797
I am not the Buddha
When I rest under the banyan
With closed eyes, folded knees,
‘Look after carefully’
Sounded an owl
Giving her little one to me
And went on its way
‘Keep these with care’
Said the green parakeet,
Thrusted some ripened fruits
In my lap and left
‘Save this pearl necklace’
Ordered the Raven,
Put it around my neck
And flew away
‘Take this also’
Said a beggar who throw
A rupee near me and moved
Not-Self,
I am not The Buddha !
*
The street child
O, Child,
Street, the place
Where you sleep,
In day and dreams
That coins you as
The child of the street
Where you sleep,
In day and dreams
That coins you as
The child of the street
Undone hair
Querying flies on wounds
Worn out shirt of a rich child
Tossed, one penny near
Breached dusty feet
Pronounced more you.
A street child
Querying flies on wounds
Worn out shirt of a rich child
Tossed, one penny near
Breached dusty feet
Pronounced more you.
A street child
O, Child,
It’s you the alma mater
For the society
That lives on liberality
Of giving away money
Instead of educating you
Makes you beg,
And beg more
It’s you the alma mater
For the society
That lives on liberality
Of giving away money
Instead of educating you
Makes you beg,
And beg more
Wake up, Child!
Cry aloud
Beg on your mother’s name
To food your hunger
The feudal Barons
Are out on the street
Cry aloud
Beg on your mother’s name
To food your hunger
The feudal Barons
Are out on the street
*
I named the village
Thorn forests spread open
Over the hot stretch of land
With highly tall, out-righted hands,
Palm trees proclaimed no shade
Sided with broken cement walls,
Channel with small squirms of water
Runs quietly as a tiptoed girl
Dried dung smells over the breeze
Evening sun plays in the orange dust
A group of shirtless boys
Cross fast the forlorn street of the village
With shrieking sounds that subtle the dust
It is the village
Where I was born
Where the leaves of succulent plants
Were plucked to eliminate the girl children
From this earthy life
The dust remains orange as of those days
With little change of paleness in color
I named the village,
As my place of rebirth, where I was
Once born and survived
As a girl.
*
Night of a widow
Sky, its crescent
And the garden, the scent
Drove her day slowly
She washed the vessels
To finish off chores
Snared slightly,
The cat of next door
As it sleeps on the doorway
She dimmed up the lamp
This kindled an instant glint
Logging the hands under her head,
Swaddling the sari to warm her body,
And there the barren floor,
Became her bed,
Tucked buttons of her blouse
Heaved for a vent of no use
Night sighs, with whomever,
She pondered over
Day over day
There in the attic,
An unbundled bed
With cracked eggshells of lizards
Are still sleeping
On her night,
Where no one is allowed.
*
Wait of the man
With no end at sight,
He stopped,
Then proceeded
Seasons have passed
Leaves surrendered
Ducklings gave birth
Yet it’s not the time,
To return the Knighthood
And be back in the hands of love
Maybe sometime later,
He’ll be in a garden,
Smelling lilies
Watering Daffodils
Fondling ducks
And let the season,
Wait!!
*
Wait of a woman
You left to distant land,
For earning money
Leaving me young
Every time
While you were about to return
Something happened to stop you
Once it rained heavily
And flooded the villages
Egrets rested upon the cattle
Damp clothes hung over the clothesline
And always something happened
While you were about to return
Spring, the best season, to return
But you intended not to be back,
Until all the meadows turned as houses
And their pathways vanished
Like the vulture in old,
Which break the beak
And wait to grow,
I live here, waiting,
To outlive
My age.