Colours of the wind

The colors are achanging
the earth is aglow,

Everything was a luscious green,
not such a long time ago.

Now it’s yellow, scarlet, burgundy, ochre,
We aren’t very far from the white of snow.

The surface air has cooled off,
The heat of the earth seems to blow,

Through the tree trunks and into the leaves,
I can almost see it flow.

No more walking bare foot on grass
and no more skin show,

It’s time to cuddle up in blankets,
The winter is here saying hello.

Freedom of thought 1

Independence day was spent at an alien office this year for a change. It was odd, not having a holiday since I am not in India. For me, Independence day has meant roaming around the deserted streets of Delhi, along with psycho, both of us in our Khaadi kurtas, enjoying the extended time and the extended space, that’s so rare to come by in our daily rat race. It was unanimously decided this year that we (my colleagues and I) would all go to the Indian embassy here in Finland (where a lot of other desis were getting together). The flag hoisting ceremony was to start at 9:30am. The distance between my place and the embassy, made me cringe at the thought of getting up ultra early. But then soon, (if I may say), ‘patriotism’ took over and I ignored my body’s pleas the next morning to let it make up for the accumulated sleep deficit. I got ready much ahead of time and set out with a lot of buffer. As luck would have it, I encountered a traffic jam (the first I encountered here so far) and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I reached the venue at 10:15am. With the hoisting over, the national anthem already sung, the crowds dispersed … all that was left was the Indian flag, fluttering slowly, looking quite forlorn. Then I noticed something quite exquisite. The blood red and silky looking fresh petals of rose, were all around me on the street and on the pavement. Somehow it all looked so wrong. What was that *royal* flower doing down there on the street? It didn’t deserve getting trampled by mere passersby. And then came a moment when one answers one’s own questions. The following lines suddenly fluttered in my mind from nowhere.

Mujhe tod lena ban-mali,
uss path par dena tum phenk
Matra-bhoomi par sheesh chadhane,
jis path jayen veer anek.

Pluck me, O keeper of the garden,
And onto that path throw
To lay their lives for the motherland
On which several heroes go

– from ‘Pushp Kee Abhilasha’ (A flower’s wish) by Pt. Makhanlal Chaturvedi

And then I realised, I was the one who was diminishing their true worth, not the mere pasersby.

An ode

In the sweltering summer heat,
when even the roads are asweat,

I feel my legs are liquefied so,
this summer heat is going to make my body flow,

Like a tired old flower I wilt,
I try collecting myself together before I melt,

Cool cool icy water is a respite to my body,
but what about my eyes which feel so groggy,

Before I can liquesce any further, I spot you standing there,
Without meaning to, I begin to unabashedly stare,

You look so inviting, you are a pleasure to my eyes,
I feel as if for endurance of this heat, you are the prize,

Aah, looking at you makes me feel so fresh,
I peer futher into that yellow mesh,

‘Cause yellower than mustard and brighter than brass,
are your pretty petals – Amaltas.

The Dark Cloud

Sitting at my window,
I can see the dark cloud,
I notice the silver lining for the first time,
it has me completely wowed.

The cloud keeps changing shape,
and looks different each time,
The darkness it seems to drape,
reminds me of a dilemma of mine.

The silver lining beckons me again,
only this time it seems to be clearer,
I realise too, that the problems are but small,
The main thing is the attitude of the bearer.

PS. Excuse the philosophical bent of mind as I composed this one minute poem.

Pitter Patter

I look out the glass window,
The sky so azure and blue,
A fluff of peppered clouds wafts by,
Oh! How I wish I could float too…

On the wings of nostalgia I fly,
and remember times gone by,
The scent of fresh air, the crystal clear panorama,
all remind me of an evening with you.

The way we were caught in a spell of rain,
huddled like sparrows were us twain,
In dearth of umbrellas, a tree was our shelter,
To prevent ourselves from soaking, we only huddled closer.

Times have gone,
The rains did too.
The rains have come again,
and I still miss you.