Straight from the Heart

Your bangles no longer jingle. The eyes have lost their lustre. The lines on the face say it all. About the journey through 40 springs and fall. We fight so often these days. Contrary to the hours spent earlier in idle talk. Sometimes there seems nothing to share, Though that’s not a sign of the relationship’s wear! From fourteen to all of forty years, Its been a journey well tread. While moments, a few, have been a trifle dull. It certainly isn’t a case of love getting lulled. Attraction has given way to contentment, At the thought of each one close at hand. On your birthday, this fortieth year. My strength, I gift anew, to battle all your fears. Oct 19th, 2009

At the tip of India I watched the sun going down, Enveloped by the giant frothy waves. Only to rise in its full glory, Once again, from the depths of the sea. At the tip of India The bronze statue stands tall. Goading the vast populace To follow in his footsteps. Arise, Awake!! At the tip of India I saw the “Shiv-ling” Probably placed by some religious fanatic To firmly establish the land’s Hindu credentials. At the tip of India Why do people take a holy dip? Is it just the feeling of helplessness Of having reached land’s end? Or is it in acknowledgement? The might of the ocean, the unknown, Compels people to bow in deference? At the tip of India I saw the ocean rushing in to engulf all. Only to be stopped in the tracks By a few pieces of jutting rock. In defiance to the mighty ocean, they bear the onslaught and let the waves roll in gently at the feet of our great country.

We drift on Meandering our way through the numerous canals as if to give company to those clusters of drifting water hyacinth. No hurry, the water goads the boat gently. “Feast on the life that unfolds by my banks”, it seems to say. “Look how the simple lives of these folks Keep them content and gay”! There’s a boy who takes a bath. By the canal banks he keeps a watch. In welcome he waves, in between his wash. And with mock disdain, he lets us pass. The women folk of the village Busy with their chores. Washing the clothes, they beat them sore. Keeping the home fire burning Is no mean a feat. To the banks they come, To retreat or is it some inspiration they seek? Some villages are small with houses of mud and clay. Thatched roofs of coir and dried leaves that keep nature’s elements at bay. The bigger villages have houses so pretty. Painted in bright colours, They appear to house only fun and gaiety. The temples are old but churches bright and painted new. In the land of red brigade, Re...