THE BLUE TIARA

What do you sell Oh sky?
Ornately bright jewels are flaunted.
Blue pastures with silver sheep,
Sunsets of blood red and amber,
Night skies dyed in velvet purple,
Moon shining soft on clear pools.

What do you cry, Oh sky?
Rain, hail and fair snow.

What do you sing Oh skies?

Latest air and sweet breeze.

What do you weigh, Oh sky?

Infinite shimmering constellations,

What do you scream, Oh sky?

Thunders, lightning and storms

What do you toil, Oh sky?

Supple clouds and a burning ball.

What do you call Oh sky?

Those water sources to clean.

Ripe people to jog over the porch

PSEUDO-EXODUS

I am a frozen body somewhere amid three oceans. Speck on a triangle!

I have been for a long-time, only I know my era better than those live here, can only imagine how times have changed as time trundles over decades.

I have become so contemporary I have never liked the way I am than before. There is so much gold in here, I can’t tell. No avoid bloodshed.

I always had everything bountiful for natives who take birth here, rations garments and asylum. I have all they want here but never explored much.

I am clothed in emerald turfs and beautiful river that flows like unruffled silver born on the hill-tops after a rain drop crashes down, cutting valleys.

My skies are bluer than sapphires; my sunsets are precious than glowing gold, my nights alluring than one thousand brightly lit cathedrals. It’s Love!

I am not so famous but winged far-off ambassadors fly miles, here to nestle over my trees I’m a baby-sitter and a sweet mom for their chicks. It’s care!

My rice villas are stripped for coins; my magnificence is vanishing as men become covetous, it’s a culture shock to me and my senses. It’s my pain!

Some of my children have flown off forever I never see them back again. I see some but they vanish in no time on fields forced to high-speed lanes.

I lean back and watch their busy lives, I don’t wish to say this but I smile to myself someday you are all mine forever. Sadly they might never like this.

I am devised so, it’s a curse or a blessing I am not sure. I am meant to be so I can keep people for a while and take them off like it or not. Life’s fragile!

Greed and pride makes my people disgust each other; they ask me for more. So many children, men and women are deprived to people’s voracity.

But I see all of them someday beside my river, others come to rest between those hot graphite tablets embossed with their names curled in dry weeds.

Don’t be happy about birth nor be sad about death.

I am a town called Nellore! 
Where do they head after here? I know where they are?

I am programmed to keep silent until the time comes. 

Colorful Love

Our God is a lover of colours. He keeps the skies blue and clouds silver. He then reflects the clouds on vast quantities of water sources, when it rains the skies turn dark grey. When it stops rain the sky almost looks like glowing wool sailing overhead. Then is a colourful arch spread on the sky as sun plays through the rain droplets. The rain bows down to God calling it a rainbow. As evening falls the sun sets down, leaving the horizon into a stunning shade of vivid colors, a pool of gradients spattered, so bright and beautiful makes everyone speechless. The night sky then becomes all dark, the jewels of the sky, as if God himself throws them out of his hand like a famer, to make the night sky look like a field of newly fallen pearls. 
The hidden love for mankind marks the beauty of the sky. We may not see God but he is there behind his creation.

Whisper of Nature

While the burning sun burnt on the glass of sky
A soothing wind blew from the icecaps of snow.
The warm north breeze with chill drops of ice,
Drenched its emerald leaves hanging on moonlit row.
Amid those gold-dusted azures of the cathedral sky,
On which the amber bars of dying sunset lie.
As crimson darkness fell over the shoulders of my place,
The stars lit on the sky like jewels on the queens pinafore.
I did what Oscar Wilde did for France, to my place.

Sweet Clouds.

A million clouds soaring over head, 
The destination is known to us. 
They replicate over water sources,
 And paint the emerald mountains. 
Somewhere few thirsty trees call, 
They fly and fly in search of them. 
They hear the cry and need for water, 
Stop all of a sudden and look around, 
From there moaning voice arise. 
They squeeze them hard and shower,
The first pure drops of water called Rain. 
The roots swell in joy and twigs glow green! 
Clouds don’t simple move around they are always.
 Looking for voices around the earth.

Silhouettes of pain

A million tears fell down to the news,
Some ended up in palms some dried on cheeks,
Like the ones ended up in air, while others fought for life,
It’s a building or a plane or dirty fate or thirst for blood,
That took away people making widows and orphans,
Anger and vengeance engulfed over nations for the loss,
Life is short and fragile to be broken before it breaks on its own,
Dreams shattered down like the debris came pouring down,
What a terrible sight that was no man wished to see in life,
Fuselage, flesh, blood, bricks and cement erupted to wild attack,
Two mighty structures on roaring conflagration of bright plumes,
Who knew tears were so bitter and lips curl so red to sobbing,
The buildings might be erect again and life fills back into those rooms,
But for few that still remains a nightmare all their life lived in grief,
Children ask mom for their father, mother asks the sky for her man,
In the dark an old mom flows tears on her wrinkled cheeks for?
Some take to chest the framed photos closing their eyes to agony,
Father holds a burnt candle as that was last birthday for his son,
Some dinner tables never knew why their guests never turned up,
This is not going to be forever very soon they all would show up,
At the golden gates of heaven eager to meet their loved ones,
We plea the angels in heaven to keep them safe until we reach,
As they have seen enough brutality before they left us forever.

AWAITING DELIGHT

Sleeping sweet in the swaddled cloth,
Tender indeed wonder is my baby’s skin,
My baby’s fingers curl around my finger,
Pedaling feet punching brisk on my face,
Swinging those tiny hands in joy of grace,
The sweet melody on ears is the soft gurgle,
Hair so soft and neat shining clear in purple,
Tiny sparkling eyes blink looking up and down,
Days to kiss those tender cheeks of my own,
To gaze in delight the light baby brings.
The baby will be my hope, my strength and my life.

It's not sea I see.

I was happy on the shore,
The waves looked beautiful,
I left all my people and sailed,
Few days the ocean was calm,
I trusted the calmness around,
But it was not really the truth,
The blue waves turned black,
They were violent and awful,
Now I’m stuck with terror,
Should I look back or wait,
I think of my days on the shore,
It was more pleasant and good,
I can reach neither my people nor them,
I can see the waves wash over my face,
What’s left with me now and then?
Handful of tears and heart full of grief,
But still I’m sailing and will sail and wail.
The waves have to calm down someday,
And I will see the beautiful sea with clouds,
It’s only just hope that makes me live,
It’s the paradox of my life.

CELEBRATE THE OPULENCE

The dew drops swell on the tender blue bells,
The colorful arch spread on the blue wet sky,
The contours glistening on the sky at sunset,
The velvet sighs of stars on the dark night sky,
Miles of sea grass meadows alive of sea urchins,
Petite green sprouts shooting out of mother earth,
Astonishing landscapes holding the blue sky tight,
Soft frost casts its beauty on our windowpanes,
The splash of clear stream bursting into thin balls,
Thick emerald castles sheltering the wild beings,
Snow filled terrain bathed in soft sparkle of moon,
Bright sputters smothered over the morning sky,
Unforgiving winds demolishing dunes time to time,
Graphite shadows of tropical trees on the rivers,
The musk of wild flowers down in shady valleys,
Drizzling icicles on the long lasting pine twigs.
The chained constellations on the cathedral sky.
The flight of juvenile hawks over the shaded sky.

From the grandeur of the cosmos down to the world within a drop of water, nature casts a spell on us with stunning landscapes, towering forests, graceful geology, and the never-ending wonder of how our planet is clothed in beauty.

JEWEL OF THE NATION

Beneath the blue heraldry sky, streams of clear water flowed around the village. Huts made of gold colored thatch shined like golden castles surrounded by farms, orchards and paddy fields. The brown earth was ploughed in furrows with green glittering paths of needle shaped grass. Fields were planted of watermelons, paddy, capsicum and sugarcane. The stretching green pastures herds of cattle goats and sheep in flocking numbers grazed together. Ducks paddled with ducklings in the murky waters snooping for fish, chicken scratch at every hut and roosters fight displaying their power. Pigs roll in their insalubrious territories grunting and celebrating with new-born piglets they looked cute with pink snouts and wagging tiny tails.

Village life is so pristine it’s a fusion of harmony, equanimity and virtuousness. Indian villagers mark a profound devotion to their villages. The beauty of the village is highly captivating with views of numerous grasslands, overflowing streams, ubiquitous emerald trees holding various birds those sing so sweet at dawn the feel is unfathomable, the air is sterilized as the village is embedded in long lasted greenery. With every night that the moon waxes, the fields and pathways gradually become more and more bathed in soft sparkle. At nights around the full moon, the fields are visibly illuminated with tender radiance, the reflection of the moon looks more alluring in the lotus ponds when the waters get disturbed the moon starts dancing like a silver plate. But with the diminishing of the moon, the deepness of hours of darkness slowly thickens, revealing the enormity of the fantastic cosmography of stars.

The sandy village streets are scattered of dung and harvested grass that falls down as the bullock carts carry hay every evening from the paddy fields. Hungry dogs keep shuttling between houses checking their luck for a tasty meal or leftovers. Old men gather at the platform build under the umbrella like tree that brings shade, these men sit in groups and share fire and beedis discussing about the harvest and gossips those make no sense but the fun is too much. Women are busy engaged in house-hold work, some hurrying behind the multitude of buffaloes, some carrying pails over head from the tank after a long quarrel of filthy language. Women clean their houses with a mixture of cow dung and water kept in a bucket. Every morning they smear this mixture with a rag over the house, the verandah and the walls. Village women collect cow dung and shape it by hand into patties that they slap onto tree trunks and walls to dry in the sun.

The school girls wait on the dusty road that becomes worse as the tractors and trucks bring in all the dust in thick clouds. These girls are clad in dark colored skirts and white shirts plaited hair weaved with red ribbons, hair stained and smelling of coconut oil, books filed on the pad with a red Natraj geometry box with few coins inside and a picture of their respective Gods if they are poor with mathematics. Their worn sandals are sky blue holding few thorns as they scout all around the village but the pain would almost bring tears when stepped on a pebble. Then a green or red bus comes fully crowded like gibbons hanging to a ripe tree full of berries.

The old woman don’t keep themselves redundant or unemployed at home they walk down the surrounding with a machete in search of firewood, dried barks, or palm leaves they sit down at a place and chop these uneven branches into fine shapes desired by them and tie them up with a rope entwine made of hay. Then they stride home so pompous with firewood overhead and take pride when someone passing by says oh that’s too heavy. Children who do not go school are busy diving into the ancient well with small trousers of sun-burnt bodies, screaming on top of their voices as water splashes high on each dive they take.

Young girls are busy at the mud stoves tearing to the smoke with vegetables chopped with iron sickle scattered beside and oil is found in the liquor bottle with a dirty thread to hang somewhere in the roof sewed with bamboo to avoid spilling. These girls are very much fond of movies and television can see their favorite heroes glued to the mud walls or pinned to wooded blocks those hold the hut strong. As the food is being cooked the girls get busy getting ready preening into the broken piece of mirror eyes-lashes tinted black, face glowing white with talcum powder hair decorated with hand-picked sweet smelling jasmine as somewhere in the fields she might come across her crush and all the prettification would impress him. The girls are unique and intrinsic in the villages. Amazingly there are no break-ups as most of the marriages are arranged which are performed so ritualistic among the same caste, creed and religion.

The food is pure and comes out in the best and traditional value. The beast of burden oxen are almost found at every house and cows for milk the milk is so pure warm and smells of the cow. They make curd and butter-milk which serves the best in baking summers and probably ghee that comes out while curd is churned into buttermilk. Rice is the source of energy and a number of curries prepared to be eaten with rice. At occasions food is cooked in large copper utensils those have served for decades then served on clean green banana leaves that so traditional and hygienic the leaf plate looks so decorative with steamed rice and vegetable fries and petite pool of ghee sailing round the food. The aroma is just mouthwatering and tempting, guests are treated of great hospitality and respected so well where one can observe the purity and unblemished culture. Fish and chicken are lavish and easily available as they fish is found in the rivers and lakes around the village and chicken every house breeds chicken for eggs and flesh and roosters for fights at time of festivals as game and gambling. Domesticated village creatures are goats, cats, chickens, cows, buffaloes, donkeys and geese.

There is much more and the list is endless to be written about village culture. But village is probably is a reincarnation for people who live in the cities breathing unhygienic air in the meandering traffic. The villages are blessed with all essentials for healthy living innocence purity and uncomplicated saga makes the village’s mystique. There would no towns or cities or countries without a village as all the nourishment takes ground here in the villages. The people are hardworking, honest and ignorant with a number of beliefs that keep them to believe in themselves. Blessed are the feet those are pure and clean but more to be blessed are the broken feet those walk in the wet soils in the rain and burning summers to bring us rice into our plates. There is sweat and hard labor behind every grain we cook at our house. So let’s not forget the rich heritage and hard working citizens who always strive for the food for the nation.