I HOLD THE UMBRELLA OPENED.
BY ANU USHA
The cuckoo sings a bajan,
perhaps
learnt from its mother.
The river adjusts its course
swaying to and fro
falling back into its origin.
The destination still surges up,
the traveller forgets his way.
He seeks stars to cross his path:
nevertheless they are strolling around
asteroids.
The beloved lover of earth
pours out his cacophony,
the saga still blemishes on his face.
A black raven stalks its prey,
the victim vanishes into thin air.
Unmindful, raven courses down
plunges into a play home.
Scarecrow still searches for flies,
mourning its past of arrogant upbeats.
Orchards still bear lost apples,
the hanging fruits love to meet
ancestors.
I said to the boy.
We marched into battlefields
singing war songs,
our mothers cheered tearfully.
Our fathers’ prayed pensively.
We met many
and let many.
Stood on the ground,
butchered our enemies.
Not we needed it,
but we did it.
I tell my son.
The tree in the field
still holds the arrows,
broken and petrified.
I ask him to look at it.
Not to mention,
the very urge of pacifism.
I hold the umbrella open.
Gandhiji is open to rain.
I know
he will not enjoy it.
The dust and termites
all cook him well.
My mind vexes me.
I run with my umbrella.
Gandhiji is soaked in rain.
Let me guard my
father well.
The soldier in me
rise into action.
YOU STILL LIVE IN ME…
BY ANU USHA
I wake up early now without alarm bell just to listen to the voice of morning silence,
I do not jam any doors now.
I have stopped opening the fridge door from time to time to check: you have said so.
No more sandwiches with tea now.
My tea is sugar free, I am Forty now,
my hair has started to grey,
but still you are missing out dear mother.
I still wish your scoldings are too high for me to laugh at.
I want you to make round chapatis with dal.
I do not watch horror movies now, I miss my partner.
You used to laugh out of fear at horror scenes,
clutching tightly to my arms,eating chips.
I do not talk to my neighbours now, you used to talk with them for hours.
No cardamom tea.
No biryanis with flavoured aromas.
I barely open windows now, no more sunsets with sweet laughter.
I know I am alone.
The rocking chair is still now,
my washed clothes are piled up,
utensils are misplaced,
rooms are devoid of sunlight,
the remote is broken, only news channels are played,
no more guava and lemon juices,
your favourite dog has gone.
Mother—
The house and I need repairment
You have left me a void only to enlarge by now.
I never put my glasses in place,
They too are feeling lost.
I sit in the void,
now only to find how silence multiplies.
A COFFEE FOR A NEW HORIZON
BY ANU USHA
I laughed at the masses, melancholy
of peonage engraved them a lot:
for they could survive only with that.
Their means and sustenance were fenced
all between the daily routines.
They could no longer think different
nor could they survive a new mode.
They all were the same, not a milieu distinct.
They were packages
addressed, sorted, delivered.
No more exciting talks,
no more awesome conversations,
no new breeds of coffee.
All tasted the same.
I talked with the protesters, non conformists
Even to the lunatics.
I found them more laudatory than the
vainglory masses of earth.
How come the world is full of these bragging dudes?
The coffee still smells of narcissism.
Let me shift it to irrational, idiotic, insane talkers
And doers.
They can make a new tomorrow,
I believe.
I dig deep into the coffee mug to melt the smell.
A new horizon needs a new hoi polloi.
A new coffee that tastes the new alignments.
My laugh will be more echoing ever than before,
for it is an era shifting.
I taste it.