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 Her
Marble Legs
Every move of her marble legs
made millions to fly in dreams.
More than the winking of her eyes
the eyes of cameras flashed
capturing her every
physiological parts
perhaps to magnify,
touch, retouch and print
in every possible angles
at last only to sell.
While entering into
human seas
her minute sighs, smiles,
blushes and all sexual moves
were admired with zealous and jealous.
Everyone tried nearing,
Touching, kissing her.
She was a touch so near
But miles far away.
Her untouched virgin heart
Was far, far away.
Oh she knew that all these were
Until her skin got a shrink,
Until these fickle minds
Turned to another pair of silky legs
When tears rolled down secretly
Without camera flashes. The
Lonely Tea Picker
The same red sun
Spreads his light
Through the tall pine trees.
The same silver clouds
Glitter and move towards mounts.
The cool armies of ghost like mist
Come out of the greenish tea plants.
Now I hear a mild sweet voice
Reverberating in the
Green clothed valleys
Wich cannot soothe
The bleeding hearts
But intensify the pain.
What made this
Lonely Dravidian tea picker
To pour out her heart
When the odor of pesticides
Cut through our lungs
And the hard labored leaves
Are made high-tech currencies
In the global markets?
What brings this divine voice
Through the cropped tea plants?
It is not the tragic stories
Of long done wars.
It is not the pain of
Drought or flood or famine.
It is the tragedy of burning stomachs
And dying hopes everyday.
The bending estate woman
With tea basket on her back
And her divine warbling
Which couldn’t soothe tired laborers
Made an eternal impression
In my heart
I gently passed not to meditate
But to burst out. My Reader
He took chilled coke
from the ice-box
inside the air-conditioned
room.
Not only out side air
but a chirp or odour
couldn't reach
the air-tight chamber.
Scented paper
and golden pen
from the West
waited for him
in front of the
rolling cushion chair.
He, a London degree holder,
an owner of some more words,
an expert in arranging them,
hired by a publisher,
wrote from his hand
which would come soon
with much hype and colour.
The words I wrote
inhaling the odour of
human pain,
sitting in terrains and trains
were safely sent back,
neatly packed
with a courtesy letter.
When he was repeatedly
reviewed and praised
in T.V. and print
mine was once taken
with much surprise
as an epitome of bad work.
Oh! ye rare breed
who still loves real words,
I see you reading
a best seller
sitting near me
in the train,
I know you are my reader.
But though my painfully
crafted book
touches your thigh
inside my tattered bag
there are miles
between you and me !
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