Going Home

When I think of going home

I remember that it is an empty nest

No noise, no familiar voices

waiting for me,

Mother ,for whom I bought oranges and grapes from the bus stop

is not anymore there to feign displeasure and be happy inside.

There is no blabbering of maids,

no familiar sight of two beloved people

watching television and raising their

voices,one over another, no peaceful

random sleeping anymore

aware of usual presence of two 

insomniac souls.

This way,homes empty themselves

This way,life turns a stranger

This way I walk in the rain,

And come back to cry alone

in my loneliness.

This Afternoon

It is the same indifferent sky,

That peeks in patches through the foliage, the breeze comes in blasts
 and blows the curtain

in the same way, in this lazy afternoon,

as the sun prepares to go down

to make way for the night.

But the world has changed.

Mother is not lying anymore 

on the veranda couch,

Watching television, calling daughters

and sisters by turn,or browsing through her phone, neither is she sitting

on her proverbial throne,

calling out to the maids,to run errands,

expressing disapproval 

now and then.

Mother 's story is told,

Her sick and helpless existence

has exhausted itself out,

Rest of the scenes stand their old ground,unchanged and repetitive.

Only a terrible thirst rises at the throat

and a terrible solitude

grips the otherwise normal

days by the neck,

something says something from the past 
in the kitchen, by the window,

something inexplicable repeats itself,

As if scenes come alive

from another birth.

SUDDENLY

Suddenly the terrain has changed without changing,

Suddenly it has become a long hard road without trees,

Suddenly I find that sleep eludes me, as i stare into the vacuum before me

for long and allow the eyes 

to water to your memories.

Suddenly I find that I am like that orphan who has a lot to say, but nobody to listen,

suddenly I find that my blood longs for you, mother, and a cry emerges and dies in my throat quietly.

Suddenly I find myself homeless in a big house, with only guests arriving and departing.

So suddenly you left without any forewords, that all the noise of the world cannot convince of the

reality, of your departure,

As I reminisce you and listen to your words in my head, trying to see you in the stock pictures the brain definitely preserves,

I bleed and tear,

I crumble and fall onto the earth,

exhausted and burnt out.

Looking for You

The addiction in the blood

struggles to get

to the body,

to the damp oily smell of the saree,

Seeks madly to see and touch, 

that ever so dear pain-striken face.

It is not there anymore,

the rigid limbs and the swollen face

were consumed by fire,

and we saw it all

with unreal eyes

as if in a dream,

We saw the blood and water

dripping from the nose,

the eyes opaque,

the fingers hard.

Still the eager eyes look for your

heavenly face,your grey hair near the ears,

your wrinkled skin,

your thin legs ending

in lovely dried feet, 

This longing will not die , it will

stretch till death, the unseen wound will be dripping blood, till this journey

ends abruptly one day.

That would be the day 

of sweet liberation,  from the torment 

of loss and pain,

and the terrible holllowness

of being orphaned.

Without Mother

Without Mother

When I come home,

nobody will fuss anymore over 

my meals, nobody will call me

early morning, "wake up, Rama

will sweep your room",

Nobody will scold me over going out in the hot sun, 

nobody will call me ten times,

to hurry back home, i am getting late

for my Sunday sojourn to work place.

For whom will I buy fruits,toiletries

and small little things Oh Maa,

For whom will I run back home

without caring for friends and enjoyment, with whom I will sit 

with a tea cup in hand,listening to

a thousand times repeated stories,

For whom i will practise

listening about people i have not known nor recognise, to whom I will tell to talk positive,

and instruct how to operate

a smart phone, 

In whose blissful shadow I will fall asleep with bliss in my heart, Maa,

for whom I will buy sarees and 

and stray medicines, 
for whom my life will 

seem to have found a reason to 
march on,alone,and unabashed.

Whom I will scold, 

for being suicidal, for whose rights I will fight with a much occupied father and the world,

for whom my heart will jump for joy,
when joy came visiting,
whose unseen presence will

keep the bounce in my feet, 

and spring in my steps?

You were,

that I got up and faced 

the morning and the day's hot sun,

You were, that I stood in the rain 

and braved the storms,

life's intermittent betrayals and the silent breaking of my heart, your love gave me
love to bear

the pain hurled from

the oddly entered pathways, your presence breezed the corners

of my heart, 

at the low and the high crossroads I stood stupefied,  at times
gazing at the grey horizon.

Tell me how will I climb the steps again

and how will I get into the bus of life to tell I did got a seat Maa, 

I am safe, 

I do not know your address anymore, your chair is empty,as is empty your bed, my eyes 

look for signs 

but see nothing, 
now and again something gathers in my chest when I think of a world without you

my stomach revolts and clouds

gather under the eyes, 

I long for you, heart cries for you,
Oh Maa, as tears wet the face and the psyche.

Nothing feels good without you anymore,

It is a dull sky overhead

and a long joyless path that awaits,

which leads nowhere.

The Broken House

The house is not same anymore

After mother is gone,

It smells of emptiness and a strange abandonment,

That surrounds a temple,

When the idol is stolen

by some miscreant.

Children are going back to 

Their lives of everything that makes

One forget the lost, the family and the business of life that must go on.  Father has risen

Like a phoenix

From twelve days long fire 

and normalcy has gripped him

in its resilient arms.

Fghting for a dead mother is far more difficult 

Than a living one, deads lack the presence to assert their rights,

The single daughter looks on through the window and tries

To bear the pain of 

the dismantling of a  home, the gradual disappearance of it, 

And the strange purposelessness

of living without a mother.

MOTHER AND DEATH

Mother and Death

People say your time had come,

you died the best way

without troubling anybody

Without much suffering

You were fine the night before,

Talked to daughters and 

had your medicines

Your kind of death is a much aspired and coveted one, 

people get paralyzed and grow immobile, people suffer and make others suffer.

With a mother, logic and theories

hardly work, I only thought that

I will never see that beloved face again,

coming home, nobody will ask 

me to eat my food fast and then grow finicky over a shabby house

nobody will call 

me five times to come back soon

from the market,nobody will ask me to 

get blouses, pain balm, ear drop and

slippers for her, I will not know 

how to live,

without fighting for a sacrificing and

suicidal mother,who had become silent at some point of time longing for love and care,and growing indifferent

to life ,knowing that nobody had time 

and heart enough to love her.

The Twelfth Day

The Twelfth Day

It is late evening,

The maid has run away screaming

Rain rain, 

something inside, 

that lay parched, 

looks in anticipation,

The known aroma steams off

the warm earth and rushes 

to the interiors,

It is raining.

The first time mother is not there

when it is raining,

There is none anymore 

to tell joyfully, Maa, it is raining.

The house seemed very quiet 

in the day today

pronouncing that someone 

kept the air thick with her presence

despite disease, pain and dejection,

Silence tries to embrace the house

with its frozen stiff hands.

She,who came and sat 

and talked of dead people in the parental village,the tantrum of maids,

small home details, new ailments and daily quota of disappointments, Who refused to give in,

to diseases and heartbreaks,

The diseases ate her blood 

and marrow

and slowly kept feeding on her 

stressed heart.

There is an inaudible cry

that turns into sobs off and on

A guilt that gnaws at the psyche

that we never returned love for love

and allowed her to hurt and get sick

in silence, 

Of our negligence and nonchalance,

so much so that,

whom we call God 

could not bear it anymore,

and devised a way to take her back home in the name of

a stroke.