A Sacred Gift of God

 

'Gardens are not made by singing ‘Oh, how beautiful,’ and sitting in the shade.' Rudyard Kipling.

Gardens are the family of lovely plants,

the sacred gift of God, the abode of beauty.

How arid will our mother Earth look,

had she been barren with no green offspring?

Bald-headed, flying dust,

attack of torrent rains, injured body,

and showers cart her parted parts to water.

The Sun happily cooks her figure

burning hard all that bears life.

Gardens fill our hearts, support beings to find food

and shelter and shade, orchards  the heavens of 

birds, and blooms are of bees, how lovely!

And the friend breeze shake hands with twigs;

the wind cuddles wild, giving a twist subtle.

But though our gardens sedate our eyes

with their beauty, they cannot enchant us

until unless we help them to grow caringly

with pampering; giving them cool bath,

feeding with manure, grooming to look cute,

And life is a symbiosis, by extending hands to hands.

 

April Last Year and April Now!

April last year and April this year

 

April is heat-bitten, with no lovable warmth and chill,

full of anguish and agony and anxiety;

war, a word, spreading ruins and evils only,

 is the commander and ruler of the time.

Wickedness of all kinds, fury, scares,

ill-omen, murders, cruelty, with no droplets of

sympathy, empathy or clemency, fills

each letter’s core with mock at the loss of beings.

 

Barefoot are now the inmates of mansions,

empty-bellied, thirst-attacked, having no roof to protect,

from the rage of calamities and axes of 

two-legged beasts, may have sense.

Nature gave words of sense to man

who often gets dipped in dirt,

tearing apart the glory that cheers lives,

turning useless, wicked and harmful

causing utter chaos all around.

Little silky legs run on hard spheres;

tender mouths lament pop and mom,

 food, water, cloth and shelter.

 

The humanity, possessing a mother’s heart,

creates a flood in its owners' eyes and

cannot bear this hapless, helpless stage of

mourning by the innocent faces,

demise and deformity triumph

And the escaping ones be orphans; no aid.

 

April was hot last year, warm and chill;

minds found connections and affections,

enjoying travels and laughter,

friendships with less foes, adding spice to life.

This vast world keeps paths open abundant for

journeys through peace and love, 

and let us pray for the nations to shake hands, 

 and let the avoidance of enmity be the word of the day.

 

At the Get-go!

 

 

At the get-go, am I to get into

the new abode,

swinging between two brothers,

with each other shortly, part the siblings,

on the elder’s completion of his life.

Performed his duties with skill and smartness

though witnessed in abundance our mishaps.

Destiny drove us to the torrents

taking away many lives of the ill-fated,

he eyed the wars between people and people

and nation and nation; terror,  humanity nil

and found in killings thrill.

 

The younger but in new garb will loom afresh;

smile on the face and hands, cheerful

to cuddle us, bringing the honey of comfort

to sweeten the days, it will carry, giving

a smooth go for the world to plan its future,

filling hope in anxious hearts, holding our hands

to light a wick in the dark and guide us.

The year in hand at bidding bye

waves his hand to his brother, offering his throne.

Forgetting the bygone occurrences,

fulfil our resolutions for the period waiting,

and may a good spirit of feeling be our pal of pick.

 

 

MAY THE NEW YEAR BRING JOY TO ALL.

 

 

 

പുഞ്ചിരി തൂകുന്ന പൊന്മുഖം!

  

(വൃത്തം- മാരകാകളി)

പുഞ്ചിരി  തൂകുന്ന  പൊന്മുഖം  പേറി നീ 

പൃഥ്‌വിയേ  തലോടി നീ നിൽപ്പൂ.

ഒന്നു  ചിന്തിച്ചാൽ ദിനങ്ങളെ  പോറ്റുവാൻ,

ഓമനിക്കാനും നീയെത്തും .

ഭൂമിയാം പെണ്ണിനെ  കാക്കുന്നു   നാഥനായ്,

സാമോദമായ്     തീർ‍ക്കും മയ്യൽ.

ജീവികൾക്കൊക്കെയും  മിത്രമാകുന്നു  നീ

ആവുമ്പോലാഹ്‌ളാദ മേകും.

ചെയ്യുവാൻ പാചകം സസ്യങ്ങൾ നോക്കുമ്പോൾ 

ആയാസം  മാറ്റാൻ നീയൂർജ്ജമേകും.

ധ്യാനത്തിൽ നിൽക്കുന്നു  പദ്മമാം കന്യയ്ക്കു 

 നാണം വരും നിന്നെക്കണ്ടാൽ.

ആഷാഢവർഷത്തിൻ തുള്ളികൾ ചായത്താൽ 

ഭേഷായ് പൂശും സപ്തവർണ്ണം.

മേഘങ്ങൾ പർദ്ദയാൽ  നിന്നെ മറയ്ക്കുമ്പോൾ

 സൂര്യാംശുവെത്തീടും  കീറാൻ.

ചെങ്കോൽ കൈയിലേന്തി  ആഭിജാത്യപൂർവ്വം 

ഹുങ്കു  നരൻറെ  കുറയ്ക്കും.

പൊൻവെയിൽ വസ്ത്രങ്ങൾ പങ്കം പറ്റാതെ നീ 

വൻവൃഷ്ടിയാലേ  കഴുകും.

സുന്ദരി ശ്യാമയും നിന്നെ ഭയക്കുന്നു,

നിൻ വെളിച്ചത്താലൊളിക്കും.

എന്നാലഖിലാണ്ഡ മന്നനായ്  വാണു നീ-

യൊന്നുപോലെല്ലാം  കരുതും.

ലോകോപകാരിയായ് സർവ്വദാ  ഭൂമിയേ -

രക്ഷിക്കുവാനായ്   നിലവും,

ഭാനുവേ! നിന്നുടെ കാരുണ്യസാഗരേ 

നീന്തും ഞങ്ങൾക്കു നീ  കാവൽ.

 

 

 

 

Youths and Drugs!

  

 

Umesh was an officer in the District Anti-Narcotics Special Action Force Department.

He was on leave for one day because he had to attend the wedding reception of his friend’s son. When a traffic jam entangled him, he saw a couple of youngsters in a car who showed signs of unrest at the Traffic Jam. His suspicious mind led him to their vehicle. As soon as he opened the car, the boys took to their heels, and they disappeared within no time. The traffickers' capability in racing didn’t enable the officer to capture them. The bag with the loot in it, he transferred from the other car to his vehicle and gave it a safe residence there. The bag escaped tactically from the other’s notice. He drove his car to the side to park and made arrangements for the traffickers’ car to be under surveillance.

   At home, he thought of informing his higher authority, but his second thought asked him to wait and think. At first, though his mind was on tracing the culprits and bringing them under legal procedures, the thought that no one had noticed his act carried him on another track. He planned to sell the booty to the black market because he was ambitious of seeing a stethoscope on his son, Vijay’s neck. Vijay and his parents were in utter distress as the NEET exam did not include the boy’s name in the merit list.

“Shall we send him to some other country?”Mom, Shalini’s apprehension verbalised the words.

“ No, let him repeat the coaching,” Umesh replied.    

They chose an expensive coaching institution, running at the forefront of repeating the trials. So an easy but a bit risky means of meeting the outlay was the captured item, and more, it would become the answer too for Shalini’s question.  Night sleep was reluctant to lie with him; his mind travelled on the path of pondering over the dos and don'ts, and eventually, the dos pushed down the don’ts.

The time was four a.m. Some sound, not the strikes of the bell, but a few knocks at the door, not strong hits but mild taps, awoke the couple downstairs.

To their dismay, there stood a boy of Vijay’s image and age, failing to control his tears.

“Who are you? Why here?” Harsh was the officer’s voice.

The boy, Sangeet was one of the culprits; he and his friend skillfully vacated their selves from the vehicle. His tongue poured out his melancholy, weeping and sobbing supported his words, “I am in search of some money. I am a twelfth-grade student.”

“Who was with you then?”

“ The other one a financier. I was following him for money. ”

A good amount of money he needed to discharge his recovered sister from a private hospital, which was expensive, highly expensive.

 A stark pain had attacked the little girl in her stomach. The pain-stricken wailing of the innocent girl led her to that hospital. Sangeet, whose father was no more, was the decision-maker for an illiterate family. Appendicitis mercilessly had disturbed the little dear. Sangeet had no other go but to take her to a hospital. No better a Government hospital is, it is the one that gives prescriptions for medicines to be bought from outside.

And now the reality stares at him; money, the luxury of some people and the deficiency of some others, goes on hurting the latter. Sangeet was in chaos, how to and where to find the amount, the amount to bring back his loving sibling home.

 The officer’s inner voice spoke thus, “ Had it been your son, what would you do? Be away from all evils.” After all, Umesh was not miserly, not devilish, so, he decided not to arrest  Sangeet, he instead extended his helping hand for his hospital purpose. Yes, he took a vow in mind that he would sincerely work for his department and would try to save the teens and youths from the fangs of drugs. He presented the pillage to the authority and washed his mind and hands with the pure water of right ideas.

Your Imagination!

 

 

 

A palatial domicile, you had dreamed of,

in your compound trees, ornate

with pretty swaying twigs, full of greens,

the dawn sun in its glow of saffron,

chirping and singing birds having wings

of varying hues as a palatal feast for the eyes.

 

A happy home was in your imagination,

 affectionate home mates, tangy food,

clothing of your liking, travel style of your choice

sizable rooms, costly seating in the sitting,cosy beds,

A.C.to keep your body driving away the hot feeling,

a loving partner, adjusting and bearing your ire.

 

But ifs and buts rule your physique and psyche,

if your grey matter revolves in the orbit of gloom,

if desires wear the coat of irk and distress and

if your pals, partners or progeny build an invisible

fencing around you, you will repel them

covertly, then gloom will be your mind’s emperor.

 

So, be in love with the stars blinking at you,

 with the grin of the moon,the lovely birds, 

 the beautiful blooms, the glassy pond-liquid, 

lotuses and lilies in friendship, the swimming Pisces,

and make such things your worries’ erasers,

all pull your minds to reside with them.

 

 

 

 

The First story of Gadha!

The First Story Of Gadh!

If any subject teacher is on leave, another teacher will be given a gift named substitution work. Gadha’s class teacher was on leave that day. She was Usha, stylish, good-looking and a new teacher. Usha did a catwalk to substitute Sreedevi Teacher’s 8th class. Usually, in the substitution period, the teachers will be drowning in note corrections.  But Usha, because of her inexperienced status, was enthusiastic to trouble the children with Math lessons.

Gadha, “O! This part, our Sreedevi teacher has finished. Getting bored,” spoke in her mind. She took a notebook, opened its last pages and drew something this way that way and all. Suddenly she fell in a thought, “Why can’t I make Unni a subject?”

Yes, she set about thus.

Unni, the Wayward

Unni was a simple, loving boy. He was my neighbour, reading in sixth grade. The only problem, games cuddle him firmly and vice versa, always. If elders want some help from him, he pays no attention to it. So, his mother in half affection and half ire, gave him a pet name Unni, the Obstinate.

His mother Vasanthi’s legs seemed to be trying her expertise, as she sped domestic, the kitchen corner pushed her stumbling and she got hurt. She broke her left leg with inexorable bleeding. Somebody informed Unni, but he thought, “Nothing; might be a small wound, Amma will manage.” He went on with his amusements. Anyway, his Papa from the work site arrived and Mom reached the hospital. As doctors expressed their helplessness, she had to bid bye to all. Unni burst into tears, but his tender age suddenly allowed him to attain normalcy. The nomenclature,  ‘Wayward’ his mother gifted, his villagers painted with his name, and he became Unni, the Wayward. A couple of years passed, and his mind started to sit gloomy, felt his loss, so one day he penned down all his tearing emotions on a sheet of paper.  

Though his father was not that educated to understand it fully, his uncle’s words did leap out with appreciation. Uncle, Raj sent the story to a leading magazine. The week followed, dawned with Unni’s story in the magazine.  Unni’s presence became life in the children’s columns of best-selling periodicals and his villagers decided to cut off his ‘ Wayward’ tail from his name. Later, Unni himself ornamented his personage with his mother-given term and his pen name.

“Gadha, what is up there?” A thunder broke into the class atmosphere.  Gadha had touched the end part of her narration; no sooner did she keep back the book in the bag than another student snatched it to the teacher. The teacher stormed to the principal’s room taking hold of Gadha.

“ Ah! Beautiful substance, Gadha, what a language! A writer I see in you,” the Principal said on reading the child’s work.

“Usha, you are fresh, have patience. Don’t worry. That is why.”

Yes. The principal’s words ended in a fulfilling dream. Gadha is a writer now.