He looked afraid on the stage.
Stuttered and fumbled for words.
And people were quick to gauge,
branding him a no-good-nerd.
Was he really a fool,
and his stumbling act just guile?
For though his gaffes looked awful,
he could not resist a smile.
Unaware, we fussed and cursed,
this prankster with a purpose.
In the hour of dawn when the moon still glowed,
I opened the rusted memory tap.
Stories dribbled with a sputtering flow
as if woken by hiccups from a nap.
Some were lukewarm and worth reminiscing.
Few should have remained like a distant haze.
Some tasted like a sweet cake with icing.
Some left a bad taste - could not be erased.
I switched off the tap for a few minutes.
But I could still sense the gurgle of tales.
I savoured all and sundry and tidbits.,
and will not let the flow stop nor run stale.
As I soak and sink into this outpour-
my sink overflows yet I ask for more.
He calls you with a sweet smile.
Then knocks on wood and whistles.
All set to polish in style
with wax, cream and brush bristles.
He could tell some funny tales
that just don’t make boots shine.
He would fix a shoe that ails,
and your petty daily whines.
He knows every shoe unknown.
Just by the way it is worn.
She brings her chair to the beach.
A flask of hot chai - her friend.
As the morning sun glows peach,
the moon fades - its vigil ends.
The sea takes back little sand.
Her chair slides one inch deeper.
Today, she has time on hand.
Nature is the time keeper.
Walkers pass by, wave from miles.
She squints her eyes with a smile.
Here rests an old friend in peace
that often eluded him.
Though he was on a short lease-
Alas! It was further trimmed.
He lived a colourful prime
of guzzling beers and ghazals.
Perhaps aware of less time
with a mind full of puzzles.
He is wheeled on a gurney.
Thus begins his next journey.
A narrow wooden swing went swish and swish.
The big open windows let in the breeze.
Here, I never had to demand a wish.
Nor had to act or behave to appease.
My grandparents loved to fuss over me.
I would sleep or pretend to be asleep.
This old place that would always let me be
where my ancestral roots run sweet and deep.
The kitchen was filled with jars of pickle
where we gossiped and spiced up tales for fun.
My grand mom ruffled my hair to tickle.
Just to see that smile I went there often.
The house is closed now, not those memories.
I am still pampered by their melodies
The queen ant sits on her throne-
lays millions of tiny eggs.
Beside her idles the drone.
Soldiers march on tireless legs.
For miles some forage for food,
and bring back the daily bread.
But sometimes they rise and feud
and seem an army of red.
But ants toil without bondage.
They change their roles as they age.
