If I was You and you were I,
And I lent you some money,
Do you owe me, or I owe You?
And, that would be so funny.
If you’d return what you took,
Then, I’d give it back to You.
And so, it would not be true
For me to say, “Ae! I Owe You!”
So, all is now settled, friends,
As, now, I owe You nothing.
And as this li’l nonsense ends,
I hope it leaves you laughing.
Love, Naturally
Would I be wrong if I say
Nature’s nature is to nurture?
The mountains that, in the sky, tower,
In their strength, resemble my father.
And the oceans with their waves
Soothe just like my mother’s lullabies.
But what about that emotion called love?
Was that overlooked by Nature?
The answer to that is “no,” my friends.
For love, she has a special expression.
On all her creations, her love she showers
With the beauteous, colorful flowers.
With shades of red, the winter’s roses
Boldly announce their passionate love
In the meadows, the spotless white lilies
Promise commitment and purity.
And the sky blue forget-me-nots
Speak of everlasting fidilelity and respect.
While the multi-hued carnations
Show their affection and admiration.
Of other blossoms, there are a multitude
That express their love so true.
Each with their own vocabulary,
Convey their feelings eloquently.
So, whenever you see these bloom
It’s Nature proclaiming, “I love you.”
My Bed
I cannot deny it – I love my bed.
It’s more than just a place where I rest.
Though there’s a desk, chair, and closet,
In my room, my bed is my favorite.
It’s my philosopher and guide
And teaches me a lot about life.
Enclosed in its coziness, I sleep at night –
A sleep that helps recharge my mind.
And what I learn from it is that
When the day has been frustratingly bad,
A deep sleep will untangle the threads
And give me strength for the next day.
My bed is where I see dreams.
It’s where I battle nightmares.
And it’s also the place I say thanks
When my eyes open to another day.
And in the morning, when I’m awake,
My bed is the first thing I make.
For, I can’t predict the course of the day,
But, at its end, I know I’ll have a good rest.
My bed is my best friend.
It’s not just a piece of wood.
It’s more than just a place where I rest.
I cannot deny it – I love my bed.
Dream On
Wise men say we all arrive alone.
And alone we will be, when we pass on.
But about this, I have a different opinion,
For, in this world, when we are born,
We’re given a dream by the Holy One.
This dream is a reason to keep on going,
And, in many ways, it keeps reminding
Us to take action for its realization.
Sometimes, at night, it comes as a vision.
Sometimes, it’s in advice or admonition.
It will continue to strive for recognition,
And seek through us, a manifestation.
When we see it through the commotion,
We need to nurture it with true intention.
This dream will exist with us all along,
And will come to life only if we want.
Mother: Earth?
It’s 3500AD; humans have evolved
Not through natural selection,
For Darwin is no longer recalled,
But with scientific intervention.
Space travel has been unraveled,
And in a not-so-distant galaxy,
A new planet has been discovered
For the neohumans to inhabit.
The Earth’s resources are exhausted.
Water in oceans and rivers consumed.
The rainforests have ceased to exist.
The air, with acidic gases, is polluted.
Shuttle after shuttle shoot into space
Carrying out the largest mass exodus.
Of Life on Earth, there will be no trace,
And everything else will turn to dust.
As the last neohuman boards to leave,
And the shuttle takes off at light speed,
“Just about time,” “it” thinks with relief.
And “Mother Earth” loses it’s meaning.
The Night
The dark is not always scary.
Black is not always taboo.
At times, the night is a blessing,
And the absence of light is needed, too.
When the last traces of sunlight fade,
The night with her magical ways
Helps our minds and bodies rejuvenate
Giving strength to seize the next day.
The day is like a cluttered room
With chores, tasks, and nonstop chatter.
The night helps escape this chaos, too.
With sleep, life seems so much better.
Sleep! This word is paradoxical!
As we see dreams with our eyes closed,
And what happens is so illogical –
It’s like we’re awake in a parallel world.
The night is full of mystery,
Something that can never be explained.
So, let her weave her own tapestry,
While the world slumbers, unrestrained.
The Joy of Music
There are many things
That make me glad,
That brighten my days
When I feel so sad.
But none lift me up so much
When I’m feeling bored
As the black and white keys
on my musical keyboard.
Sa, re, ga, ma, pa, dha, and ni-
These notes bring joy to me.
Alankars, ragas, and melodies-
To my heart, they all appeal.
With them, I have realized
Music, in everything, resides.
Be it the hum of the microwave,
Or the beats that a clock plays.
To perfect the notes of a song,
I can practice all day long.
If not once, then twice or thrice
Till I can get the tune right.
There’s a song for every situation.
There’s rhythm, even in silence.
Yes, Music gives me happiness,
For it finally leads me to myself.
The Wager
‘Twas the summer season
In the great Indian plains.
The heat was unforgiving
In every town and village.
On one such lazy afternoon
In the village of Nenaanoo,
Little Jon and his pals, too
Wondered what to do.
It was too hot to play ball
Or Chupa chupi or Pithoo
Or Gilli Danda or Kho kho
Or Five Stones or Lattoo.
Soon, they started arguing
About who was more clever.
And in the heat of the moment,
The lads agreed to a wager.
The target was a mango tree
Owned by the uppity Mr. Wick.
It was guarded by ol’ Kenie
Who carried a wooden stick.
The tree was heavily laden
With mangoes ripe and golden
Whoever picked five of them
Would be the cleverest one.
And so they crept to the tree.
In silence, the race began.
They heard ol’ Kenie snoring
And soon climbed up a branch.
But ol’ Kenie wasn’t asleep,
He woke up with a loud snort.
And he started chasing them,
So the plan they had to abort.
Down the tree, they all leapt
And scrambled to run away.
But they all stumbled and fell,
As they got in each other’s way.
And so it was as the Sun set,
They returned black and blue.
For ol’ Kenie had caught them
And given them a thrashing, too.
That’s how the story ended
Of Little Jon and his friends.
They never laid a wager again
In the heat of the moment.
A Season Called Autumn
Somewhere on the horizon
Between Summer and Winter
Lies a bridge named Autumn
That links them both together.
As warm turns to chilly cold,
And the leaves prepare to fall,
They turn red, orange, and gold
For a final round of applause.
Only Nature can pull this off.
A show of Death, so beautiful.
A bright and fiery curtain call.
Before She becomes icy cool.
As the air turns cold and crisp,
It’s time to wear the woolens,
And apples await to be picked
Along with plumpy pumpkins.
The fields yield their harvest.
Folks gather for Thanksgiving.
They remember the departed
On the day of spooky Halloween.
Autumn is a season of change.
It’s the season of letting go.
It screams of happiness in endings,
And celebrates Life’s perpetual flow.
Lullaby of the Stars
It has been a while since the Sun said goodbye.
A blanket of darkness is spread out by the night.
And, in the pale glow of the crescent moon’s light,
I hear the twinkling stars sing a melodious lullaby-
“Lie down on your bed and close your droopy eyes,
Sail slowly across the prussian blue midnight skies
On the ship of dreams drawn by iridiscent butterflies
As it takes you to the shores of a beautiful paradise.
On the way, see the magical fairies twirl and smile
As they waltz to a celestial tune with the fireflies.
Look at the rainbow-colored waves fall and rise
As golden mermaids, on their crests, take joy rides.
Take their hands and dive into the aquamarine tide.
There’s a many-hued oyster with its mouth open wide.
Rest your head on the pearly bed laid for you inside.
And sleep till you hear the birds chirping at sunrise.”
The Past’s Perfect Memories
“He was your great grandfather,”
My grandmother said matter-of-factly.
I took a second look at the photograph
Among the many scattered around me.
I looked at the dark-skinned old man
Dressed in a white turban and dhoti.
“He was a farmer,” my grandma went on,
“And he was an expert with the sarangi.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” my father added.
“As a child, I used to sit on his shoulders
And listen to the melodies he played.”
I was intrigued by the man in the picture.
The ancient photo was black and white.
Even then, I could see it was very sunny.
So many questions arose in my mind
About this stranger from my family.
What was he like? He seemed nice.
What was a sarangi? I wanted to listen.
What did he grow in the fields? Rice?
My curiosity piqued in that instant.
“Put it back carefully,” my grandma said,
As I returned it into the old red album.
But, just before she turned to a new page,
I looked at my great grandfather again.
And I noticed his eyes in that picture.
He was gazing straight at me, it seemed.
I saw the affinity that was in his nature,
And, to date, I can also see that in me.
My Favorite Thing
The gold inches across the skies.
Night discards her veil of darkness.
The haze lifts from before my eyes.
I breathe deeply with thankfulness.
The birds chirp away, singing melodies
Melding with the song the radio plays.
My heart dances to this lovely medley
Creating a new tune to which I sway.
The wayside flowers seem more colorful
Nodding their heads in the cool breeze.
The dragonflies and beetles wake up, too.
With more buzz than the news on the TV.
In a distant temple, bells start ringing.
Their chimes lead to an inner awakening.
For the beauty of this wonderful morning
Was even more due to the tea I was sipping.
wordsofhope 