It had been a tiring day for me, so my husband graciously offered to make the afternoon tea. Telling me to lie down and rest, he buzzed off towards the kitchen. I gratefully slumped down on the bed and was halfway in the process of closing my eyes when his head popped in through the door. "There's some used tea leaves in the pot. What shall I do with it?" he queried.
"Throw it away and rinse the pot", I replied patiently.
He buzzed off a second time. I was once more about to close my eyes when back he came to ask "How much water's to be boiled ?"
"Two cups", I said and resolutely proceeded to close the eyes. A few moments later he reappeared with the question "How much tea should I put in?"
"Two teaspoons." Off he went again.
Some moments passed. Then came my hero's voice again with yet another question "What's to be put first in the cup ?"
"Sugar, then milk powder, then pour the tea." He hurried away again.
By this time I was really longing for tea. I sat up and waited eagerly. Minutes ticked by. The tea-longing became feverish. Still it kept me waiting.
At last, after some ten minutes' wait, back came my husband, yet unaccompanied by tea cups. Instead, he was shaking a scalded hand. We frantically looked for the elusive Burnol tube that was never found twice in the same place. We tried all the places it had resided in before—under the bed, behind the bookshelf, on the dressing table, inside the shoes, under the pillows —all in vain. In sheer desperation I happened to look into the medicine box where it had never been found before. There it was, playing hide-and-seek. I grabbed the thing by the neck and squeezed it out on the scald. Then the chivalrous knight marched back to the kitchen, determined not to give up the fight though wounded.
At long last he marched back, triumphant and beaming, carrying the trophy—the much awaited tea.
"It calls for a celebration", I said.
"Yes, it's a great victory", he solemnly replied.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Alien
Rajan whistled as he walked briskly out of his one room and kitchen rented house. His cheery mood was further brightened by the mid-November morning sunshine. His dark face and bright eyes looked radiant with delight. Indeed, Guwahati looked beautiful under the autumn sun. Houses, trees, roads, even garbage heaps on the roadside seemed to wear a hallow.
He reached the Zoo-road bus stop and waited. The first bus that came was overcrowded, with several passengers hanging over the footboard. He boarded the next one that followed immediately. Here, too, he had to stand along with several others as the seats were all occupied. By the time they reached Chandmari Colony the bus was jam-packed. When they stopped at Guwahati Club a girl's voice behind him said "Please let me pass." He moved aside the best he could to make room and turned to look at the speaker. He caught sight of her as she passed him to get down. A slim figure of medium height, clad in mekhela-chaddar, long hair worn in a single braid. A fair, sweet face. Inexplicably, her picture etched itself in his mind.
He reached early, it being the first day of his work. Cotton College was no new place to him, as he had studied for his degree there. Many of the lecturers, now his colleagues, had taught him. He was warmly welcomed. Some shook hands with him, some thumped him on the back. Some commented jovially "Aha, you have sported a mustache. Grown into a man, eh?"
But then, someone struck a discordant note. He overheard a remark "How come they appointed bahira manuh (outsider)?" That stung. But he set it aside as he got busy meeting people and attending classes.
On the way back home in the afternoon, he assessed his day. He was happy on the whole. He managed the classes alright in spite of his nervousness. His new colleagues had been kind and encouraging. But then, with a twinge he recalled the discordant note—'outsider'. It struck a nerve. Why was he always an outsider everywhere? When he was a child his cousins in Kerala, his father's native place, used to call him 'Hindi walla' because he spoke Hindi with his parents. And in his mother's hometown in West Bengal he was a 'Madrassi'. In Assam, his family's adopted land, where he was born and brought up, he was called an outsider by some of the 'local' people. His father had taught him since early childhood to be an Indian at heart. But no one else he knew seemed to recognize the existence of an Indian in real life.
Perhaps his parents were responsible for his plight. By their inter-cultural marriage they had offended their respective families, and caused him to belong nowhere. His father, a Convent School teacher in Dibrugarh, upper Assam, had created quite a furor in his family circles when he decided to marry his colleague, a Bengali girl. Being very 'Indian' minded, the couple had adopted Hindi as their family language which became their only son's mother tongue. But growing up in Assam, Rajan spoke Assamese also as well as any local. In fact, he unconsciously identified himself as an Assamese.
Life went on, Rajan liked his job and was becoming quite good at teaching. Saturday was his off-day from work. In the afternoon he went to the District Library to read. As he walked in, his heart missed a beat. He saw her—the same girl he had noticed in the bus the other day. He passed her by as he would any stranger. But on the spot he made up his mind to come here every Saturday, in the hope of seeing her again.
All through the next week he was restless and impatient for Saturday to come. His thoughts were dominated by dreams of a fair, sweet face and graceful form in mekhela-chaddar. Sure enough, she was there again the next Saturday. This time a half-smile of recognition passed between them but he did not dare talk to her yet. The next time they met again he summoned up the courage to address her.
"Excuse me, are you a student?" he asked lamely. He cursed himself inwardly for his awkwardness, for his lack of the dashing romantic hero's air. But she answered politely "No, I'm a teacher. I work in P.C. Girls' "
"I see. I work in Cotton. My name is Rajan Nair. May I know your name?"
"Dipika Das"
They parted, neither having anything more to say.
But meeting 'accidentally' every weekend at the library, they soon became 'friends'. Once they even found an excuse to visit a restaurant together and then went for a stroll in Nehru Park. They chatted and laughed, looking into each other's eyes. From that day Rajan classed himself a happy lover.
The next Saturday she did not turn up at the library. He was crestfallen. He sat there a long time pretending to read, in the hope that she might show up. At last he despaired and went out. He had no way of contacting her either. Naively confident of meeting her every time at the library, it had not occurred to him to ask for her phone number or address. He spent a tormented weekend.
Come Saturday, he went to the library as usual, hoping to meet her. As he entered the compound a young man accosted him asking "Are you Rajan Nair?"
"Yes, I am. What was it?" he responded.
"I've brought you a message from my younger sister, Dipika. She does not wish to see you any more. Her marriage has been fixed."
In shock and pain Rajan blurted out "I was hoping to marry her!"
In polite words but cold tones the man replied "I am sorry. She could never marry an outsider."
Rajan's world became dark. He rushed home, fell flat on his bed and sobbed like a child. "Dipika, am I an outsider to you, too?" he murmured to himself. Then a thought formed in his mind. 'Was her brother speaking the truth? They may be only forcing her to keep away from me'. He decided to meet her by hook or crook and find out the fact from her.
On Monday afternoon he took leave from later classes and waited outside her school. When she came out he begged to have a word with her. She hesitated, but agreed on sensing his desperation. They found a quiet restaurant and went in. The moment they were alone he asked "Is it true that you are getting married?" She looked down and did not answer.
"Tell me, Dipika, just tell me the truth", he urged.
"Yes".
"Is this your own wish or is your family forcing you?"
"They are not forcing me."
"O Dipika, how you fooled me! I have given you all my heart", he sighed.
"I'm sorry, Rajan. I like you a lot too. Had you been an Assamese I'd never marry
anyone else. But it can't be helped. We have to consider what society would think."
That harsh, jarring note again. Coming from her. It tore his heart. They walked out with a grim air. He escorted her to the bus stop.
"Take my best wishes. Happy marriage!. As for me, I'm an alien here as anywhere else. I can't stay here after this. I must leave the country."
She looked at him with pity. "Where will you go?" she asked.
"My uncle in Canada has been inviting me. I had refused, saying I wanted to stay here and serve my country. Perhaps I should reconsider and try my luck."
"But if you feel an alien in your own country, will it be any better in a foreign land?"
"It will be different, at any rate. You'd go there expecting the alien treatment."
The bus came. She boarded. He walked off in the opposite direction.
He reached the Zoo-road bus stop and waited. The first bus that came was overcrowded, with several passengers hanging over the footboard. He boarded the next one that followed immediately. Here, too, he had to stand along with several others as the seats were all occupied. By the time they reached Chandmari Colony the bus was jam-packed. When they stopped at Guwahati Club a girl's voice behind him said "Please let me pass." He moved aside the best he could to make room and turned to look at the speaker. He caught sight of her as she passed him to get down. A slim figure of medium height, clad in mekhela-chaddar, long hair worn in a single braid. A fair, sweet face. Inexplicably, her picture etched itself in his mind.
He reached early, it being the first day of his work. Cotton College was no new place to him, as he had studied for his degree there. Many of the lecturers, now his colleagues, had taught him. He was warmly welcomed. Some shook hands with him, some thumped him on the back. Some commented jovially "Aha, you have sported a mustache. Grown into a man, eh?"
But then, someone struck a discordant note. He overheard a remark "How come they appointed bahira manuh (outsider)?" That stung. But he set it aside as he got busy meeting people and attending classes.
On the way back home in the afternoon, he assessed his day. He was happy on the whole. He managed the classes alright in spite of his nervousness. His new colleagues had been kind and encouraging. But then, with a twinge he recalled the discordant note—'outsider'. It struck a nerve. Why was he always an outsider everywhere? When he was a child his cousins in Kerala, his father's native place, used to call him 'Hindi walla' because he spoke Hindi with his parents. And in his mother's hometown in West Bengal he was a 'Madrassi'. In Assam, his family's adopted land, where he was born and brought up, he was called an outsider by some of the 'local' people. His father had taught him since early childhood to be an Indian at heart. But no one else he knew seemed to recognize the existence of an Indian in real life.
Perhaps his parents were responsible for his plight. By their inter-cultural marriage they had offended their respective families, and caused him to belong nowhere. His father, a Convent School teacher in Dibrugarh, upper Assam, had created quite a furor in his family circles when he decided to marry his colleague, a Bengali girl. Being very 'Indian' minded, the couple had adopted Hindi as their family language which became their only son's mother tongue. But growing up in Assam, Rajan spoke Assamese also as well as any local. In fact, he unconsciously identified himself as an Assamese.
Life went on, Rajan liked his job and was becoming quite good at teaching. Saturday was his off-day from work. In the afternoon he went to the District Library to read. As he walked in, his heart missed a beat. He saw her—the same girl he had noticed in the bus the other day. He passed her by as he would any stranger. But on the spot he made up his mind to come here every Saturday, in the hope of seeing her again.
All through the next week he was restless and impatient for Saturday to come. His thoughts were dominated by dreams of a fair, sweet face and graceful form in mekhela-chaddar. Sure enough, she was there again the next Saturday. This time a half-smile of recognition passed between them but he did not dare talk to her yet. The next time they met again he summoned up the courage to address her.
"Excuse me, are you a student?" he asked lamely. He cursed himself inwardly for his awkwardness, for his lack of the dashing romantic hero's air. But she answered politely "No, I'm a teacher. I work in P.C. Girls' "
"I see. I work in Cotton. My name is Rajan Nair. May I know your name?"
"Dipika Das"
They parted, neither having anything more to say.
But meeting 'accidentally' every weekend at the library, they soon became 'friends'. Once they even found an excuse to visit a restaurant together and then went for a stroll in Nehru Park. They chatted and laughed, looking into each other's eyes. From that day Rajan classed himself a happy lover.
The next Saturday she did not turn up at the library. He was crestfallen. He sat there a long time pretending to read, in the hope that she might show up. At last he despaired and went out. He had no way of contacting her either. Naively confident of meeting her every time at the library, it had not occurred to him to ask for her phone number or address. He spent a tormented weekend.
Come Saturday, he went to the library as usual, hoping to meet her. As he entered the compound a young man accosted him asking "Are you Rajan Nair?"
"Yes, I am. What was it?" he responded.
"I've brought you a message from my younger sister, Dipika. She does not wish to see you any more. Her marriage has been fixed."
In shock and pain Rajan blurted out "I was hoping to marry her!"
In polite words but cold tones the man replied "I am sorry. She could never marry an outsider."
Rajan's world became dark. He rushed home, fell flat on his bed and sobbed like a child. "Dipika, am I an outsider to you, too?" he murmured to himself. Then a thought formed in his mind. 'Was her brother speaking the truth? They may be only forcing her to keep away from me'. He decided to meet her by hook or crook and find out the fact from her.
On Monday afternoon he took leave from later classes and waited outside her school. When she came out he begged to have a word with her. She hesitated, but agreed on sensing his desperation. They found a quiet restaurant and went in. The moment they were alone he asked "Is it true that you are getting married?" She looked down and did not answer.
"Tell me, Dipika, just tell me the truth", he urged.
"Yes".
"Is this your own wish or is your family forcing you?"
"They are not forcing me."
"O Dipika, how you fooled me! I have given you all my heart", he sighed.
"I'm sorry, Rajan. I like you a lot too. Had you been an Assamese I'd never marry
anyone else. But it can't be helped. We have to consider what society would think."
That harsh, jarring note again. Coming from her. It tore his heart. They walked out with a grim air. He escorted her to the bus stop.
"Take my best wishes. Happy marriage!. As for me, I'm an alien here as anywhere else. I can't stay here after this. I must leave the country."
She looked at him with pity. "Where will you go?" she asked.
"My uncle in Canada has been inviting me. I had refused, saying I wanted to stay here and serve my country. Perhaps I should reconsider and try my luck."
"But if you feel an alien in your own country, will it be any better in a foreign land?"
"It will be different, at any rate. You'd go there expecting the alien treatment."
The bus came. She boarded. He walked off in the opposite direction.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Confession
Wherever i go, whatever i do, there’s one quality for which i’m usually easily number one among the people i’m with. Yeah, i always knew i had this, but didn’t quite realise the number one factor until a colleague pointed it out. This guy was appointed to tell jokes at a function in our college. He listed a few of the teachers who could be labelled ‘-est’ in different ways, like the tallest, best singer, best draught player, and so on. And then he announced my name as the short-est.
Yes, i have to admit i’m vertically challenged. In fact, people keep rubbing this in. Colleagues, friends and family like to tease me about it. But you know, i don’t really mind it. Not even during the sensitive teenage years. True, were it possible, i’d love to add several centimetres to my height. But since it can’t be done, i don’t fret too much.
But the real sore point, the lack that really hurts, is in the matter of the brain. I feel soooo deficient in knowledge and intelligence. My ignorance is abysmal. And my grey cells are in the habit of taking French leave.
Like once, when we went to a zoo, we came to a gate marked ‘Pre-historic animals.’ I looked in and saw two huge dinosaurs towering high. I was delighted. How wonderful to see these creatures in flesh and blood! But to my great disappointment, they just stayed in the same position and didn’t move. Why, they were only dummies!! I could cry in despair while my friends laughed at my silly-ness.
And then, we had a scooter that we kept for sixteen years till it practically fell apart. And in all those years, i just couldn’t remember its registration number. And not for not trying. And to this day, i can’t memorise our landline phone or our car number.
My brainy kid sister once called me mentally retarded in one of those young-days sibling squibbles. And i’m still trying hard to disbelieve her.
Yes, i have to admit i’m vertically challenged. In fact, people keep rubbing this in. Colleagues, friends and family like to tease me about it. But you know, i don’t really mind it. Not even during the sensitive teenage years. True, were it possible, i’d love to add several centimetres to my height. But since it can’t be done, i don’t fret too much.
But the real sore point, the lack that really hurts, is in the matter of the brain. I feel soooo deficient in knowledge and intelligence. My ignorance is abysmal. And my grey cells are in the habit of taking French leave.
Like once, when we went to a zoo, we came to a gate marked ‘Pre-historic animals.’ I looked in and saw two huge dinosaurs towering high. I was delighted. How wonderful to see these creatures in flesh and blood! But to my great disappointment, they just stayed in the same position and didn’t move. Why, they were only dummies!! I could cry in despair while my friends laughed at my silly-ness.
And then, we had a scooter that we kept for sixteen years till it practically fell apart. And in all those years, i just couldn’t remember its registration number. And not for not trying. And to this day, i can’t memorise our landline phone or our car number.
My brainy kid sister once called me mentally retarded in one of those young-days sibling squibbles. And i’m still trying hard to disbelieve her.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Happy Birthday to me!
Please wish me, people. But don’t ask my age—i’ve lost count of it. Never was good with figures any way. Doesn’t matter. I’m glad to be alive and—if not exactly kicking—still walking and talking. Let me take this chance to share some of my life’s motto, hope you don’t mind. Here we go:
1. Honour God, give Him your best.
2. Do good to others as you can. Try not to harm anyone.
3. Live simply and travel light. Cut out fussy frills.
4. Laugh at yourself.
These, in short, are my goal posts.
This year’s birthday is a little lonely, with the children grown and away. Just a cake with hubby, that’s it. O yeah, i’m expecting a bouquet from my colleagues tomorrow. I’ve usually avoided birthday bashes. But it used to be an occasion for family time.
Like once in Bangalore, when i got up in the morning, the hall had become alive with plants and flowers. The family was waiting to wish me. My two children, who normally had to be woken for breakfast, had got up early to decorate the house. They had secretly bought all those potted plants the day before, i’ve no clue how they did it and hid it. That was a glorious day!
Another time, this too in B’lore, the guys were out of station and only daughter and i were home. She asked what treat i wanted. I chose an excursion to a bookshop. So, late in the evening after work, we set out on her battered, rickety kinetic and bought books. Then she treated me to dinner at a posh restaurant. By the time we came out it was 11pm. Then we found the back tyre had a puncture. So we pushed it to the workshop quite a bit away. Traffic had thinned, and the road was quiet. We were thankful for the workshop that stayed open 24 hours. It was midnight by the time we started back for home. I wouldn’t like to repeat such an adventurous birthday, but it sure was a memorable one.
And then last year, they bought me the latest Harry Potter—wasn’t i glad!
Okay then, Happy Birthday to me!
1. Honour God, give Him your best.
2. Do good to others as you can. Try not to harm anyone.
3. Live simply and travel light. Cut out fussy frills.
4. Laugh at yourself.
These, in short, are my goal posts.
This year’s birthday is a little lonely, with the children grown and away. Just a cake with hubby, that’s it. O yeah, i’m expecting a bouquet from my colleagues tomorrow. I’ve usually avoided birthday bashes. But it used to be an occasion for family time.
Like once in Bangalore, when i got up in the morning, the hall had become alive with plants and flowers. The family was waiting to wish me. My two children, who normally had to be woken for breakfast, had got up early to decorate the house. They had secretly bought all those potted plants the day before, i’ve no clue how they did it and hid it. That was a glorious day!
Another time, this too in B’lore, the guys were out of station and only daughter and i were home. She asked what treat i wanted. I chose an excursion to a bookshop. So, late in the evening after work, we set out on her battered, rickety kinetic and bought books. Then she treated me to dinner at a posh restaurant. By the time we came out it was 11pm. Then we found the back tyre had a puncture. So we pushed it to the workshop quite a bit away. Traffic had thinned, and the road was quiet. We were thankful for the workshop that stayed open 24 hours. It was midnight by the time we started back for home. I wouldn’t like to repeat such an adventurous birthday, but it sure was a memorable one.
And then last year, they bought me the latest Harry Potter—wasn’t i glad!
Okay then, Happy Birthday to me!
Saturday, September 6, 2008
my rival
Martha and i are fairly good friends now. But our first acquaintance was on an unpleasant note because she started off as —
My rival
Life has not been the same since Martha came. She was originally supposed to be our servant. She was invited home one day in late September, a couple of weeks after my birthday, by my husband and our son. My husband, who had conveniently forgotten to give me a present for my birthday, decided to dub her my belated birthday present.
My birthday present? Servant? What a joke! She became the queen of our lives. She was put up in the better bedroom of the house. Right from day one she started ruling over our family. She captivated the hearts of my middle aged husband and twenty-ish son. They simply adored her. They wanted to spend all their time at home with her. In the pre-Martha days, my husband used to call me (when he was in a good mood) the heart of the home. Now Martha became that. Rather, the queen of hearts of the home. Before she came, both my husband and son used to 'Hi' me and sometimes even stop to chat when they came home. No more. They would rush straight looking for her. Or if they address me at all, it is to ask about Martha. Is she alright? Is she comfortable? What did she do today?
Disgusting, really! Of course, Martha is young, pretty, brainy. In all honesty i have to admit that though i can't help casting the green eye on her. She is charming. I can well understand my son's feeling for her. He is a young man. But my not-young husband, shouldn't he have a bit more sense?
After days of hair-pulling and nail-biting, i decided to put on my thinking cap. Then light dawned: the saying “If you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em.” I decided to join them. Make friends with Martha too. Love her as they do. Kiss her feet, figuratively.
I approached gingerly as she was sitting regally in her room. I talked to her, sweet words hiding a bitter heart. I requested her to do some work. But Martha is no fool. My sugar-words did not deceive her. She repulsed me bluntly and flatly refused to do my bidding. I was stymied. In a panic i called up my son, telling him Martha's rude to me, is misbehaving with me, and so forth. He, the boy i had borne and brought up, had the cheek to reply that Martha would not misbehave if i treat her right!
Anyhow, i swallowed my pride and asked him what i should do. He told me. Then slowly, with a lot of bungling on my part and rude rebuffs on hers, we started to get along. The animosity between us melted gradually. She is learning to tolerate me and i am trying to forgive her for stealing my family's affections from me. We may never become the best of friends but we can at least learn to live under the same roof. I am even beginning to be glad that Martha came home. After all, she is a good PC (HCL Pentium 3).
My rival
Life has not been the same since Martha came. She was originally supposed to be our servant. She was invited home one day in late September, a couple of weeks after my birthday, by my husband and our son. My husband, who had conveniently forgotten to give me a present for my birthday, decided to dub her my belated birthday present.
My birthday present? Servant? What a joke! She became the queen of our lives. She was put up in the better bedroom of the house. Right from day one she started ruling over our family. She captivated the hearts of my middle aged husband and twenty-ish son. They simply adored her. They wanted to spend all their time at home with her. In the pre-Martha days, my husband used to call me (when he was in a good mood) the heart of the home. Now Martha became that. Rather, the queen of hearts of the home. Before she came, both my husband and son used to 'Hi' me and sometimes even stop to chat when they came home. No more. They would rush straight looking for her. Or if they address me at all, it is to ask about Martha. Is she alright? Is she comfortable? What did she do today?
Disgusting, really! Of course, Martha is young, pretty, brainy. In all honesty i have to admit that though i can't help casting the green eye on her. She is charming. I can well understand my son's feeling for her. He is a young man. But my not-young husband, shouldn't he have a bit more sense?
After days of hair-pulling and nail-biting, i decided to put on my thinking cap. Then light dawned: the saying “If you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em.” I decided to join them. Make friends with Martha too. Love her as they do. Kiss her feet, figuratively.
I approached gingerly as she was sitting regally in her room. I talked to her, sweet words hiding a bitter heart. I requested her to do some work. But Martha is no fool. My sugar-words did not deceive her. She repulsed me bluntly and flatly refused to do my bidding. I was stymied. In a panic i called up my son, telling him Martha's rude to me, is misbehaving with me, and so forth. He, the boy i had borne and brought up, had the cheek to reply that Martha would not misbehave if i treat her right!
Anyhow, i swallowed my pride and asked him what i should do. He told me. Then slowly, with a lot of bungling on my part and rude rebuffs on hers, we started to get along. The animosity between us melted gradually. She is learning to tolerate me and i am trying to forgive her for stealing my family's affections from me. We may never become the best of friends but we can at least learn to live under the same roof. I am even beginning to be glad that Martha came home. After all, she is a good PC (HCL Pentium 3).
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
terror
Terrorism by militants, political or religious extremists, communalists, government forces... is growing and growing. Why is there no sight of an end? Because violence begets violence. And more violence. It keeps multiplying.
We were in Assam till the first half of 2004. The deeds of those who called themselves ‘liberators’ of the people were horrendous. The retaliation by government agencies was the same. The worst sufferers were mostly innocent people caught in between.
Here are some protest verses i wrote back in those days.
Blast
Full of life and fun
the little boy
just turned seven
looked forward to future
to do grown up things—
ride a bike, fly a plane,
bring mummy and daddy presents.
A loud burst
silenced
the spirited chatter
for ever.
Only
a bloody mess
and deep pain
remain.
Republic day 04
i’d love to celebrate;
fly the flag,
sing and dance;
but i’m scared.
scared of those who
silence songs with
guns.
sound of bomb is
louder than
music.
but louder still are
cries of orphans and
ravaged women.
what price liberation?
We were in Assam till the first half of 2004. The deeds of those who called themselves ‘liberators’ of the people were horrendous. The retaliation by government agencies was the same. The worst sufferers were mostly innocent people caught in between.
Here are some protest verses i wrote back in those days.
Blast
Full of life and fun
the little boy
just turned seven
looked forward to future
to do grown up things—
ride a bike, fly a plane,
bring mummy and daddy presents.
A loud burst
silenced
the spirited chatter
for ever.
Only
a bloody mess
and deep pain
remain.
Republic day 04
i’d love to celebrate;
fly the flag,
sing and dance;
but i’m scared.
scared of those who
silence songs with
guns.
sound of bomb is
louder than
music.
but louder still are
cries of orphans and
ravaged women.
what price liberation?
Drowned
our homes are drowned in
flood of blood
and tears.
they come from jungles,
loot, shoot,
commit carnage.
then come bigger guns
from cities;
more carnage,
more cries.
those on higher grounds
watch it all in a
mirror.
they cluck or chuckle
while our homes are drowned in
flood of blood
and tears.
Sorry to offend your tastes and sensibilities with this ‘bloody’ stuff. But reality needs to be shown, however unpleasant.
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