Passing moment

To rise and fall on curving line of life,
is human destiny.
No angels we are, nor is earth heaven,
our path is thorny .
How long you lie, splintered and weakened
is anyone’s guess.
For intent on self, no passerby stops,
and a hand will lend;
Nor does someone from nearby house ,
take you in.
You can, must wait, for wind to blow,
and dry the blood.
Dress and heal wounds that
must hurt.
And ignite the flame that has died.
And when you stand on your legs
Be sure the hands will shield
the flame that is weak.
Made strong by each step;
every breath.

LOVE

I must write tonight
The night before Valentine
Of love ---and its might?
For no moment of celebration
Must ever be let go
Like sand through fingers
Blown hither and thither
By winds unbidden.

This I must say:
So easy is to feel love
In heart and bones
For people who are blood.
My son, a symbol of completed womanhood
My daughter, gift of loving motherhood
My parents the cause of my living hood
I love you first.
My husband, the reason for my evolution.
My mother-in-law, the idol for my aging years
My daughter in law the sunshine in my life
Every day, I love you more.

But I must also add:
Each night I have slept
To the safety of my bed,
Wounded and scarred
By the tales of terror
The media blares
Twenty four seven.
Awakened next day
Rested, not healed.

On this Valentine Day
I wish to heal.
To say equally “I love you”
To a “Kasab” or “ Karamabir”.
To children who will not be
“Slumdog Millionaire”.
Yes, this Valentine day
I will pray:
God make me feel love
In heart and bones
For all the good, bad or ugly.
God let this Valentine Day
Stretch and become ,
A full year long.

Alzheimer’s day

It was not a wish,
Nor to remind her of anything
When I called my mother to say
Today is Alzheimer’s day.

And all she said,
In voice that was low.
Oh!
Yes, I know!

For when you look at one ,
Some one you love
Struggle for words:
Those never come.

Then today becomes
A day for prayers
To become aware
Not grieve, nor celebrate.

(My mother is a lady of great and admirable courage who takes care of my father , cheerfully and lovingly)

Make Innocence Last !

Dreams don't Last

(A poem dedicated to the death ofAnju Illyasi)

align="center">

Dreams don't last ,

they don't even come true.

A place to hide for a while,

and then come back to life.

The stark reality of facts,

facts so unnerving,so fearful,

that again you want to hide

in the dreams.

Dreams so pleasant, so caressing,

but you find yourself all alone.

Everyone you love disappears,

Everything you want vanishes.

Buried in the thoughts of the past

you start again- to dream.

To lead a few a moments of hapiness,

followed by the dark ages of loneliness.

Everything so artificial and near

yet so far.

Eatable but poisonous,

sucking the treasured moments away

leaving everything unwanted .

Until one day:

When everybody but you know,

that times are in for a wanted change.

Something strikes your monotonous mind,

to do something to change the view.

And the next day,

people are yearning for you.

You are the news.

They come tc meet you,

but you can't feel them,

you can't even reach them.

You are altogether in another world

'A world created by a kitchen knife.'

With every suicide, innocence dies some where else.This poem was written by Pallavi when she was in class nine soon after the unfortunate suicide of Anju Illyasi - the young wife of a celebrated televison star about eight years back . A leading newspaper published the poem at that time. Pallavi is a studying medicine and is in her final year now and this poem could well be labelled " Anatomy of a Suicidal Mind "if she had written it now.

In retrospect I wonder now, how deeply her innocence must have been hurt by this event. Did I bother to find out what she was thinking then? Did I spend enough time with her on this topic ? Did I watch carefully to see how she was impacted. Did I take pains to shield her innocence? Nay! I think my face was turned towards the media and what it broadcasted incessantly. Today, I think I should have looked at her - more deeply. After all I am her mother. Thank God , I found this poem in my archives- --for the realization what more mothers need to do-- make innocence last !

.

Dhoop Chhaon

Blessings!

Bless the roads my father walks on!
So pavements are smooth and traffic slow.
And every turn that he takes
is to home.
Bless the people on the roads!
so they turn and look ,
and smile and nod as he goes.
Bless the doors of my mothers home!
Through which naught else ,
but light and love flows.
Bless the people around my parents home !
so they are watchful
of their neighbours who are old.
Bless my parent's daughters,
their husbands and their children-
by blood and law!
So they can love from deep within
and forgive each others flaws.
Bless my parents in their sunset years!
so they can cherish their love's labour
and be with peace and calm.

( I was deeply dissappointed when my old parents chose to continue living independently, despite my husband and my earnest pleas that it was now time for us to serve them.Both of us deeply believed, and still do, that we could offer them a more comfortable and safe life with us , and also perhaps more happiness.

For a long time I could not understand my mothers refusal- even though I know it is ultimately Gods will that prevails. Why was I not accepting Gods will?

This morning I read in TOI about Irish Blessings- the Celtic tradition of Ireland , Scotland and Wales . It said that blessing is a spiritual act where we acknowledge and remind the ones who are blessed of the connection between them and divine.The author ,Marguerite Theophil says " The true beauty of blessing is how it affects everything-by the fact that we live we are blessed;we have the power to bless others and they reflect love back to us . In the very act of blessing we are blessed".
On a sudden inspiration I wrote the above Blessing for my parents . I am already feeling more at peace . People who know me will understand more clearly that each line in the "Blessings "that I have written points to the very reason why I want my parents to live with their children now.)

Quiet Flows The MeKong