That One Indian Bird Mynah ( Ek Shalik)

 
But whenever I saw a lone bird,

I somehow abhorred it!

Because I grew up hearing,

Ek Shalik is  Ominous!

 ‘ Try to avoid it!’

And that fact was reinstated ,

Since Dui Shalik is auspicious,’

‘All love to celebrate it!’


Full Poem in Caption

 

 

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It cloistered itself in the thickets,

Scurrying around for a tender deer.

Lurching in the dark,  forward and backward,

Stumbled over a dead grizzly bear.




Famished as it was,

It dug its sharpened claws.

Satiating its beastly hunger,

Licked its feline paws.



Juicy flesh in between its fangs,

It munched and munched the carrion.

Until it turned soft melting cheese,

And then it stealthily went to the bank.



Full Text in Caption

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Birds of Feather

A blue-wax bill,
With feathers azure
Friends with Finches
Bonhomie galore.

Spoke of oriental sorrow,
And Estuarine felicity
Where to build nest,
Find a site of fecundity.

In a pledge to nurture and grow,
Similar sensibilities
Knit homes with embroidery
Seek Majestic Art
in Bare minimalities.

Birds of feather,
Flock together
Chirp strains of Freedom
Sing of liberty
Amid chopped off woods
And deforested cities.

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How the world sees you,
Is a projection of how you see yourself
Fella, don’t have an iota of self-doubt,
That if you can really climb lofty mounts
Because nobody has the damn right,
To belittle you in any way.

Just look in the mirror,
And tell yourself
I can do it anyway
They may small-light me into thinking ,
I am a petty cat
But I am a prowling panther
And none can steal my thunder

I don’t give a damn
I am a Warrior Woman
A messy Goddess
But there’s method in my madness.

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LOST and FOUND (?)
I don’t know where to find her
Her innocence is unmatched
Yet I see her now in front of me
Her curls are wavy
Her face is chubby
She stands by a bush of white- rose tree
She clings to a tiny branch of a bushy pine
Sometimes sits on an abandoned stone
That’s unkempt and half-polished
By the repeated strokes of waves of an unknown rivulet
That prowls like a greyhound in search of its prey
Her eyes have the sparkle of distant stars
Her lips don’t wear lipstick
Her hair is often uncombed
She does not own a pan-stick
Her handkerchiefs have her initials
Her sweaters are hand-made
She plays with clay dolls
Her dress had laces
She made paintings with fingers
Dipping her fingers in colour pots
She broke into cream-biscuits
Smacked the cream
She had no clue
She never rued
She cried and smiled
Laughed and yelled
She is my lost childhood
Often peeps out from my book-shelf
Where now she dwells
Amid my scrapbook, album, and old items
She smells of cupcakes and wafers
She watches Cartoon Network
She is my fairy self.

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There was a time
When forests were virgin
Mountains smelt of dew
Women wore pieces of grass
Put flowers in their hair-do.

When women wore their skin
Gave birth without forceps and knives
Nobody cared about their bare- thighs.

Nobody commented on their stretch marks on belly
Nobody gave a damn about how they wore what they wore daily
Then with see-saws they cut down trees
Women in covered clothes remained in household.

Then they chopped down trees
Exposed its bare limbs and branches
Ripped apart its womb
And took out the softness seed
Women started to wear sequined blouses
Then they assassinated the soul of forest

Divided trees into fifty pieces
And left them to scorch in the sun
Women took branches of thorny bush in their hands
Forests were burning
Outspread valleys smelt of smoke
There was soot all over
The trees were ash and grey

Women joined in hands
Put vermilion on forehead
Roses became hibiscus
Women in motion
With their tongues hanging
Goddess kali in times of need

Deserts around
Dead trees resurrecting
In hundred years
How many days ,
Women were free indeed?

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Poets are like endangered birds
You need to preserve them!

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A grey overcast sky,
The sunbeams trapped in a prism.
A wingless kite hangs from a beetle palm ,
Not every kite can fly.
Three van-rickshaws carrying chairs upside-down,
Orange , green, red and blue!
Few men are marching forward.
If one keeps an eye at a Binocular ,
A paint-man is seen
White-washing .
A crow sits on the topmost branch of a Guava tree,
Few field-born rats are digging holes ,
To cement their foundation
A big festival awaits!

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Pause a little,
Peer out of the window.
Look! how the birds
Bathe in the drizzle,
Fresh drops of water
Trickling down from the cablewire.

Tea leaves in the kettle,
Bubbles that can't escape boredom of routined life.
You keep brewing hope
A sundowner of you,
In you sun-hat stuck on the Wall.

You tie your hair in a Bun,
Two freshly baked Bun Maskas
Lying on the bed.
The aloevera plants at the corner
Of your Living room
Smile at you.

You take out your journal,
Scribble few things.
A 'Jhola' hangs from the corner nail of your room.
Your untouched Geology notes,
Through the half-opened window
A little bird peeps its head in,
You become friends with it.

Two Baul Singers printed on your Jhola Bag
And few stray animals on the road.

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Which we often refer to
For information that we require in the present.
We reread some articles
Those are like memories that we want to revisit
We tear away some part of it
To dispose off trash
Those are like things which better be forgotten.

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