Saroja Ganapathy
 


Saroja Ganapathy teachs English at Ruia College, Matunga, Mumbai. She is keenly interested in literature and music. She prefers simple, direct writing, with depth of vision and some humour. She has not published in any journal till now . she generally write poems, short stories, short prose and reviews on her own blogs  ( http://emeraldrice.blogspot.com and http://erudifying.blogspot.com ), and has also posted a few poems on "My Space" in MuseIndia.


Morning Vignettes

brown stones
a broken hedge

trees stretching their
giraffe necks over
garden walls

thin, long arteries
of white creating
designs on a
blue sky

air trembling
with the faint
touch of early winter

through which
breathes the fresh
fragrance of the
morning sun

and the puffing
stench
of stagnant
human nights.


(untitled)

Why is it that years erode away,
while days live on?

You never thought
that giant rocks on the seashore
could weather so mutely,
washed over by water.
Voices that watched you grow
from girl to woman --
how easily you have stopped missing them.

But even today, eyes seek
those tinted pebbles picked with fingers
from the sand,
clasped, whispered to,
now tugging at something in you
that still believes in the shared secrets
of a time that stood still as droplets,

and in spite of all futility of colour
linger at the hope of otherwise
that has never really left you.

Stories

"If only I had studied for one more year"
Every year of study brought pain.
"I would have learnt English!"
Too many stories from too many lands
"We had English as early as fourth standard"
Raining down on one life's thirsty sands.

"I travelled, first with my father, then with my husband"
Mind's lonely journeys grown too long
"I went where destiny took me"
Struggles hidden, yet lived, unseen by fate.
"I have borne all, but my children are happy."
Was it better to have only one life to fight?
"Those were hard times, child, not like today."
Day slips into night, just as yesterday.

Yellowing

Box-files line the wall,
Flimsy, wrinkled edges of yellow
Peer out of their rusted mouths.
It is not a forgotten corner.
No -- everything is banefully essential to a life
Measured out in thickening mounds of scholarship.

First a thin film of yellow mixes
Indiscernibly with the white surfaces.
As acquirement turns into addition,
They begin to wear a puzzling look of agelessness
As if they had never borne
Any other complexion.

Fingers fasten the colour of decay
Dust adds a powder finish,
Mellow like memory.
Eyes have travelled down them countless times
Leaving behind trails of yellow weariness.
A green aura leaks out of each black letter.
 


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