Aishu

 

I first saw her when she was two years old.

She spoke to me in her broken English.

- Talk to people - She was probably told.

We were unaware that that was her wish.

Bubbly child sounded much like a dolby-

Aishu was born to spread love and laughter.

This little kid brought out the kid in me.

And her presence I will feel much after.

She was a friend, and she was a daughter.

Someone you could just dream or hope to be.

I will pluck memories from my jotter.

And wish her joy wherever she may be.

I will miss those big, naughty, dreamy eyes.

Though they will appear in a different guise.

Version

 

Memories are just versions-

some are real, some made up. 

When truth finds no diversion-

we conveniently dream up. 

Mysteries are glorified. 

And the history is blurred. 

War and peace are storified

for we like the written word. 

A myth is passed on as fact-

unaware what truth it lacks. 

Interpreter

Leaders talk back and forth in their lingos. 

The interpreter stands by translating. 

The future of the world is mapped and coursed

as people around live in hope- waiting. 

But somehow the interpreter blunders. 

Exchange of dialogues turns ambiguous. 

People now stand stupefied in wonder,

and the curious  become furious. 

Unaware that the language was twisted-

the chaos these leaders fail to fathom. 

Toil is wasted for the time invested.

The peace-talks become a meaningless hum. 

Was this an error or just theatre?

The interpreter becomes the scripter.

Kaju-Kismis

 

In the mornings they come wagging their tails-

fluttering eyes intent on buttering.

Let us out - they shriek with cajoling hails-

my demeanour melts at these utterings.

Kismis wobbles and rolls towards the gate

prodding me to open their heaven’s door.

And poor Kaju stares in a trancelike state,

but imitates Kismis’s fancy uproar.

Sometimes I ignore their silly gimmicks,

and pretend to silently walk away.

But these naughty rascals know all the tricks

so swiftly they chase, nudge and block my way.

So I open the gate and let them loose-

soon they will find something else to amuse.

Stamp

 

There is a stamp with a glaze-

triangles on frill border.  

It has my wrinkled old face

enhanced by talcum powder. 

I shall now travel the world,

and I will be recognised-

this aged wine sweetly mulled

labelled with a wee bit price. 

Rail, road, sea, take me by air

till the day I become rare.

Attic

 

All my journals are stored in the attic-

along with albums, letters and what not. 

For years on they will remain there static

till they just become some entangled knots. 

Sometimes I pass by and look up at them-

silently they sit with a calm repose. 

Filled with my thoughts and writings are these gems-

and my picture with a beautiful pose. 

I climb the attic to clear the old web. 

Could I discard these memories for space?

Tears flow, emotions at their lowest ebb-

but soon this maze new tidings shall replace. 

New books, new photos- the attic ages.

And yet remains the scent of those pages. 

Monsoon

 

Rain pelts its relentless spears. 

Few shelters, few souls they pierce. 

Drenched in water, thirst not quenched-

I guzzle couple of beers.