Photo credits: commons.wikimedia.org

A LONG WALK THROUGH OUR PADDY FIELD IN KERALA
 

While walking through our paddy field
At a little known village in Alappuzha
My grandfather reminded me that
“There was a time of prosperity”.
I didn’t believe him,
Thought it was the old man’s fancy.
“How can a dry and barren piece of land be fertile?”,
I poked him with a silly question.
 

He took me to our ‘tharavadu’*
Old and dilapidated,
Showed a giant granary and said
“We could fill it with a quarter of the harvest”.
Still I didn't believe him.

“It was not just us, entire Kuttanad**
Had fields with paddy cultivation in abundance”,
He remembered the good old days.
May be he is right,
My urban understanding is failing before
An old man, a village and paddy fields.
After all, our towns are built by
Killing such fertile land and filling paddy fields.
Farming has become a sin for us
Who are always in search of white collar jobs.

Now, I can hear the sound of a train carrying
Quintals of rice from Andhra Pradesh
And an aeroplane passing over us
With full of Malayalee passengers
Going abroad in search of a new abode.

Notes: Tharavadu: An ancestral home in Kerala,
Kuttanad: A region in Alappuzha known for vast paddy fields.
 

 

NOW, WE LIVE IN THE SAME CITY
 

Now, we live in the same city
Separated by narrow ends of the blue metro line.
All those promises made in Deccan
Are now wiped to the abyss of forgetting,
Making us two strangers on different hilltops
And a valley of million flowers in-between.
I feel lost in your city,
Overcrowded lanes and countless vehicles passing by.
I restlessly wander all the day and night
But I could never find a pinch of you in this dusty city.
When spring comes, turn back to the full moon days in Deccan,
holding hands and walking through the haunted paths.
Stepping out of hostel doors to the lazy mornings.
But with fading memories, you might curiously ask,
“Have we ever met in the past ?”
Now, I live in your city
In search of your earnest love
And the quest takes me to those
Birds staring at me from my windshield.

 

HIGHWAY UNDER CONSTRUCTION
 

I had embarked on a long journey
Only to see an ‘under construction’ board
on the highway.
There is a lengthy line of vehicles
Sometimes staying still and
Sometimes like slithering snakes.
I can sense heat wave outside,
For which I blame the governments all over the world
While sipping a cup of coffee, reading dailies at my home.
I adjusted my car’s A/C to maximum levels,
Kept on beeping that irritating horn,
Cursing those workers out in scorching sun
Pouring hot tar on the under-construction road.
My car’s FM box suddenly started
Playing unheard Bengali songs.

Let them make more highways with 6-8 lanes
Why can’t they spare me from this traffic congestion?