It was just another short night walk with my dog today. It turned out be special, thanks to a magical combination of cool weather, resplendent shy moon above, shiny yellow puddles of light below, sweet fragrance of Night Queen and the stillness of silence. Enjoy this in “The shy moon”. (#222)
A creative take of the recent heavy rains in South India as commencing with a roar of the river and ending up sleeping peacefully in the sea, in “The downpour”.(#221)
My second language was Tamil until 5th standard and when we moved to Bangalore, I was forced to take Hindi. Learning a-aah-e-eeh at 5th standard meant I was in a perennial catch up mode all the way until 10th. And the ICSE board meant proficiency in Hindi was expected to be of highest standard. When I stepped into the final year of school, I was filled with mortal fear. One lady ensured that I did…
In my neighbourhood an old man in tattered clothes driving a dilapidated truck is the one who comes daily to collect the garbage. Know what, he wishes me and smiles too, and does his job well. Sad that BBMP does not equip them with modern hygienic tools. Have you pondered as how it would be to live in his shoes? My creative schizophrenia continues as “I am a garbage collector” now. (#219)
I hate the bikers of Bangalore who violate every traffic rule to rule the amazing roads of Bangalore. And then is when the Aha moment occurred on “how they rule the roads”. So I set out to become that person and creatively pen down as to who I am in “I am a biker”.
Have you been stood up by a cab driver at a critical juncture? Have you experienced the taxi swerve when the cabbie closes his eyes momentarily? Have you seen bottles strewn in the neighbourhood overnight? Have you been quietly studied in the front mirror? Here is my creative take on the life of the new age Indian cab driver as “I am cabdriver”. Note : I am suffering from creative schizophrenia and here is…
In response to the poem “I am a biker” Sampath Iyengar requested me to “write one dedicated to all those rich and highly educated parents who ride the bikes to drop their kids to school to get ‘educated’ but violate every rule in the book”. Here is it as “Hollow parenting”. (#217)
Continuing my multiple poetic personalities it is now the turn of being a bus driver. Yes, we hate their pompous driving attitude, but just imagine yourself in their seat for a short while. Here is what I felt creatively, as a poem titled “I am a bus driver”. (#218)
The yellow light of street lamp filtered through the branches of the grand old tree. It painted a carpet on the street with lovely black and white reticulated rangoli. The continuous hum of insects from all directions with the grand canopy covering the entire street corner made it look like a theatre stage all set for another evening performance. The leaves nodded to the gentle breeze, birds perked up and fluttered their wings, squirrels raced…
In his eighties still very active in a shrivelled frame, he was in the temple serving the devotees. Sunken eyes that are bright, lean frame still agile with tennis, sharp mind reciting stotras from memory, he lit up when he saw me. A family friend of many decades and meeting after nearly a year, we enquired eagerly about each other’s families. His son was about the same age as me, another engineer who went to…