Partition

The region was splitting into two, one where

Papa was taking me in a bus so crowded,

My mother and sister and home were

In the other, behind us, all raped and dead.

I didn’t realise then, while they happened.

Only flames and cries I saw around our hut.

Shouts against our stay were sloganed,

And not just that, and not just that.

Buses crossed us, as we traveled. Papa told,

Welcome people were moving to places

where their religion, their majority ruled.

I noticed, as only I could, orphan faces.

Clutched in my hands, in that flounder

was the red bound book on renewal

from the library that was now in powder

and that that would not belong, even on arrival.

Sixty years had passed, since our moving;

Dailies remember every year our hardship.

Our countries are still fighting, houses burning,

Maybe they just can’t live in friendship.

The Bounty Hunter

Dr Schultz became a bounty hunter, but only after

Plucking molars for a living did not render

His life even a Quentin pleasanter.

 

In his adventurous rounds he found a slave,

Whose name you can never pronounce, save

Only with silence observed in the ‘D’ of Dave.

 

Unlike the cherished country mango

Was the colour of Schultz’s find, Django,

Who, in search of his taken wife, was on a long go.

 

Schultz found in a White estate the wife

And himself ran into an irreversible strife,

For, in the end, from him was taken his life.

 

Lucky Django escaped on horseback after blowing

The estate and its Whites amidst blood flowing,

To live happily ever after with his dear wife following.

 

 

 

 

Sorry, Harry!

With pouring sweat blurring my sight,

And puny Harry refusing to bear my weight,

I decided to walk, albeit with a reluctant gait.

 

My legs trembled, for tiring was the hike1

And my gunny sack I found difficult to hike3

Through the harsh land of this vast rike.

 

Far away showed up a stony inn.

We ran the remaining road to happily jump in,

Wishing with all hope for a pony of gin.

 

Looming over me stood barman Bob

With a jug of ale as was his job

And a little watch by a golden fob.

 

While Harry smiled over a pack of hay

Drinking the ale, I said ‘Hey hey!’

Seeing us, what would the sun say?

 

Barman Bob hiked2 the cost of the drink

So much that the pay would push me to the brink

And would even cause Harry’s forehead to wrink.

 

What could I do other than to sell Harry?

And return home with skin so tarry,

To breathe of barmen always wary.

 

Hike:

Noun

  1. A long walk or walking tour.
  2. A sharp increase, especially in price or cost.

Verb

  1. Pull or lift up (something, especially clothing).

Thy Eternal Summer shall not Fade

My resolve to write

dwindles tonight

as I see you bright

lying in the dim light.

 

Alight is a sudden flame

with no definite name,

only your eyes to blame

for lotus petals are same.

 

On you my night is spent

with lips buried in your dent.

Sweat together we vent,

unknown time thus went.

 

Writing is an art

or so I thought.

From you won’t I part

for you are the better art.