Cat Fight

On a pitch-black night
just a tad less dark
than the darkest of hearts,
the shrills of a wailing babe
pierced the air.

Now a crescendo;
then a fall.

An ominous melange of
growls and hisses.
A lone grunt first,
A spine-chilling cry next.

The shrills of a wailing babe
or so did it seem
till further inquiry revealed
a violent cat fight
on that silent, dark night.

Adult cats
fighting with all their might
in a brutal display of oneupmanship.

More growls,
more grunts,
more hisses,
more shrills
till the noise of two ended
and the voice of one remained.

A deceptive cry.
Was it the victor
now missing his foe?
Or the victim
now bawling in pain?
I knew not.

After the cats had left,
and the noise had gone,
I too went
and lay next to my family
that was fast asleep,
oblivious to the cat fight,
oblivious to the cries.

குடும்பம் ஒரு கதம்பம்

"நான் யாரையாச்சு காதலிச்சா

உங்களுக்குத் தெரியப்படுத்திடுவேன்,"

என்று பொறுப்பாகக் கூறினேன் நான்.

"உன் மனசு நிலையா இருக்காது,

இந்த காலத்துப் பொண்ணுங்க ரொம்ப உஷார்,"

என்று 'கருத்து' காமாட்சி ஆனார் என் தாய்.

"முதல்ல உன்னைக் காதலிக்கிற

ஒரு பொண்ணைக் கண்டுபிடி,

அப்புறம் இதெல்லாம் பேசலாம்,"

என்று கலாய்த்தாள் என் அக்கா.

இதையெல்லாம் கேட்டுச் சிரித்தனர்

என் அப்பாவும், 'பாவா'வும்.

குடும்பம் ஒரு பூகம்கதம்பம்.

Sorry and Sorrier

On a "lunch period" like any other
Was I sitting on a wooden table,
When I felt a sense of going to nether
For its legs were suddenly unstable.

Instinctively did I remove my belt
And swung its metal buckle to my right
where a hairy human head it instantly felt
and broke open as the blow wasn't light.

'twas a prank gone wrong for a grade two girl.
Little would she've expected to bleed.
The blood trickled down to her chin from her skull;
there wasn't a thought in my attack and speed.

I'm sorry once again, Razia Begum
though 16 years have passed since.
I recall this, smiling, not being glum,
for children's misdeeds aren't really sins.

On a day of boredom, both inside me and out,
I saw a friend swinging on the branch of a tree.
What interested me more that day without doubt
was how his sister clung to him and swung equally free.

"I too want to swing like that!" I said.
"NO!" shouted my friend, his sister, and their uncle.
But I tried. My friend fell with a thud and bled.
Maybe I should have stayed home and read Tinkle.

I'm sorry, Barath, for giving you the scar
that still resides on your forehead.
The year 2000 now seems way too far
I'm sure the hurt has also faded.

A moment of pain, a few drops of tears

along with loss of blood in some cases
due to actions unintentional yet a lot fierce
initiate maturity that will grow in phases.

Childhood scars leave an impact
that's superficial and goes not deep.
A person's morale is still in tact.
It doesn't make them incessantly weep.

I'm sorrier for some damages I did
mainly after becoming a discerning adult.
Damages not physical but through words rapid -
the kinds that distress and cause tumult.

Children's misdeeds are not really sins. 
They are but rookie mistakes.
An adult's rudeness that pricks like pins
causes deeper cuts, and bonds it breaks.

Flight of a Kite

Adorning its self in colours,
ameliorating its fragile physique
through aerodynamic stability,
a kite prepares well for its impending flight.

With a scape as vast as vast can be,
and just a strand of thread for direction -
in the hand of one who elevates it,
the kite begins its journey upwards, skywards.

It braves strong winds,
apart from flying birds,
and other kites seeking the same progress
that it strives to achieve in life.

Another kite might cut it off mid-air,
thinking its own success lied in bringing its peer down
oblivious to the truth that good kites
will be passionately pursued by kids who know its value.

When the kite falls not to such cut-throat acts
and keeps soaring higher and higher,
it finds its gift in its freedom
and an eye view only birds can boast of.

So, that's the simple story of a kite's flight.
Similar to that of artists wishing to reach a height.

Image courtesy: Tholly

Mask

Who am I?
The red of your wrath
that rabidly finds its path
to get closer to the green
of your envy in all its sheen.

Who am I?
That bright shade of yellow
which spreads cheer, which is ever mellow;
that streak of aqua blue
of which no one has a clue.

"Why then do you wear a nonsensical mask?"
In ignorance, do you solemnly ask.

So, who am I?
Well, your hue(s) am I.

Image courtesy: Theresa

Closer

I wish

I were the moon 

in your sky,

shedding silver light,

adding chill to your air.

Waning wouldn't matter,

for I'd keep returning

in full glory

now and then.

From a distance,

you'd look at me.

I know not 

whether the earth likes

the moon's white.

What's there in it?

The same colour

every day.

What's new?

Still, the waves in the ocean

erupt in joy

at the sight of the full moon.

From a distance,

I'd look at you.

I know the earth

is indeed colourful.

A vast expanse of blue here,

a beautiful blob of green there,

and not to forget

the white of frozen ice.

There are sunflower fields

dancing in a cheerful yellow.

There are tulip farms

posing elegantly,

wearing every single hue of the rainbow.

The moon sees this,

"The Moon likes this."

But I wish

I were the moon

in your sky,

while I stand much afar

like a shining star;

one among many.

[Image courtesy: Andy Serrano]

Nipped Buds, Fighting Flowers

When we wanted to colour life with many a crayon,
they exploited us. We were left to just cry on.
When we dreamt of doing marvellous things,
they hurt us bad. They clipped our wings.

Fly we can now, save with great effort.
Our wings sear in pain with every flap.
We long for love, warmth, safety, comfort,
and a life of hope - one with no recap.

The psychos roam free with not an ounce of guilt,
unmindful of the trauma within us they built.
Are they even human? Don't they know of pain?
They dug deep and sowed seeds of self-disdain.

They shattered our self, making it hard to mend.
They turned our dreams into grim nightmares.
In the show of life, they forced us to force the end.
They gave us memories which the heart never bares.

They are everywhere; not at all a rare breed.
They know not religion, neither caste nor creed.
For the ruin and turmoil in our lives they cause,
we pray karma gets them and shows who's the boss.

Tempus fugit. Life must certainly go on.
Perceived ends can be beginnings-in-disguise.*
The past we'll kill and be newly born,
for from ashes do many a phoenix arise.

Countless nights have we spent, counting our scars.
Soar we will now, and shine brighter than the stars.


* - inspired by one of my most favourite lyrics of all time in Tamil cinema. It goes: "MutRuppuLLi arugil neeyum meeNdum chinna puLLigaL vaitthaal mudivenbadhum aarambame."
Meaning: Even an end becomes a beginning when you add a few dots after a full stop.

From "PaesugiRaen paesugiRaen" written by poet Na. Muthu Kumar.