SAME or NOT

The world is getting smaller on rectangular screens at least

 I click or read the news. 

everyone around on this planet reads the same

every second mobile user either owns a Samsung or Apple phone

binge watch similar web series on Prime or Netflix

drink either Pepsi or Coke

world is shrinking in tastes and fashion.

Shrinking or small, my mind blurs

one race cannot tolerate the other

one country cannot accept other's borders

one religious sect hellbent to wipe out the other

cracks deepen be it a Samsung or Apple user

Coke or Pepsi drinker

Netflix or Prime watcher.

Why are we all so different then in reality?

History books filled with wars stretched our school days

when will we all learn that we all watch the same YouTube,

connect on the same Insta or Facebook.

When will I click the news and not see or read about a single war

when we all accept that we are all the same?

WEEKEND

I draw the bedroom curtains, 

eyes spot his fast-paced walk in the garden

a warm weekend sight for me and my flowers.

My tea bubbles, enthused be shared unlike weekdays

the wrinkled sofas in the living room 

an audience to the spousal chatter

he drooped on his mobile, me in my own world

the unspoken silence in sync with our shared support

the house and me both habituated to sprinkled two days of spice

the housewife waits for the next weekend.

GLUED

Sweat clinging from folded hands

not hers and his, but her own

head bowed, she offers Namaste.
Cheeks damp with tears she ignores
her hands do not unclasp
respect to every person who is present
last rites of her father
people came just to see him
he, unaware of the warmth around.

She can never be their lost brother or cousin
all she can do is offer her respects.
Her interlaced hands express it
her loss more than the others
but she stands still
hands folded, fingers woven
her only way to acknowledge
the affection in the room.

MAIDS OF HONOUR

Steps in the house with a bunch of marigolds, roses or hibiscuses
puts near Mum's altar, picks the chalk, the bucket and the mug
heads for space outside the front door
washes and draws rangoli pattern
an Indian morning ritual.
A gappy smile for Padma, the neighbour's maid
both exchange their daily chitchat
hands draw beautiful rangoli designs on the floor.

9 am, Sarojini's second or third house by then,
a grin for the family members when eyes meet,
the gap of her lost front tooth an accustomed view
as the scorching sun outside in the south Indian city.
Similar chores repeated flat after flat
vessels in the sink, the rooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen slab,
the thrash binned and more.

Up and down, just as the lift of the building.
her feet get some rest when shouted for tea and breakfast
breakfast skipped, packed for her fatherless boys
hot sugary tea, her energy booster, back in the loop once more.

Round and round from one room to another,
from one house to another
as a Ferris wheel she spins till sun sets.
but. another house still left
her shack, chores need to be finished,
boys need to be fed; her treadmill does not stop.

Her daily milestone of ten thousand or twenty thousand steps or more
no smart watch to track, no one to pat and no one to share or compare with.

A relief in every Indian housewife's face,
the minute the maid rings the calling bell.
Housewife's smile warmer for the maid
than for the husband when he comes back.
The husband may earn
the lift may carry people and their bags
but she relieves the fatigue of every housewife.

In addition, the building gossip, the maids share
who bought a new car, which flat's
tenant has left or who is the whiny neighbour
and more, the topics and names change
an unpaid entertainment at all times.

Sarojini or Padma, to name a few
backbone of every Indian household,
their backbones do get tired too
but none remembers
as their motor never stops to spin.

Rajgangpur

 

City, too big a word to express it
town, preferred for the place where I grew
saw it first in arms of my dad, arrived as a two-year-old
have no memories of what I saw then
a small town tucked in Odisha, then called Orissa
a state in east India.

Memory fondly reveals the narrow road between two big ponds,
on the way to school, our rickshaw travel providing the mixed view
of lotuses and the washermen with piles of clothes.
The burial ground adjacent to the school
no one thought of its unusual location,
every time a body arrived
students seated near the window enjoyed the distraction.

The fenced roundabout on the way back home
with its two theatres, bunch of street side eateries
the taste of beetroot cutlets, my taste buds still remember
sight of the fried crispy samosas and queues at the till
the tyre shop near it and men with their tea glasses.

The railway crossing after the roundabout and the two roads jutting out
one leading to my house and the next to the big church in the huge green compound
the tubewell on the way and the tucked little ration shop stocked with sugar, rice and wheat.

Our roadside house and the medley of hawker's voices on cycles
few selling carpets, some cotton candy and roasted nuts
the veranda outside our house, where we played with friends
the well at our backyard, which my sister would always walk to jump if scolded
and be back, when I sneakily told, at my dad's behest about frogs in the well.
An anecdote as the town itself.


The other end of the city where my college lay, the packed bus stand nearby
a new road more travelled once I became an adult in my mind, the pond and the rickshaw stuffed to the back of the mind.
Eyes feast the new sights
the cloth shops, the tailors, the cosmetic store enroute to college
the Friday crowds to the mosque on the parallel road
the spicy puffed rice vendor near the college gate
where girls jostled to buy.

The single-track crossing, the cement wagons pushed by elephants
replaced by engines after.
The dusty trucks laden with cement bags
workers and cement both in one colour
a sore view,
livelihood for majority in the town.

A new part of town now,
our new house above the mill
with its white windows
where we moved in,
the vegetable market behind the house
the tiny post office facing it and muddy roads at the back
the lanes where I drove the first scooter
visits to the Shiva temple adjacent to it
and the decorated hall nearby where I got married.

The quaint little town circled
the same station again, where I bid adieu to my parents
the station now expanded, lights of which do not fuse
witnessed that ten years ago on a reunion visit.
Left Rajgangpur thirty-three years ago,
the name acquired as was a princely state during the British raj.

A town whose lanes and buildings
hold my gossip and my secrets,
whose roads and bricks saw me cry and laugh
saw me grow from a toddler to a woman
a place which has understood me and fulfilled me
more than any city I have lived till now.

IMMERSED

The pleasure of being on the beach, the calm serene sea

some kids nearby roll in sand, 

the joyous giggles of the teenage group

the tomatoes and peppers on skewers on the pit

the football coated with impressions of various pairs of sandy feet

families catch up over conversations

stretched on a mat senses soak the flavours of joy on the sands.

What is it with the sea, the sand, the fishes below and birds above?

The wide expanse, the hum of the sea, the unheard gossip of colourful fish in it

just draws me, the teens, the kids and their parents and the sweaty boys and their sandy feet

the very thought excites us all, we may not know one another

but we all understand the language of the waves

respond to the call of the sea gulls

the tickle of the tiny translucent fish in water

the aroma of happiness in the air

the sea's changing moods caught by us sometime or the other

sometimes it seems so close, the tide's reaching for the land

just when we thought it's near us, it slips far back

TIES

 I enjoy my company, but I do of chums too.

Busy in my own zone, mind scratches, reminds me to call friends, chat and text.

I dust my mind's chatter in the garbage bin along with the vegetable peels. 

I like to meet people and converse but to a point.

The tireless ring of the phone or incessant flow of the messages is a hinderance

Watch videos, pictures of friends and post likes may cheer them, but it saps me.

Talkative by nature; I call once in a while.

As I write the poem, I remember my dad's frequent bargain

of five rupees, if I sealed my lips for ten minutes as a child.

How suffocative was it for me, to be quiet back then

when to socialise was the only skill, I thought I had.

I treasure my friends too, but prioritize my time more

It's a long road, where some old ones slip by. some new ones get added.

Each friend is important; I am sum of their impressions and influences

Just because I call or meet less, does not weaken our bond.