. Out of nowhere, 
there are moments of 
'a very still life'
So much... that you wonder 
If there is still life.

Like, a few weeks later,
You are hurriedly paring the pineapple 
that kids need for their snacks break
And you don't curse but cry 
if when the knife dad had used was 
not sharp enough...

Now, no doubt. 
That is Grief.

~ 18Jan24 to 05Feb24

Sea's Handiwork

Waving to the shore.

Falling Rain Drops

On the red-tiled floor
I am lying flat, face up
with hands spread out
ajar like an open door

The falling rain drops
dot my resting body and
the rest of the terrace
like they've been
metered for pace
and sorted for shape

The falling rain
drops steady and even
like having passed
through a sieve

The falling rain drops
pierce soft needles
delivering divine nectar
through my skin

The falling rain
drops to take me to a place
devoid of cowering thoughts
and senseless pain

The falling rain drops
sing songs of relief
tapping into the void
and persistently find
the hidden words
in my dormant mind


~ Aug 17, 2021

The Fifth Monkey

There’s a tussle among the thoughts
Their quest is about
who must get thought about,
for how long and first.

These thoughts ace at striking me
just when I lay supine at night
They splash on my face
this handful of ice cold water
that I readily hold in my palms together.

I watch them in silence, and wonder:
how they flawlessly mimic
kids inside classrooms
waiting to run amok
at the ring of the relieving bells.

When I try to tame and distract,
there’s no harping or heeding.
Now I get it. No, they are not kids.
Like adolescents, they get better at it.

One after another, the adolescent me
fills the seats of the classroom,
and do just what they think.

While one of me thinks about
how much of a wonder a song is,
another one’s memory comes rushing in
fighting for my mind space,
and
I am already reeling out commentaries
about a recent song that
sets me on a trampoline
making me jump out of joy,
every time I listen to it, and
the other one that’s full of warmth
like a lover cuddling me
gently from behind, ear-to-ear,
resting their chin on my shoulder
when I am breathing in
the crisp, cold air on a breezy night.

Another of me now raises the hand
and recites an enticing analogy:
about the pleasures of finding
long-forgotten unsent notes
to a lover,
like that of seeing
misplaced, forgotten money
under folded, unused clothes.

A third one
points to the direction of my son
who murmurs, ‘no, I didn’t do it’,
in his sleep,
and makes me ponder
about how much of a bother
I have been to him.

Here comes version number four.
Who am I?
Where’s the missing euphoria, or,
was there even any such thing in me?
Guess I am just such a bore...

Around about the fifth hour
the fifth monkey sits up...
retching a papery white and blue
peppered with all these thoughts,
sweet and sour.

Like a good bout of vomit
throwing out the bad bile,
this poring act brought the relief
like the small pill that cures the ill,

And then came the sleep,
slow and still.


~ Jul 06

Did it Rain?

What am I hearing...

Gurgling water from parched spouts
Calming ripples of crowding water

Water splashing the rioting boys' faces
Soaked up dogs shaking the excess

Rustling plumes of drenched parrots
Flapping wings of taking-off pigeons

Hunger pangs of red roof-tiles
Hot soil slurping the pitter-patter rain

Thank you gestures of tender plants
Pendular heads of coconut trees

Cheerful birds flocking together
waiting to tweet their dusk prayers

Were these your visions too,
my beloved June Rain,
after you poured your heart out
on a dreary sultry crumbling evening?


~ 07 June, 2021

Colour Pencils

When you are dead meat
When you are battered
beyond recognition

When nothing makes sense
When your thoughts are incoherent
When written words are alien to you
When you cannot gather
anything together

When you indifferently reject
every redemptive proposition like
a badly written draft

And, when you have swung from
Unplugged to Headbangers
without second thoughts, and 

in a jiffy...

Talk to me, says the paper
Play with me, says the colours.


~Feb 2021

High Hopes

Sometimes,
I ask like a child,
Or out of audacity,
about what I wrote

Like the pegged ones
on the clothesline ask:
Can't you see?
I flutter so well.
Can you fly me
like a kite tomorrow?


~ May 19, 2021