Of Children

I was alone at my place, when there was a knock at the door. Immediately it dawned on me that suddenly I had this encumbering and needless responsibility of entertaining this unknown person lurking behind the door as there was no one in the house. ‘Come in’, I said, although I didn’t mean it and there she stood - my cousin sister, peering in through the half open door. I faked a smile and forced a cheerful ‘hello’ which upset my vocal cord. I cleared my throat. She reciprocated in a similar manner largely ignorant of my discomfort and distress. And then there was the silence – that awkwardness which starves for immediate remedy. Being the elder person in the arena, I managed some questions in order to end my discomfiture. I was least interested in the answers. Yet, with the aid of some superhuman abilities, I deciphered that she was in the fourth standard. I asked the young girl to sit down and asked her if she’d like to eat or drink something. In other words I became hospitable, hankering onto every demand she would make in order to save myself from the awkwardness looming in the room! 

Now, the thing is, I don’t like kids. I know, this is an impatient conclusion and a gross over generalisation and it reveals more about me than about them, but, I can’t help it. It’s not that I hate them – no, that would be saying too much, unnecessarily. I guess they are fine in the parks, playing ball or with their dolls, with their whole scaled down He-Man family or whatever it is that they play with these days. They are bearable when they are under strict adult supervision and then sometimes, during these exceptional occasions they might seem adorable, cherubic even, that is, from a safe distance of about a hundred metres. However, if you ask me, I am fine without them.

The Invasion

When you brought the outsider 
To the quiet of this hill, 
His loud mannerisms 
And his erudite conversations 
Drowned the nightingale song 
And the sky was suffused with the flutter of wings 
In diaspora. 

With heavy steps 
He walks now 
Ascending 
The summit of our secret 
Where a flower grows - 
A wildflower 
Among the wilderness, 
A dull flower 
Wet with dew, 
A pallid white spot 
Among the green, 
A nameless flower 
Ashamed now 
Of being there - 
A native embarrassment 
Under a foreign gaze, 
It quietly broods. 
It is to be uprooted now 
Or will it be trampled upon? 

And as the sun settles 
In the heart of the sky, 
The monkey 
Swings from branch 
To branch 
Escaping the poacher's gun. 
A shot, 
Lightning, 
An unheard thunder 
In this quietness. 
And this fear is unknown 
And this fear is deep 
And settles 
Under the stones 
Of running streams. 
The ape, 
Misses a branch now, 
Comes crashing down. 
Crimson blossoms 
Are gently shed. 

The sky, 
Now drenched in blood, 
Is a memory 
Of what has been 
As a crow laments, 
Somewhere, 
At regular intervals, 
Lost in thought. 
A bee still lingers 
In the scent of a flower, 
Humming a tune 
In drunkenness 
Oblivious that night is near. 
And the flower 
Folds its petals close 
In an embrace 
As a cold breeze gently 
Ruffles its bare limbs. 

Night has seeped in 
Slowly, secretly, 
In the throat of a frog now, 
Now in the murmur of streams. 

And as I sojourn here 
In this last tranquility, 
Floating with fireflies, 
Now bright, now dim, 
Now dimmer, 
I see the blinding approach 
Of a torchlight. 
___