A Plea from Lord Ganesha

O Sculptor!
You shape Me from a lump of clay
Giving Me the smoothest texture.
Can you also polish away
Differences that mar this world?

O Artist!
You paint Me with vibrant colors
Making Me glow instantly.
Can you also concur,
Red is the blood of all humanity?

O Tailor!
You stitch royal robes for Me
With brocade and embellishments.
Can you also mend
Relationships torn by materialism?

O Florist!
You put flowers at My feet,
Freshly picked from the bowers.
Can you also see
Fragrance isn’t limited by borders?

O Chef!
You offer Me naivedya
Like laddoos and modaks.
Can you also add,
In the hearts of people, some kindness?

O Believer!
You revere Me on Ganesh Chaturthi
With puja, mantras, and hymns.
Can you also notice
Education is the path to enlightenment?

O Devotee!
Year after year, you celebrate
My advent, stay, and departure,
And yet…

The world is marred by petty differences!
Unity eludes humanity!
Materialism destroys relationships!
Everywhere, borders exist!
There’s a shortage of kindness!
And illiteracy still persists!

When will you look
Beyond My shape, color, clothes, flowers, naivedya, puja, mantras, and hymns?
When will you truly understand Me?
When will I get to celebrate on Ganesh Chaturthi?

Happiness

Happiness is only for a chosen few.
So don’t try to argue that
I can be happy just as I am.
Although you may think otherwise,
I can’t afford luxuries.
And it would not be false to admit –
Only the rich own palaces, cars, and gold.
As I ponder further, I see –
One can never be happy without money.
It’s also hard to accept that
Happiness is in the little things.
And, it is a fact –
I can’t really be happy just as I am.
So, I refuse to believe –
Happiness isn’t about being wealthy.
For every day really gets me wondering –
Is happiness only for a chosen few?

PS: This is a Reverse poem. Please read the poem from top to bottom first, and then from bottom to the top.

The Story of a Dewdrop

‘Twas in a special moment,
In the stillness of the cool dawn,
The white veil of mist condensed
And a tiny dewdrop took form.

Perched on the edge of a green leaf,
It caught the wee light from the East,
And then, immediately releasing it,
Dazzled like a little liquid diamond bit.

A thirsty ant stopped to drink from it
Some teeny, cool, refreshing sips
And soon went on its way happily
With a song of thanks on its lips.

The leaf reveled in its newfound beauty
Prancing in the summer breeze.
And then, the dewdrop rolled free
Landing on a spider’s empty net of silk.

There, it hung with other droplets
Glinting on the gossamer string
Like a delicate gemstone bracelet,
Reflecting the colors of the morning.

It caught the eye of a passing poet,
And some children as they walked by.
Then, a photographer and an artist
Also saw it and were left inspired.

But oh! A soft zephyr did sway
That daintily woven silky web.
The eensy dewdrop then fell away
To the Earth who hid it in Her embrace.

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.

The Portrait

‘Twas the portrait that did him in.
The night was cloudy and stormy.
And, darkness shrouded the cottage
Where he worked as a servant.

But, his heart was even darker,
For, in reality, he was a burglar.
As he stuffed his bag with silver,
Lightning flashed with thunder.

It was at that moment he saw it!
Her portrait above the mantelpiece.
She seemed to stare straight at him
With the piercing eyes of the living.

As the light crackled in the window,
He saw her smile with an “I know.”
Across the skies, the thunder rolled,
As he started sweating in that cold.

His bag grew heavier with treasure,
And he tried to escape from her.
“I know! I know!” Her shrieks echoed,
As he made a mad dash for the door!

The next morning, the police arrived.
Near the door steps, a man had died.
The medical report said, “Cardiac Arrest.”
‘Twas the fourth, in the haunted cottage.

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.

Two Brothers-A Tale

They were as thick as theives.
Partners in crime; brothers in mischief.
They had a plan right up their sleeves
On that eventful day before Holi.

Up they scrambled on the terrace
With loads of balloons that were inflated
With water and colors together mixed,
And, hapless passers-by were their target.

Soon, anyone walking on the street
With a colored water balloon was hit,
And try as they might, they couldn’t see
Who it was that was throwing these.

And the puzzled look on their faces
Was worth the planning and the wait.
Oh yes! It was a merry piece of cake
This splash and hide kind of game.

And this went on nonstop that day
With no respite come what may,
Until one of their helpless targets
Saw the perpetrators as they hid.

Soon, he stormed up to the terrace
And caught the brothers red-handed.
And then they had to bite the bullet
For they were now at the receiving end.

They were dunked into the buckets,
Colored with gulaal from the packets,
And with the balloons, were targeted.
And that was the end of their racket.

Yes, the conquerors were conquered,
And they were indeed beleaguered.
But, they weren’t in the least bothered-
Those mischievous little brothers.