Death of a whine

 

It started as a hum from the corner of the room, 

A doubt in the distance, chewing away on gloom.

And then louder, buzzing with reasons to complain.

Till it was whirling and whining all around my heavy head

Fading in and out, but before it got to me, I whacked it dead!

Sardar Vs Sardar

Seven decades ago the Sardar valiantly protested,
Not with violence, but with iron willed defiance
Against the rule of the mighty British empire
Through mass revolt and individual disobedience.

The country that won independence against the Empire
Without violence, now fears its own farmer's claims
And arms itself against the worker of the plough.
Sweat that worked the soil now bleeds on Delhi's highways.

For the love of the nation they won us our freedom
Of conscience, religion, of language and the right to life.
Sardar led the task of forging a united and progressive India.
But now wonders 'Why is freedom divided on religion's knife? '

Our Country now fears the views of the children of tomorrow
And every voice that protests or questions is imprisoned,
While impotent and scared newsmen blare out blatant lies.
Has the once eloquent discerning pen forever been silenced?

At 182 metres, the patron of India's Civil servants looks down
At a powerful, yet timid and unquestioning Civil Service that fell
To Ministers for whom self is much greater than the country's soul.                                   

Sardar cringes from atop the pedestal - Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. 

Written during the farmers protests

Somewhere somehow.

Silence pervades the room
An edgy feeling of gloom
And then a ‘knock' cold, lonely & small
Certainly not wanting to be there at all.
She opens the door on a nervous officer
Discomfited, weighed down by a little letter.

She takes the letter, off his hands
And ever gracious, even says thanks.
She closes the door, and quietly weeps.
The letter remains unopened, stuck in grief.
Holding all her hopes, her fears, her solitude
Her many dreams crushed in someone's feud.

Stories of this bravery in every newspaper
The body came wrapped in the tri colour.
Her little son she had nursed and cuddled
Played, ran around, fought and scolded.
The gun salute shook her from her thoughts
Her dreams from now on, to remain as nought


Never a doubt, a thought, or a question
No fear, no thoughts of home, no religion,
He had led his men forward up the hill
They fought as one, to kill or be killed.
He runs and falls, firing as the bullets hit him
Still fighting for his friends, till death sinks in.


Now alone, two photographs on the wall
Two fighters, once ready for the call-
One the father, one the son. She weeps
for the child who waits for daddy to come,
for the wife eagerly waiting for her true love,
and the mother who hopes to meet her son,
somewhere somehow.

The Magic and the Miracles

I believe in Jesus, not just for the Bible, 

But coz of a faltering bunch called the disciples.

They saw the magic, they saw the miracles.

Fed 5000, rocked Jerusalem, drove the spirits away.

Yet at the cross, scared, they just ran away.

One of them denied, many of them doubted.

Another in terror ran away naked.

They saw the magic, took part in the miracles.

Walked on water and gave the blind sight

Yet at the cross, frightened away by Roman might.

They sang with him, laughed with him, fought for him.

Turned water to wine and broke bread with him.

They saw the magic, rejoiced in the miracles.

Yet when their Saviour was spat on and tortured. 

When their king hung as a thief, they disappeared. 

One of them hung himself in remorse and guilt .

His dreams unlike the 'Kingdom' being built.

He saw the magic, he saw the miracles.

Saw the dead resurrected from a grave, four days late. 

But the pain and agony in hurting love, sealed his fate.

And after the crucifixion, terrorized, they all hid.

Guardedly returning to the tasks they previously did.

They had seen the magic, they had heard the parables,

Yet, somehow now, it just seemed a vague dream.

Their good times killed by a conniving Jewish scheme.

But when they met their resurrected Lord, it all changed.

For it was for them he first died and rose again. 

They saw, living, their God of the magic and miracles.

Then whether speared, beheaded, crucified or skinned alive, 

Never once doubted, but as witnesses,for Christ they would die.

"""'''''''''''

This poem is an answer to the question - Why did Jesus have to die?

The Story of the Religious fanatic

 

Bloodied and bruised but elated, the fanatic reached heaven finally

Then stood in line to show off to God what he had achieved religiously.  

Through broken tongue and blown up limbs he explained his sacrifice -

Destroyed worship places and proclaimed that all other religions are just lies.

God went into the adjacent room, returned in haste and shot him thrice.

Murder on Baker Street-

Coming into the parlour I realised something was wrong.

Holmes was disturbed, his violin wasn't scratching out a song.

In a gown, elbows on armrest, fingertips pressed together,

Eyes closed, eyebrows knitted together in consternation.

Lips mumbling in spurts of anger and condemnation.

I couldn't figure out if he was on a Case; or just bad weather.

I looked around wondering, 'What was this new Mystery?'

Or was it the after-effects of a late night opium fantasy?

Holmes was on to a case that was certainly disturbing him   

'Was someone killed, Holmes?' 'Do we take up guard?' 

'Have they been informed, the detectives from the Yard?'

Staring pensively, my questions seemed to bounce off him. 

Finally, he muttered 'This is murder most foul, Watson'.

'Need to get to the bottom of this,' he said toying with his gun

'But who was killed, Holmes, have they left a clue?'

'It is the gingerbread man,' he said with a sinister eye.

'What ! A piece of bread? My dear Holmes,' said I,

And I thought one of your culprits was giving his due.

'This here gingerbread man looks fine to me.'

'Precisely, but if you would break a piece and see.'

'Watson, there is garlic in the gingerbread man' 

'Ah  Yes, a fine ginger taste, but ouch! is that garlic?

This is terrible, Holmes, hope it doesn't make me sick'.

Holmes chuckled and brought out his tobacco can.

'I wonder where it came from? Holmes do you have any idea? ' 

“Hum! The Chef trained in Ferrandi, Paris is from South India.'

'Your methods are amazing. How did you deduce that, Holmes?'

'Elementary my dear Watson, I have often ordered at mabaker.in

His food - pies, cakes and desserts are to die for, a heavenly sin

But the gingerbread man can forever and ever stay home.'