Monday, March 28, 2011

Apu, the chai walla...

This poem is for Apu, this ever-smiling 10-year old kid who sells chai on Platform no. 3 and 4 of the Pune railway station.

“Chai Garam ! Chai Garam!”
Apu waxed lyrically.
His voice baritone-
Practiced to perfection.
Even as the train
Serenaded her
Bumpy halt.

Recalled he,
His childhood,bundled
On his father’s head
A porter – Red!
The clamor for seats
- a handkerchief !
A battle won !

Running along
Life’s train, keeping pace
A palm with coins,
In lieu of a cup of tea.
Half spilled on his
Corroded hands, burnt!

The pretty girl- Memsaab!
Like a fairy in the bookstall.
Who kept turning back
To look at him.
And smiled even as he
Wiped his snotty
Face –striped with salt.

Pucker-nosed, she laughed,
As he slyly wiped the filth
On his shorts.
His fastest sprint then,
As the train stuttered,
Punctuated by
Silent whistles.

Recalled he,
The porter -Red,
The coins -Few,
The fairy –Dream!
And his never ending – Marathon.
And whispered softly
“Happy Birthday Apu. You’re ten today!”

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Stilted Hours...

Ok, this is one of my recent works. I'm extremely apprehensive about the response because my style of writing is becoming more unconventional and abstruse with every passing day. Keeping my fingers crossed and hoping you guys like it :)

There are some dawns,
of silver mirrors and rusty reflections,
when you wake up to a tune
coming from a distance; a flute’s
unadorned raga.

When time stands still,
in the womb of darkness, nascent
smiles are born, few survive while
others are aborted, bartered
for a few morsels of hope.

There are few rustic noons
planted in a courtyard, where
a hungry geranium trails
the corrugated asbestos, as
beads of sweat drizzle from
a leaden sky.

Little children bodies,
chase the wind
behind a rickety cart,
amidst whistles
and few barefooted prayers
climb the steps to godliness.

There are some evenings,
when sparrows and urchins
come home,
hand in hand.
A dusk where alms are split,
and a peasant eavesdrops
on yesterday’s conversation.

And then...

And then
You arrive,
like a whispered
wish of an anklet,
a touch of wet clay,
Lost charm in a bangle.
A firefly in wild play.

There comes a night,
when I sleep
in your embrace.
Creative Commons License
Poetry by Wandering Gypsy is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.