When heat and dust clogged my face.
And the sweat poured from the pores.
I would then thirstily gaze
at her window and implore.
As always she would be there-
a glass of water in hand.
Her smile showed how much she cared
for me and my restless band.
Now closed is her kitchen door.
Our thirst will be quenched no more.
Why to your nemesis yield?-
and run all helter skelter.
Your transparent comfort-shield
is but a fragile shelter.
The nemesis boomerangs.
And returns with a new face.
It once again draws fear pangs-
an ever-occurring phase.
Let not this farce pretender
be your prowling tormentor.
A square wooden battleground is all set.
The queen sits in the centre of the field.
The warriors are itching to cast their nets.
But nine black and nine white knights stand as shields.
The spear strikes at the heart of the uprise -
dispersing the knights all over the ground.
Some knights are pocketed as a grand prize.
But some still to the royal queen surround.
Turn by turn the warriors strike with skill-
forever in pursuit of the red queen.
The knights slide and tumble and pockets fill.
And once again the field is powder-cleaned.
The night is young, the warriors sip rum.
The lightbulb hangs to heat up the carrom.
Her eighty candles sputtered
on the chocolate syrup.
Her wishes mutely uttered.
The birthday cake was lit up.
The knife in her restless wrist.
And eyes could no longer feign.
Tongue found it hard to resist.
She was one year old again.
Happy birthday mother dear.
I know you are somewhere near.
Her picture hung on the wall
staring silently at him.
Her memories caused tear-fall-
sweet, salted, spicy, untrimmed.
The echo of her laughter
hummed like a musical chime.
But the pain felt thereafter
for she left before her time.
He flipped her frame with a sigh
to calm his watery eyes.
Gazing out seeking no one-
he sat by the tall windows.
His brows betrayed what he yearned.
His eyes saw just her shadows.
His ears perked up to a song
that played somewhere far away.
She used to whistle along,
and would always make him sway.
He sipped his kapi and smiled.
He would meet her down the mile.
The purple coffin shined bright.
Its hinges greased with brass oil.
The cushions of satin white
descended into the soil.
The craft lay six feet under
with the carvings neatly sketched.
To this earth it surrendered.
Its image forever etched.
The vessel and the good soul
were heavenwards set to soar.
