Song du jour

436637-bollywood.jpgI have grown up listening to

Songs from Bollywood films, perhaps you

Are not acquainted with the range of emotions expressed

In a smorgasbord of melodies, here I do confess

That each time I feel any emotion intense

There is a song appropriate for that experience

Often as I feel the emotion, I tell you

In my head a song is playing repeatedly too..

 

From romantic love, longing and betrayal

To life’s lessons, patriotism and farewells

From maternal, paternal, sibling affection

To bonds of friendship and the heartache of rejection

From boisterous proclamations of superiority

To claiming reckless disregard of seniority

From the existential angst of life as a youngster

To the pangs of old age- you never have to wonder

If there is a song that describes your situation

You will find one without much aggravation

 

Now I sing (either loudly or in my head)

When I am happy, but when I am sad, instead

Of dwelling on my emotions, I start humming

A tune in my head, the lyrics start coming

To my mind soon after I indulge in this exercise

Quite often my mood is lifted, much to my surprise!

 

Bollywood numbers continue to be belted out

At a furious pace, day in and day out

Not every song can touch every soul

But each song has its niche, its role

In the fabric of Indian lives, I am sure

That’s why film lovers keep asking for more

Thus the age-old tradition of films interspersed

With songs does not end- we are well versed

In smooth stories being interrupted all at once

By characters breaking  abruptly into song and dance 

We have grown to love this distraction 

A film without songs gives us no satisfaction..

 

Of course as I pen this verse my mind is occupied

By more than one song-as I have described!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ghats of Varanasi

varanasi

Swathed in  deep orange light, just before dawn

On the ghats of Varanasi she sat alone

Played her sitar in precious solitude

While the rest of the world she could still exclude

A plaintive melody reflective of her mental state

A mournful plea to the injustice of her fate

At these hallowed ghats she had cremated

Her husband not long ago, now she waited

For life to provide her a direction, otherwise

She would wait here, where her cries

Could be drowned in the cacophony of sounds

She felt nothing but despair all around

Her baby lay sleeping in a bundle beside her

Oblivious to the music, to the flow of the river..

 

Soon the sun promised to come up and the place

Filled up with people occupying any available space

She continued to play her sitar, this time with a goal

Of attracting attention of any generous soul

Who would drop some coins impressed by her recital

This was all her shell-shocked mind could do for survival..

 

Day after day she continued, she made just enough

To keep herself and the baby fed, but the sailing was rough

Until one day as she sat playing, seemingly immersed

Completely in music, oblivious of the universe

When a passer-by stopped to listen in keen attention

She stopped, and looked up with deep apprehension

An elderly man looked at her with eyes kind

Her rendition of Raag Bhairavi had blown his mind

He offered her a position to teach classical music

To young children- at first she was afraid she was being tricked

But something in his voice told her he was genuine

Besides, she had nothing to lose, she could only win

Shaken from her torpor, she accepted the offer

It turned out to be the best thing that happened to her-

In teaching young kids how to play the instrument

She overcame her grief,  became truly self-sufficient

As she raised her child, she taught him music too

In doing all of this, her resilience shone through.

 

Today she sits in the front row of the audience

It’s her son’s first solo performance

As she waits for him to begin in nervous anticipation

Her thoughts return to the day of her emancipation

Her eyes fill up with tears of gratitude

The ghats have magical powers-it’s her certitude..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Always.. Indian

independence dayOn the occasion of Indian Independence Day

An expatriate like me should have nothing to say

Yet the umbilical cord binding me to the land of my birth

Is hard to cut off- I can state that whatever I am worth

Today is because I was raised an Indian

My sense of identity remains but one-

In a world that stands divided today

I am fortunate that India showed me the way

Of secularism, religious tolerance and more

So that prejudice and bigotry I find easier to ignore

With five thousand years of culture behind me

I am privileged to carry an unparalleled legacy

The strength of the family unit has my back

Its cohesiveness would never let me lose track

Growing up in a land where resources were few

With relatively little I have learnt to make do..

 

At the same time Indian idiosyncrasies

Have obviously brushed off on me

My palate is woefully limited, I’m aware

To try new adventures, I do not dare

There are many other things that stereotype 

Me as an Indian, but my actions live up to the hype

 

As I contemplate today my identity

Being Indian I feel is part of my destiny

Despite the fact that I have embraced

Another country as my own, I am still faced

With the question of being comfortable 

In my skin, of being capable

Of navigating two different cultures with equal elan

I think my efforts are good, but in this lifespan

A true blue Indian at heart I shall remain

It is the part of me that keeps me sane!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mothering pains

cat-1116_078_0I have a confession to make here

There is nothing nowadays that I fear

More than meeting other mothers on weekends

For children’s activities- I’d rather run mundane errands

 

For each time mothers meet, the topics of conversation

Revolve around the extent of their enthusiastic participation

In their children’s lives- soccer practice, dance recitals

Advanced math classes, playdates- these are the staples

Of life as a mother- to which I sadly do not conform

I know driving children everywhere is the norm, 

That I cannot keep up with because I need 

The weekend to recharge my batteries indeed

While spending some quality time with my son-

So we read together or do art projects for fun

I am perfectly happy doing this, and so is he

(I think), but then I get worried each time I see

Or hear other mothers talking about 

The tight schedules of their children; doubt

Starts clouding my mind- what if my son

Falls behind his peers- no, he has to run

The same race that everyone seems to

Be running, surely they have a better clue

As to how dabbling in ten different activities

Can secure a seat in an Ivy League with ease..

 

When I get carried away by these thoughts, I want to

Enrol him in every single activity available too

Then I stop myself so that I can  re-evaluate

My priorities for my child, consider what I have on my plate

It is true that I want my child to develop skills multi-faceted

But not the same skills as others- I want him to be unique instead

Maybe by being at home and doing projects with me

He is learning more by exercising his creativity

Then I calm down and decide not to be a part

Of mom discussions next time- that would be a good start!

(Image: www.theriaults.com)

 

 

 

 

 

Where do my loyalties lie

image.jpeg

In a world that is increasingly
Divided, with pervasive hostility
And paranoia everywhere-
I struggle to see what is right, what is fair
In this divided world I cannot decipher
Where to place my loyalties, with whom to concur
Every group I belong to has views that are right
And other views that I want to fight
With any one group I cannot align
Myself- there is a need for me to find
A happy medium- the most moderate view
Of the world, the outlook that rings true

I try to eliminate prejudice from my mind
Yet in a polarized world I find
It is difficult to avoid biases making their way
Into my subconscious, looking for a place to stay
Inadvertently, often thoughts cross my mind
Reflecting subtle biases of various kinds
I can see them mirrored in the world around me
Fueling my warped views, unfortunately
I chide myself each time my bias I realize
And remind myself next time I would be wise
In a world divided I have to work relentlessly
To owe my allegiance to nothing but humanity.

 

Will toot my horn

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I cannot help but notice how these days

Self-promotion has become easier in many ways

So the talents that we had were meant to be showcased

Before close friends and family, often based

On the context and occasion, employed strategically

To garner praise, or arouse envy specifically-

Now there is a smattering of our “talents” for all to see

On social media, to boost our self-esteems for free..

Most of us are guilty at some point or another

Of checking our profiles after posting with fervor

To see how many likes and comments we receive

We feel validated, we are admired we believe…

 

I suspect most of us would never be able to

Boast of our achievements the way we do

Out loud in front of an audience

But facebook gives us the confidence

To publicize, promote, self-aggrandize

While posting we do not even realize

That fifteen years ago we would not have dreamt

That showing off would become such a big trend..

 

Pardon me if the tone of this verse is too sanctimonious

Let me check the number of likes on my post ostentatious! 

 

 

 

 

 

Woman at Work

“We cannot all succeed when half of us are held back.”

Malala YousafzaiDSC_0795.JPG

The week starts off with a list robust

Of things to do- she gets cracking, but first

An adequate dose of caffeine she needs

To get her galvanized into action indeed

The list is long, but in her view

It is exciting to have more things to do

It brings out her efficient, no-nonsense way

She means business, her manner conveys

Working without breaks, targets she exceeds

By making secondary her personal needs

In a brutally competitive, male-driven sphere

She has chalked out her strategy, her goals are clear

She arrives early to work, late she leaves

To be on equal footing with the men, she believes

Her industrious and dedication would certainly

Lead her to the top echelons eventually

 

 

Whether she was naive to think so

I cannot say, I do not know

But in this world with its warped ways

Where discrimination occurs in myriad ways

Her workaholic tendencies were misconstrued

And given a sexual context, this was so not true!

Credit for her productivity was claimed

By someone more powerful, with a “Mr.” to his name

As you can guess, the opposite gender acted in collusion

To sabotage her chance of landing the coveted promotion

 

She was angry, hurt, disappointed

She blamed herself until someone pointed

To her that it had nothing to do 

With anything except her gender- sad but true

 

Unfortunately this story is not unique

Women are subject to unfair critique

In their workplace, especially if they are 

Good at what they do, they don’t  get far

 

 

She is learning to fight her battles, learning to say “no”

I hope one day she shall be the CEO!

 

 

 

 

 

Escape

“I am not addicted to drugs or alcohol- I am addicted to escaping reality.”

DSC_0657

There are days I wish I could forget

The route home, wish I could upset

The predictable order of things at a whim

(Though the chances of this occurring are dim)

There are times when I let my fantasy take flight 

The little battles of everyday life I refuse to fight

 

And dream about driving away in my car

Way past home, to a destination far

Assume an identity completely new

Among new people who have not a clue

As to my real identity- is that too outlandish

To think it is possible? Or just plain selfish?

To run away from my family and obligations

Just like a gypsy- to an unknown destination?

Then find my soul;  free from the chains

Of daily living, return as a person sane..

**

The fantasy is alluring, I must say

Yet I am not an escapist, I know, any day

So while a physical journey is quite out of question

I need to take a mental break from the tensions

Of daily living- so I imagine myself in another place

Footloose, unencumbered, solitary in my space

Vivid images of a sanctuary I try to conjure

To which I can retreat, a place untarnished and pure-

Alas! A minute or two at most lasts my reverie

Broken cruelly, abruptly by insipid reality…

The escape that I dream of, I realize

Will in the near future not materialize..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello, I am your doctor..

69640734-stethoscope-wallpapers

I know you are worried I do not fulfil

Your criteria- I can see I do not instil

Confidence in you that  I am capable

Of  taking excellent care of you, that I am able

To diagnose and treat your condition-

You might not have chosen me of your volition

 

But you were forced to make a compromise

Between timely referral and me, I surmise…

Probably I am the wrong gender and size

The wrong accent, wrong physical attributes, I realize

I hardly resemble the image you have in mind

Of a distinguished middle-aged male with eyes kind

And a soft-spoken manner; with which he can claim

Your complete trust and respect- I do not blame

You for feeling that way- that is the stereotype

Perpetuated by media- yet there is no one prototype

Of a good physician; we happen to be as diverse

As the rest of the denizens of this universe.

 

So here I am, my petite frame stretched in attention

To your complaints, concerns, apprehensions

I know you are gravely ill, and in distress

Your condition is one I am equipped to address

I might have an accent but know what I tell you 

Is based on up-to-date knowledge, backed by experience too

Because I know you do not intrinsically trust me

Know that I shall be as thorough as a physician can be

Your preconceived notions challenge me to do my best

I know that on a perfect image I cannot rest

Let me tell you- since I do not conform to a stereotype

I’ve had to work harder to earn my stripes

I hope you look past my physical attributes and see

That you shall be treated as well as you deserve to be.

 

Running out of the weekend..

versaillesAnother weekend is over and I

Watch the minutes go ticking by

Sunday night is here, and my

Anxiety level is reaching its weekly high

Where did the weekend go, I wonder

I feel so tired, I guess it was a blunder

To create a jam-packed schedule

It seems to be an unwritten rule

That we must socialize, do something new

While finding time for chores too

So in the mayhem of going out with friends;

And cooking, cleaning, running errands

I’ve tired myself out yet again-

I forgot my resolve to rest, I think in disdain

The grind of the next week is knocking at my door

I’m not ready for Monday, I need some more

Of a weekend that actually feels like one

Where I can relax and read, not be on the run

Yet again I decide my next weekend shall be

For rest and relaxation, absolutely-

Then I glance at my calendar and realize

There are social obligations next week, and thus dies

Any hope of a restful weekend in the future near

I just sigh and decide to catch up on sleep dear

Like it or not , I will have to face

Monday- for its shenanigans, myself I brace..

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Heart of an Immigrant Writer

“The immigrant’s heart marches to the beat of two quite different drums, one from the old homeland and the other from the new. The immigrant has to bridge these two worlds, living comfortably in the new and bringing the best of his or her ancient identity and heritage to bear on life in an adopted homeland.”- Mary McAleese

turkish

Reading yet another evocative book one night

I thought- why were so many immigrants compelled to write

Stories set in lands whose shores they had left behind

Narratives giving a glimpse into the longing in their minds..

 

Perhaps the gnawing pain of separation necessitates

Expression in words- it is an attempt to placate

The uprooted soul which in the process of immigration

Loses its bearings, silently protests in indignation..

 

Or maybe, forced to leave one’s motherland 

Succumbing to fate’s cruel, unrelenting hands

Refugees have traumatic memories that torment

Such that to process those harrowing moments

They turn to writing as a therapeutic exercise

Demons of the past they thus exorcise..

 

They say broken hearts make poets out of many men

Immigration is worse than a heartbreak, I think, brethren

No wonder the anguish that an immigrant carries inside

Is woven in beautiful words within which his feelings hide..

 

As an immigrant I can feel, I can touch those words

That describe the love and longing for lost worlds

Words wrapped in pages that mirror my emotions 

Words that stir my heart, create a commotion..

I hope one day my pent emotions shall spill over into

Words that form powerful stories too..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woman and Society

venetian thinkerAh, you fickle society

With your norms arbitrary

Established by those in authority-

When will you learn to deal with me?

**

If I did possess, proudly

Alluring, exquisite beauty

If I were willing to sacrifice

My intellect, often perceived as a vice

You would know where to place

Someone like me, just a pretty face..

If I were meek and willing forever

To lean on a broader (?stronger) shoulder

You would readily be able to

Put in a box, label me, wouldn’t you?

If my eyes dripped of vulnerability

You would look at me quite comfortably..

To parochial authority if I could submit

My desires, aspirations if I could forfeit

I would merge in your fabric

Seamlessly, without perturbing your rubric

If I never raised a voice of dissent

Never ventured beyond the extent

Of liberties allotted to me

By those who think they shape you, society

I would live life predictably

Fitting right in, respectably..

**

Ah, my dear society, you see

I do not fit in those molds, unfortunately..

Underdosed in beauty I happen to be

Wit and intellect were bestowed on me

In reasonable quantities-

Your irrational vagaries

Exasperate me, I am forced

To say things that are not endorsed

By your members esteemed

Therefore, to me it has often seemed

That my chutzpah makes it difficult for you

To be comfortable with me, isn’t that true?

Afraid I am not, no shoulder I need

(I can offer my delicate shoulder indeed)

In your carefully woven tapestry

I clearly stand out like a jarring accessory

I speak my mind, sending your members

Scrambling for suitable answers…

Your stereotypes fail to classify me

We need a middle ground that I don’t see

I keep hoping someday we shall find

A way to celebrate both beauty and mind!