The sun rose gently, soft and warm,
But the house feels quiet, missing her charm.
Eid mornings filled with light and grace,
Now hold echoes of her smiling face.
She'd sit by the door, hands soft and old,
A shawl wrapped tight against the cold.
Her eyes would shine with joy anew,
As we lined up, eager for what we knew.
A crisp ten-rupee note, folded with care,
Slipped into our hands with a loving stare.
To the world, it was small – just a simple bill,
But in our hearts, it holds value still.
We’d run and laugh, feeling so grand,
That tiny treasure safe in hand.
To her, it wasn’t the amount she gave,
But the love and blessings that she saved.
Now Eid arrives, but she’s not here,
Her absence is sharp, yet love draws near.
I close my eyes and I can see,
Her gentle smile, watching over me.
The ten rupees may fade away,
But the memories will always stay.
Her kindness lingers, soft and deep,
A love eternal, ours to keep.
So as we gather, side by side,
We know she’s with us, full of pride.
And every Eid, in hearts and prayer,
We found our great-grandmother there.
A dealer of drugs
With immense wealth
Was chosen as president
Of a meeting
commemorating the foundation day
Of a local club
by its office bearers.
As the meeting concluded
He announced a donation
Of rupees ten thousand
In cash to the club.
The audience
Erupted in applause.
The poem based on a local TV Disscussion Prgramme.
My Pooja samagri
1 cock alive
2 loban
3 15 pats of madira
4 bold head and shave
5 lemon 9
6 three eggs
7 Karpoor and New colour gulaal
8 sandal wood etar
9 dakshina 5678 rupees
10 shishya 501.
The amount should be 5 thousand 56 lakhs or cored depending on problem and for moksha how much you earned Dear
Aghori mhabharamnad
Dr. Jagdish bajantri
Walking, walking, walking!
Impossibly long stretches of walk,
Miles and miles of uncertain journey,
In blazing sun, in sweltering heat,
Tranquil villages with shady trees,
Home, the destination!
Thirsty, hungry, bleeding, exhausted!
With fatigued wives and starving barefoot children they trudge,
Little babies hanging like sandbags from their shoulders, they stumble,
Tears dry on children’s cheeks!
Men and women…they walk, walk, walk until their feet can not move an inch further,
Leaving the cities, where they toiled in exchange for a few rupees…day after day, months after months,
Hunched under shanties, with empty rumbling stomachs,
Cruelty is the only language they faced!
Trudge beside railroads, follow tracks,
No buses, no trains, no vehicles,
Only two weary feet to carry them to the destination,
Human bodies plodding with all their might!
It’s the darkest of moonless nights…
A few stars glinting in the somber sky to guide them to safety, or destiny!!!!
Universe seemed calm, and uncaring!
Come Rest, Come Sleep,
Come Death…blood-stained tracks,
Home eluded them for ever!
In November's chill on Rana Mohal's lane,
She showed me a shawl, dreams to attain,
Her last wish lingered, a poignant refrain,
But with 125 rupees, my hands feel restrained.
COVID's cruel grasp in GMC Doda's embrace,
Snatched her away, leaving an empty space,
Two cherished shirts I sold with a heavy heart,
To honor her wish, a fragile start.
Wrapped in that shawl, morning's pale light,
Clings to my half-dead soul's fading sight,
I breathe, yet the question echoes, unkind,
Why persist in this world, a heart confined?
Her love lingers, a tranquil sleep's embrace,
But my nights echo, devoid of solace or grace,
No one to rouse, no gentle voice to say,
"Kya kar ra ho?" in each lonely day.
I exist in the shadows of memories past,
Aching to make each moment last,
Yet her absence weighs, a burden I bear,
In a world devoid of her tender care.
In this solitary existence, I strive to survive,
Aching heart, wounded, yet somehow alive,
But in every breath, in each moment's glow,
I carry her wish, her love, her enduring glow.
Mum:Who have you taken after??
Your father wasn't selfish like you..
Nahil:I have taken after Uncle Supari..
He is selfish as well...
He doesn't give 22 crore rupees Zakat..
He spent his money on his luxurios life...
Uncle Supari cannot give his money for
the welfare of Pakistan...
Mum:Nahill Nahill Nahil..
Nahil:Shut up you aged & Jahil....
There is no use of crying over spilt milk...
Yesterday morning, I came out of the Temple,
A lady with proper identification wanted donation
For a charitable home and I gave her Rupees 50,
I told her about my retired status and took out 50,
After seeing inside my purse she wanted hundred,
I gave her as many have given more than fifty
And if I had put fifty, all might follow the same,
While going to another Temple, I scanned her act
And finally for the sake of kids, I justified my act
And in the evening when I went to a shop,
Where I gave my books to be sold, to buy paper,
He said one of my English books got sold
And gave me Rupees Hundred and I was surprised
To know how God planned to compensate kindly
As those books were with him for three months
And today I got an amount that I donated kindly!
This morning too
clouds are dominant
water drops on
window glass
On the lake-bank
sits a grey kite
eyeing for the
fish to jump
There on road
a basket on head
filled with guava
of a young boy
Eighty rupees a kg
he might sell it
in the raindrops
a pink face
The sari is still wet
what would wear she
does the rain know
Jamuna is sullen
symbol of power, arrogance, conceit,
currency that transmits fraud and deceit,
once it had value that was backed by gold
the fiat’s value has dropped many fold,
does not hold value printed on its face,
with growing inflation in losing race,
Do not fool yourself with what’s in your bank,
in savings devalues like leaking tank,
tries to stand taller than Pound or Rupees,
one day it will be brought down to its knees,
future of true money lies in bitcoin,
one day it will kick dollar in the loin,
non centralised and has real value,
a blockchain ledger so long overdue,
forget dollar, fiat that is printed,
invest in bitcoins, clever maths minted!
Written 11/06/2021
hon mention
Dollar poetry contest
A Biaanco sponsored
10 syllables each line PS syllable counter
Model Town had a cinema a long, long time ago
It used to cost us ten rupees to see a picture show.
Cowboy films and comedies, cartoons and pathe news
And intervals in between for us to visit the loos.
A two-hour show on weekday nights with three on Sundays
Friday was a day of rest when we would go to pray.
And theirs many a model town couple who met beneath its roof
Fell in love and married, which only goes to prove.
That when the television came and the old cinema had to go
Model Town lost a way of life and not just a picture show.
My words have failed me.
I sacrificed my name to public records and statistics,
it never existed in Bold,
I sacrificed my voice to Times Old Indian
I wrote my revolution but in a language that doesn't belong to me so I shaped my tongue in twisted Italics
I forgot to underline the important phrases in letters I wrote to my family far far away
so they forgot the importance of loving and bargained it with a money order of 2000 rupees.
My spellings have been treacherous to me since I was 12,
My teacher corrected me when I wrote living instead of loving.
I'm 20, I know the difference.
I have lived a lot.
I have bargained living for loving.
This man begging for years on railway
Some rupees and cents earning everyday
He is blessed with two pretty daughters
He has to carry them on his back like a porter
Two cars and two houses now he belongs
To go for one more house his dream along
All people roaming at homes taking life honey
Learn this man and go out to earn money!
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY : XV & XVI
XV
IF ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Treasury Secretary
I'd outlaw all big-time " companies " who beg for money
Especially those who beg in the name of the Almighty
I'd write virulent circulars on how to cajole Him through litany
To wheedle trillions of dollars euros yuans rupees throughout Eternity
That is, if ever I were the Treasury Secretary
And even if I never ever had no country
XVI
IF ever I had a country
And if ever I were the Minister of Finance
I'd make every charitable organization head dance
On a tight rope stretched from here to comeuppance
For wasting nearly all what we give them on bribes penthouse mags and stamps
And take them on a tour of the streets and hovels littered with hungry children and tramps
That is, if ever I were the Minister of Finance
And even if I never ever had no country
© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 5, 2018
Pounds, Dollars, Rupees, Yen
Time to stop this if we can
Impossible, I know but still
When money rules, it’s all downhill
Euros, Pesos, Shekels, Krone
What the evidence has shown
Happiness does not equal wealth
Dividends do not foster health
Francs, Rubles, Riyals, Rand
How much more now can we stand
The quest for riches overtakes
Killers, liars, cheats, it makes
Love, kindness, fancy free
That’s the currency for me
A pound of friendship, worth its weight
There’s no cost to aggregate
A mere carrying never makes a mother.
A gynecologist
observes soft
feminine rhythms
on a monitor.
Currency conceals compassion.
Hospital sweeper
carries remnants
of a plastic love in
his black bucket.
His squint-eyes
are conditioned.
Pulses pause
unnoticed in the
bucket. Just two
hundred rupees
bury his conscience.
He seeks shelter in
a dark arrack bottle.
It’s a cold-blooded
secret that people
seem not to see.
Abortion is an accepted murder.
First printed in issue #16 of The Literary Hatchet(Pear Tree Press, US)
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