A humming word

 

 On the song from Rangasthalam We are puppets Being directed By an unknown hand   In the hindu mythology, Ganges is the wife of Shiva Wind is the father of Hanuman To quench our thirst Or to breathe air We need their permit   Flute is the medium for Krishna the Trishul is the weapon of Kali to sing a song or to fight with a weapon We need their permit   The keeper of Dharma  is Dharmaraju The person with no mercy  is Yamadharmaraju If you break Dharma You meet Yama We are puppets And a society of puppets                

Brooklyn Bridge of New York Doesn’t seem as clear as the one in How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. Dazy with the medication of a medical condition I am cured of now, I remember the red and blue blinking lights Of the New York streets From the hotel window.            

Inspired by this article Move on?  How can I? Where can I? On my way to work, on some mornings, I just stand  on the pavement  where I  watched the death of my wife I held tightly in my arms And my baby whose Gurgling voices I still hear On some mornings in my empty balcony    

  Why does a pyre Burn our heart and reduce it to ashes?   There are tears in Mother’s eyes But my heart is wet   Why does sharing a grief than a loaf of bread Make our bond nourished?   Why does loss give us the unasked?            

Cof.fee (noun): something that makes you go from "having a terrible day.." to "good morning, honey". Cof.fee is an instant fix for many moods and especially for writers, cof.fee is a perfect companion. Sipping a cup of coffee and writing a sentence or two is refreshing and you never know how time passes. Especially in a space like Qaveh Khaneh, a coffee house within the premises of Akshara Books, an independent book store that completed twenty five years. They serve cold brews, hot coffee and host literature and well meaning events too. 

Your death left us in a state of camatose But slowly.. We awaken.. We gasp.. Your soft tone nudges us. We pray.. Your songs are on our lips now We close our eyes And your face replaces the moon   Nanamma Your death taught us the value of life   Like the coat of fresh paint, Our house still smells of you, Nanamma   Your anklets and its cham-cham Your waist band and the silk saree   Your sighs and your deep breaths Reverberate in the seating area, now   The plastic Neelkamal that you sat on is empty, often No one sits on it, anymore. Rather, we dare not to..