By: Sivaprasad. V
They say it’s made in the Heaven
Men tie the knot to make it happen on Earth.
To the disciples of Comte it’s a permanent social legal contract.
The society’s nod for sleeping together.
A few are destined to get their counterpart without much fuss
But many are left with endless wandering to find the perfect match
Has anyone succeeded in that hide and seek game?
The game is on irrespective of the outcome
Two oceans of differences meet and feign that they do ‘live’ together.
They ‘kill’ themselves in the youth for a life of dos and don’ts.
Standing on their own graves they take each other’s hands to ‘unite’.
That sets the tone for the much awaited drama.
Imprisoning the minds, spend they the days together
Excel they each other in pleasing the eager audience
Umpteen years of togetherness do they celebrate in their zombie life.
That is the greatest conundrum.
Each passing moment is of uncertainty
The only certainty is now so close by
The sound of laboured breathing
And fluttering of its wings
Every land is doomed
And every soul is fear struck
Mortals try in vain to delay the inevitable
Who is groping for its victims
Armless in the battle field, the Man stands
Bewildered as to yield or retaliate
His pride is reduced to dust
There is no creed, race or colour to distinguish
Nature’s fury at its worst
Leaving none to bid him farewell
Whose behind can he hide?
As even his gods are unguarded
They spend the days with the little gems
Our kids’ real second mothers
Who dance and sing with them
Live they their dream life in that earthly heaven
Age does not deter them from crawling or hopping
Hesitant are they not to mimic or mime
They judge and mediate; solve and reconcile
Relive they their bygone days of innocence
Givers as well as takers they are
For they take back with them the kids’ repertoire
Their pranks, little jealousies and stubbornness
Even their liking for arguments and murmurings
They like to instruct at length but are averse to the reverse
Basking in past glories, they remain in the race
Sometimes ‘I’ comes out unwarranted
And multiplies into ‘WE’, only to please the self
Progressive are those who despise their own Mother
Speaking ill of Her is freedom to express
Compete they with each other to please Her neighbour
Disowning Her makes them liberals
They feel ashamed of Her ‘primitive’ culture
Wish they to dissolve Her boundaries
Claim they to be the apostles of change
And seem to dream a lawless land
Men of conditioned responses
Dance they to the tunes of their doyens
Who pretend to be the saviours of the oppressed
Seem they to wage war against the social milieu
Though they forget, it is She who makes them progressive
Had they been born in the valleys and deserts of holy death?
They want to rewrite Her past and future
But can they write without the Walls?
The Real and the Unreal
Never in my wildest dreams, I yearned for thee.
Came thou to me as gentle as it could be.
Taught me thou to greet even nature’s smallest blessings.
Learned I from thee to feel and love all of man’s siblings.
Together now we greet the young sun who shines brighter than ever.
Days offer us with plenty of novel things to agree or differ.
Bidding farewell to the glowing moon is our part.
Meet we at nights in dreams which is His tricky art.
In two different social cages we are put in.
Chances of our retreat into ourselves are thin.
Yet we seek to go back to our age of stress and strain.
We breathe the same air and feel the same rain.
Perhaps, we are illusioned by the mirage of love.
In fact, life itself is an illusion that lures us to live.
A tight rope walk between the real and the unreal.
About which we are clueless as we do listen to the reel.