Snake
Early morning in the western ghats
With Ayyapan- a tribal now guide
a dagger in his shoulder bag
sole defence
in a 2 hour jungle trek

feet sinking into brown earth under the tree canopy
fingers caress rough tree bark
part heavy bamboo thickets with berry stained nails
ankles heavy with honeyed morning dew
as ayyapan introduces every tree, flower, paw print , dung even

there coiled , folded into the roots of a banyan tree
a sleeping python, beautiful yellow
savouring wetness,smiling?
under a blanket of dead leaves
resting after a fruitful nocturnal hunt
its content over pouring
embracing us even.
beauty in a snake? Maybe it was beauty of the ancient tree
the lazy streaks of sun corseting it,
and the jungle ablaze in the green fire of monsoon
enchanting streams, fern- fringed, dance to
the lulling jungle music of
the cicada’s rhythmic song and high pitched languor call
And later the sacred spectacle
of elephants tottering downhill, throwing kokum dust,
as the matriarch stood sentinel
holding up her trunk like a sword, deciphering all the scents we threw at her
as we retreat, walking backwards in rapture, in awe.
As our resting place only seconds ago
Is trampled, fondled rather by mammoth feet.
Ayappan saw them with ears- just in time
Soft whispers of breaking branches .
Now over dinner as you recount your Europe trip,
You talk of tulip gardens , quaint villages, serene churches turned to pubs by dawn
like Wordsworth’s Daffodils
snake , you crawl my thoughts
return me to ayyapan’s jungle trail.
Holiday respite distilled into one memory.
Peace: if that is why we travel
Then I found you as a sleeping python in the western ghats.

My Lift Operator’s Onam
My Lift Operator
Was unusually moody ,
a few days away from onam
Otherwise she is dignified with gentle ways
Always with a pleasant smile or word
For me on my busy days
On probing she said” Oh, its just that’s onam,
And alone in my basement chair
iam flooded with memories of happier times
past onams meant a house full of brothers , thier families,
and a courtyard with a welcome flower carpet for mahabali
“ Till an accident wrecked my life , she said
"oh that explained her slouching gait
there are 20 stiches on her face, her eyes has lens implants
her left leg has a steel rod, her elbow she cannot bend
through painfully expensive recontructive surgey her family gave her back her face
her expenses a unending abbyss finalling cut every human bond
Bed ridden for a year, slipping in and out of consciousness
on death's door, orphaned
Jesus walked in
through the tangled tubes and gauze
Stroked her head and said” you will be well”
And I was.”
"head injury, dementia, you might laugh but
it was Jesus , in white dhoti , whiter locks
and i can feel his hand on my head still", she said
“I cant complain”, she mused,
“I lost my life and it was given back to me.
But its onam and I am without a house or a courtyard
To lay out flowers for mahabali”. For a nair matriarch this must be hard,
But for me Mahabali was a long dead king and onam a holiday
To cook vegetarian and shop for clothes.
As I left her there amongst an assortment of bikes
The little stitched up lift operator and her tall sorrow.
Life had shaken her inside out but could not touch her heart
where a selfless banished king still lives, her love for him intact
and even in the madness she knew the sacrifice of the cross long ago
and the benevolence of the bowed trampled royal head- were one
This onam made grim with the U.P riots and Delhi verdict
My lift operator friend , fret not
If jesus of nazereth crossed religions and seas to ease your pain
Mahabali is just a few blocks away and when he visits you
To welcome him don’t bother about the flowers
All the colours of your heart will do .

An ode to the Morning star(Varghese's Batmintion club)

Early mornings are a no for me, Early mornings are alien to me
The July rains are a monstrous lot
Killing the romance of kerala monsoons
Have our once soft rain gods gone rash?
the birds in our neighbours mango tree
sit drenched and call morose wake up tunes
their summer songs forgotten
to the incessant mad melody of falling showers
my sprained right foot
refuses to wake up,, maybe its tendonitis
or an early onset of osteoporosis
or maybe it’s the pain of being abandoned at dawn?
I limp to the cold kitchen to cook common breakfast for a polygonal family
an obstinate toddler, Sibling teenagers who have contrasting tastes
2 senile in laws who audit my idlis and sambhar
with the fervour of certifying agencies and of course a ravenous husband
Breakfast done and lunch tiffins still to pack
and i sprint upstairs to wake my offsprings from slumber
my 4 year old is a curled up into little ball, impossible to unfurl
my teens so lost in their world of dreams to hear my yells
I balance lunch boxes, umbrellas, my little boy and coffee mugs
cajole the kids from bed, maybe with a blow or two
weave a magical story to help my son drink his milk
then suddenly it’s over, the buses arrive and the morning rush is over.
It’s just a few hours but mornings get the better of me
My yells echo in our tiny street, my blood pressure peaks
My neighbours fathom terrible things and my in laws cringe
It’s just a few years I tell myself and my mornings will be calm once again
the cold morning breeze brings in with it my smiling spouse
in his sports gear he is still a boy, far away from the domestic chaos
his world suddenly shrunk , uncomplicated
where anything is possible. triumphant and peaceful
The 2 mobiles lie silent at his side, There is no persuasive marketing talk
For now all the demons of the day are dead.
For now It’s just a bright morning , full of promise
Corporate battle wounds healed . Spirit revived for another day.
morning star, kindly light, shine on
for balding heads need the safe sanctuary of play
a hard fought win ,some friends to taunt
to make light of life and a place to be your own true self.