Writing Poetry

Everyone's writing poetry these days.

But no matter how much out of windows I gaze,
Or into the depths of my coffee I peer.
Zilch....nothing. No 'moonlit skies' nor any 'Christmas cheer'.

Dejected...angry I head up to bed,
Hoping the morning dew drop'll moisten my big fat excuse for a head.
But to no avail as even in bright daylight,
My mind shows its incapacity of taking flight.

Refusing to let my will waver,
Muttering to the self' "Better late than never."
I descend into the park for a stroll,
My determination now harder than coal.

I wonder if I should write about the chirping of the birds,
Or how about the curdling of milk into curd?
Maybe about the wind that flows through trees
And creates gentle ripples on the surface of the sea.

Should my poem be about the neighbour's little tyke
The rascal with a smile so charming that one can't help but like?
I could also write about the fragrant lilies which in my garden bloom,
Or how much unattractive I find my sister's new groom.

Writing about the economy would be oh-so-boring,
It would be like describing cement, concrete and flooring.
On love I could write enough to fill a diary,
But so could any other Tom, Dick and Harry.

Then....One glorious stroke of inspiration and I finally see,
What the essence of my poem should be.
So ladies and gentlemen, with all due humility,
Gathering all my courage and integrity,
I present to you my dilemmas on writing poetry.

It girls

A pretty, young, vivacious and innocent girl is shot at and killed by a youth high on alcohol and power. The scene is witnessed by a considerable number of people. The girl's elder sister, bent on getting justice done to her sister's killer is relentless in her efforts. The culprit turns out to be the apple of the eye of an influential politician. Underhand dealings, bribes, threats follow and in the blink of an eye, all witnesses turn hostile. The sister, a feisty and determined young woman refuses to bow out. She falls down, gets bruised and yet picking herself up with fresh determination, fights it out till the very end. Till truth finally triumphs and the killer is sentenced for life.

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A twenty-something of the 'weaker' sex standing outside Bandra station is subjected to the lewd stares of a street Romeo. Walking up to her, he pinches her bottom as well. Fuming, she grabs the miscreant by the scruff his collar and drags him to the police station, hitting him all the way. Articles praising the woman's bravado and condemning the eve-teaser's actions find their way to all newspapers the next morning, even as fellow eve-teasers shiver in their boots and women across the city find a reason to rejoice.

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A girl faints in the compartment of a local train and falls down in a heap just as the train pulls into the next station. Her friend carries her to a seat on the platform and before she knows, a bevy of women-old,young,rich,poor have surrounded them and are offering water, handkerchiefs, medicine,lime juice and the likes. Two of them are even trying to relieve the fainted girl, rubbing their  palms against hers and sheltering her face from the sun with their pallus. They sit with the couple of them, constantly offering words of comfort and advice. They buy a packet of glucose biscuits and feed it to the weak one, as she comes around. And when her friend offers to pay them back for the biscuits and refreshments, they smile at her and say, "Does one accept money from one's sister"?

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The Supreme Court's judgement is out. The euthanasia plea for a woman who was sexually assaulted more three decades ago, lying in a vegetative state since then at the government hostel, where she worked as a nurse has been denied. The other nurses, clad in clean white frocks, are jubilant. They celebrate outside the hospital as a symbol of their mirth. "We will continue to tend to her (the patient) as long as God wishes her to live.", says one of them. "She was one of us after all."

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She hitches up her saree a tad bit and goes on about with her work. Sweeping every nook and corner, washing every stain off every dirty piece of cloth, cleaning every grimy surface, she makes sure that the house is spotless and shiny. Even if she doesn't live in it.

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And last but certainly far far away from the least,

Up and about at 6 each morn, she sweeps through the house like a hurricane, moving from task to task. She makes beds, cooks for everyone, packs lunches and leaves for work. At work, she toils away giving her best to the job at hand, returns home weary and tired, hiding fatigue behind that beatific smile that appears at the sight of her brood. Besides work, there are music and yoga classes to attend, grocery shopping to be done, friends and relatives to be visited...twenty four hours do not seem enough. And yet, as the day comes to a close, she eagerly sits with her off springs and listens to all that they have to say about the day that went by. First to rise and last to fall asleep, she surpasses her spirited, energetic, enthusiastic, strong, sweet, kind, sacrificing, sometimes stern and all encompassing self  every single day. And did I mention that no matter how busy or engaged she might be, in the middle of the day, my phone lights up with a message, "How are you? Eat well and go home on time. Mom."


To all these absolute joys of the feminine kind and to many more I respect, admire and love - Happy Women's Day!

Memorable indeed

That round piece of cardboard, encircled in a neat ring of purple, a delicate daffodil drawn neatly at its centre and covered with plastic peered at me from below the huge box of knick knacks, where it lain, possibly for a long time. I stopped my task of searching for a borrowed and long forgotten book and picked up the guiding badge from the drawer which looked as though a hurricane had just swept through it. Staring at that round, coloured bit, running my fingers along its surface, I was hit by a flood of memories- me and my then best friend sitting on the bed in that very same room, working meticulously, cutting cardboard pieces in perfect circles, drawing yellow green flowers neatly in their middle, ensuring they all looked the same, laughing and giggling the entire time and wearing it proudly on our uniforms the next day at school. I couldn’t suppress a smile.

Just like that ‘borrowed and long forgotten’ book that I happened to be searching for, there are numerous moments once lived , innumerable memories once created that lie undisturbed, unrecalled and there are instances like these which bring them to life. Each moment passes; it becomes the next and in doing so creates a memory. Every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year leaves behind a potpourri of experiences- some to be cherished and fondly recalled, some to learn from, some bittersweet ones, some plain bitter, some that ring in laughter, some capable of inspiring a song, some worthy of being written about, some of merely sharing along…

A closer look at one’s habitat, everyday surroundings is indeed a revelation of those overlooked triggers of nostalgia. Take a little time out from your chores and look around. Pages from the dog-eared notebook that you had once written in, scribbling on the wall made by your five year old, oily haired self, a pair of torn jeans, the piggy bank that you used to drop coins in every week, that pretty pink clip you had cried your eyes out for…the list is endless. It is indeed astonishing how these ordinary objects can transport one back in time and make one relive past moments. Who needs a time machine? Throw out your anti-ageing creams. Next time you go out, try sidestepping your usual path and turn into the street which was trodden by your young and carefree feet and watch those wrinkles turn into happy crinkles!

Time flows by, relationships change. Some for the better, others not so much. People may drift apart, but at some point in their lives will think about each other because of the memories that they created together. Every person, everything that you spend time with invariably becomes part of your own memory box. And quite unlike the detachable computer memory disc, it is something that will be with you for as long as you live. Photographs can be destroyed, letters can be burnt. The emotions behind those laughs and words however become etched on the soul.

Memories are funny things. Capable of making you laugh and cry at the same time, they are stark reminders of the life you’ve lived, of the life that you perhaps wouldn’t want to reveal to the rest of the world. Residing deep down in those recesses of the mind they can be examined at will, replayed to the heart’s content. A flower withers away, its fragrance lingers. Time fades, people change, but they remain bound by the bittersweet threads of remembrance.

Miracle Lady

7.25 in the morning. A voice cut sharply through my sleepy thoughts. "Maitreyee, come up to the board and write the thought for today". Getting up slowly from my place, scowling at the amused expressions of my classmates who had at once turned to look at me, I shuffled my feet to the front of the class as if very reluctant on performing the job just assigned to me. Secretly, however, I was very pleased that I had been chosen over the others by her, even though I knew that my being the tallest girl in class was the reason for her choice. But, I just liked to believe that I was her favourite. Delight, inward or outward, at being the teacher's pet at age fifteen is a pretty rare occurrence. But then, so was she.

Mrs. Uma Vaidyanathan, class teacher of 10th B and invariably of my class in the last year of school. Tall, her thin frame draped in a crisp saree, hair neatly arranged in a bun, a perennial serene look on her kind face , she greeted us every single morning of our tenth standard. Each day, she would make us write the aforementioned noble thought and then explain its significance, before proceeding to teach us English. This exercise regarded as somewhat an irritant by most of us back then has proven invaluable over the years.

Our classroom, situated at the extreme end of a long corridor existed in a world of its own, removed from the bustle of the rest of the school. We were self-sufficient enough to create our own hustle, our own racket. And brave enough to take charge of this raucous class was Mrs. V. Instructing us to open our books, she would proceed to read every single sentence of every chapter, lesson, story and poem. She would make us understand the meaning and importance of every written word, encourage us to explore all possibilities and break boundaries of thought. Refusing to hand things on a platter, she made us think. About everything. So much that sometimes we were ready to pull out our hair in frustration.

We called her UV, an abbreviation for her name that had long echoed in the school halls, thought of by, no doubt some senior or the other. Students came and left, but the nickname continued, from one batch to the next. She was well aware of her 'secret' christening and this was proved when once in her class, reading a story aloud, we came across the word UV rays. All of us started sniggering, our eyes twinkling. This did not escape our own UV's notice. Laughing she said, "Oh come on! Is that still around?''. What a sport!

I never remember her flopping down on a chair and asking us to do lessons on our own because she was tired or because the story was easy to understand. Treating her subject with tenderness and love that a mother reserves for her child, she taught us the nuances of the English language in a simple yet interesting manner. Such was her charm that she got even the most naughtiest and often labelled 'incorrigible' kid of the class to do his work, answer in class and earn one of those warmth exuding smiles of hers. It was nothing short of a miracle.

On my part, I constantly sought her approval. Taking hours and painstaking efforts to finish each essay, each story I flaunted my linguistic skills just for that extra moment of consideration, that nod of appreciation. Looking back I realize that her opinion mattered so much to me not just because she taught my dearest subject, but because of who she was as a person. Always the one for good behaviour she would gently but firmly reprimand bad language and behaviour. Just and always willing to listen to students in case of conflicts with other teachers, she stood by us, thereby earning our total respect and immense love.

With only a couple of months left for me to graduate, I recently took a walk down memory lane and pondered about which teacher had impacted my life the most. No surprises as the only name flashing before my mind's eye was that of Mrs. Uma Vaidyanathan. Others taught from textbooks. She taught me lessons in humility. "The tree laden with fruit always bends low". I hope, I never forget.