The Red Coat

The red coat hung in the display.
It caught her attention at once.
It was a deep yet bright red,
With shiny, black, round buttons.

On one side was the price tag.
The figure was her year’s salary!
Now, her interest really piqued
And she quizzed the shop lady.

The coat was made in a village
In a faraway and foreign land.
It was created by craftsmen,
Over many days, with their hands.

As she went to bed that night,
She thought about that coat.
Yes, she loved and wanted it.
It looked every bit its worth.

As she pondered further on,
A question arose in her mind –
What was it about that coat
That made it one of its kind?

Was it the warmth and softness?
Was it the color and buttons?
Was it that it was all handmade
In a faraway village by artisans?

But, wasn’t it just like… her quilt?!
The thought came so suddenly,
She turned on the light to see it –
It was her old grandmother’s gift.

Years ago, her grandmother
Had hand-sewn this cozy quilt
With cloth pieces in varied colors,
And patterns, and a cottony fill.

It had warmth and softness!
It had colors and buttons!
It was definitely all handmade
By her grandmother, like an artisan!

The coat was then just a dream
That looked perfect in the display.
Even if she bought it, it seemed,
She’d never wear it every day.

She turned the lights out to sleep,
And yet, her mind was clear as day.
For the thing she desired so deeply
Was something she already possessed.

The Day

An ordinary day.
Busy with countless chores to do.
Cooking, washing, folding, rearranging,
Dusting, and in all this, you overlook
Everything that’s extraordinary, like
Flowers, sunshine and … being alive.

PS: This poem is an Abecedarian.

Seven Sisters

Seven sisters in a box,
Handed down over generations,
They can cook up a storm
In every Indian kitchen.

Be it a daily meal
Or grand, festive celebrations,
They are always ready
To create magic on any occasion.

Just a pinch or a teaspoonful
Brings great satisfaction,
And all the items on the menu
Become artistic creations.

Experts they are
At instant gratification –
Blending aromas and flavors
To turn foods into delections.

They are my friends for life
Melding me with traditions –
The box with seven spices
In my little Indian kitchen.

Flowers

When I was a little girl
I loved plucking the flowers
Growing on the side of the road.
Drawn by their fragrance and colors,
And their soft petals and buds,
I loved crushing them with my fingers.

When I became a teenager,
I was enamored by the flowers
That I received as gifts in bouquets.
I would put them in books and papers
Leaving them to dry between the pages
And marvel at how beautiful they were.

When I grew into a woman,
I was mesmerized by the flowers
That were woven into garlands.
I would wear them in my hair.
The air would bear their fragrance.
I felt it enhanced my beauty for hours.

In the autumn of my life,
I am reminded by the flowers
Of the moments of bygone times.
Yet, I don’t pluck, crush, dry them in papers
Or for beauty, yearn for their sacrifice.
I’m just happy when they bloom…in bowers.

The Box

I had a little box.
It was made of marble
With carvings on the top
And a small, metal handle.

No, I don’t recall
If I got it as a gift,
Or if it was bought
From the local market.

In that little box
I kept my tiny treasures –
Shiny stones I came across,
Shells, beads, and pictures.

With the passing years,
I forgot about the box
And all the tiny treasures
That in it, were locked.

One day, it did appear
When my room, I tidied up.
It was lying in a corner,
Amongst the other stuff.

I opened that little box
With a smile on my face –
For memories, it brought
Of another time and place.

That box is my connection
To my younger self.
It’s my oldest possession
As it sits on the shelf.

I love that little marble box
And the treasures it contains.
With it, time seems to stop,
And I become a child again.

Not Meant for Me

My heart is heavy
With the sadness inside it.
Outside in the sky
The crescent moon shines
With a smile not meant for me.

I am in the park
Walking with my memories.
It’s a summer day
A small child plays on the swing
With a smile not meant for me.

Spring has arrived
With melodies in the breeze.
Colorful bouquets
Peek from the florist’s window
With a smile not meant for me.

I pick up the shells
Strewn on the golden sand.
Every ocean wave
Curves as it bobs up and down
With a smile not meant for me.

PS: Each stanza is in the 5-7-5-7-7 Waka format.

I Have Memories

I have memories
Of strolling with my mother in the evenings.
Of the nippy, gentle autumn breeze,
And the bright red leaves falling from the trees.
Enamored, I used to run after these.
It was like being in a magical land of fairies.

I have memories
Of losing my heart to him.
Of the laughter and love I felt only in his company.
With him by my side, I was never lonely.
I felt so much like the orange colored autumn leaf
That twirled as his love-like zephyr swept me off my feet.

I have memories
Of Death scarring parts of me.
Of stealing moments that were lovely.
Everything around me seems to weep mournfully.
And, yellow autumn leaves glide gracefully
As the light wind guides them to their destiny.

Waste Not, Want Not!

Locked in her room, she’s busy writing poetry,
And the testament to her efforts
Are the pieces of crumpled paper on the floor.
Paper – that was once a life-giving tree

The house is busy with the wedding reception party.
The guests fill their plates with more than they can eat.
The rest is thrown in the garbage cans on the street.
Food – that in some houses is a scarcity.

It’s nighttime, and he’s brushing his pearly whites,
And as he does that while looking in the mirror,
The tap is running, and in the drain goes the water.
Water – for which some people trudge for miles.

It’s a hot summer, and the AC in the room is running.
But as she goes to the bedroom to lie down and sleep,
The AC and lights are left on, and they consume electricity.
Electricity – that in some homes is a luxury.

Waste not, want not!
Remember what you throw away
Are the very things for which others pray.
Instead, be grateful for these things that you’ve got!

Waste not, want not!
There is no alternative to Mother Earth.
As her children, we are all related.
So, use all things wisely, as these are all we’ve got!

The Rainbow – A Story

Once upon a long time ago,
There was a little village.
But, it was unlike the others
As the colors dwelled in it.

And, it had a single street
Where the colors lived.
Red, Blue, Yellow, Green,
Indigo, Orange, and Violet.

But, it wasn’t a happy place,
For the colors often fought.
Each vied to be the Captain,
The Leader of the entire lot.

And so, they tried very hard
To pull the other one down,
At times, through sabotage,
Or by other means unsound.

Then, one dark stormy night,
A wanderer sought shelter.
And he soon came to realize –
The colors hated each other.

As they sat around the fire,
They asked the wanderer,
“Who among us is Superior
And the one true Leader?”

In silence, sat the wanderer,
Then he said he had a plan,
But, to decide the winner,
They’d have to stand in line.

So, as the night disappeared
And the sky turned a dull grey,
The colors stood together,
Held hands and stretched.

Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green
Yellow, Orange and Red,
Side by side were seen,
In a rainbow in the Heavens.

“So now tell us,” they yelled,
“Who among us is better?”
“You can see for yourselves,”
Replied the wise wanderer.

Then, it dawned on all of them
That each one was beautiful
With a place in the spectrum
And that they were equals, too.

As the wanderer left the village
With the rainbow in the skies,
He left peace and love in his wake,
And the hope for happy times.

The Mirror and the Girl

“You’re fat!” The mirror said
As she looked at her reflection in it.
“Actually, fat is not even correct.
If there’s a word beyond its superlative,
Then, that word would be accurate.”

“But,” in defense, she retaliated,
“Years ago, there was that incident,
Due to which I was badly affected.
I eat whenever I feel stressed.
Food comforts me, and I can’t help it.”

“Be that as it may,” the mirror stated.
“There’s a lot of weight on your waist.
Actually, it is not a waist but a waste.
Rolls of fat piled up from all you ate.
A little less of that, and you’d look great.”

“Yes!” She agreed, “Please be empathetic.
I have been trying to exercise and diet.
I start, but find it difficult to stick to it.
Cardio, walking, aerobics, and weights –
I try hard, but it always gets interrupted.”

Back at her, the mirror just stared.
“Stop making excuses!” It declared.
“All that ever matters is the present,
And it’s true that you’re unhealthy and fat.
Actually, fat is not even correct…”

Before it could complete its statement,
She struck it, and it broke into fragments.
Victorious, she screamed, “Take that!”
And around her, the thousand little bits
In unison retorted, ” You know, you’re fat!”

Dear Time

Dear Time!
Only fools think that they can bind
You in seconds, minutes, hours, and days
Like a captive held in a cage.

Dear Time!
You flow like the river of Life.
Paradoxical, you are in your ways,
As a minute can be like seconds or days!

Dear Time!
With a clock, you can’t be defined.
It only takes a glance into the week’s days
To understand how you really play.

Dear Time!
Monday is your first child.
Looming high like a stony mountain.
Getting over it is such a pain.
It’s really difficult to comprehend
How its hours get so stretched.

Dear Time!
Tuesday is your second child.
Spreading like a path across rocky terrain.
A milder hike as Monday’s inertia remains,
Yet, it demands a lot of strength
And stamina to get to the day’s end.

Dear Time!
Wednesday is your third child.
Winding like a track in a dusty landscape,
Forcing a brisk walk without a break.
For an escape, the heart begs,
But the minutes do not relent.

Dear Time!
Thursday is your fourth child.
Like a trail sloping downhill with grace,
It’s the middle of the entire trek.
The hours show lights in the distance
And prod the feet to keep trudging.

Dear Time!
Friday is your fifth child.
Like a boulevard with colors that blaze,
Promising fun in the sunset’s haze.
The day starts picking up pace
And whizzes by as the weekend is ahead.

Dear Time!
Saturday is your sixth child.
Like a piazza to party and celebrate,
To rejoice, make merry and just revel.
The minutes shrink as they rush away,
And the day ends even before it begins.

Dear Time!
Sunday is your seventh child.
Like a bed that with a soft mattress is laid
To rest and just recuperate.
The seconds slow down with elegance
As it’s time to meditate and give thanks.

Dear Time!
No one can decide
How you would ever behave!
Only fools think you can be caged
In seconds, minutes, hours, and days!

Life Rules!!!

Like a river untamed, Life flows on.
These rules give it direction.
Have the zeal to learn always.
Being a perennial student pays.
Empathize. Empathize. Empathize.
It helps to see the other’s side.
Declutter the house and the mind.
It will keep them well-organized.
Eat and drink in moderation,
But a little chocolate is medication.
Exercise. Exercise. Exercise.
It helps oil the gears of the mind.
Make space for hobbies in life.
They help become creative and wise.
Never give up on the power of prayer.
Ask, and the answers will be there.
Sing. Sing. Sing. Sing. Sing.
Music brightens the dullest moments.
There’s always time to appreciate
The beauty that Nature creates.
Karma records everything in her ledger,
So, keep doing good to others.
Love. Love. Love. Love. Love.
To love is a blessing from Above.
To these rules, I always abide
Every day, they are my guide.
These are the rules that help me be.
As I flow on, on my way to the sea.