the inheritance

A choked river,
dead paddy field
and a treasured childhood.


We didn't get the whole river though
Some big guy got it closed off
Slashed it off. The river lies bleeding in our paddy field.


My mother inherited 45 cents of an unwhole river
an eunuch paddy field too flooded to cultivate
15 kms precisely from Infopark- here the earth smells of money.


Iam 38 this year and 30 years ago this piece of land was loved
a welcome river trickled through green paddy during Summer
and during the rains it was left alone.

left wild to dissolve into the river
To sprout the wildest lotues,transluscent dragon flies
a perfect watery perch for long legged storks


I have walked this peice of land then when it smelt and looked like melting chocolate
when planting began and after seen it transformed into an emerald green
and therafter into golden harvest. how could i have missed it, it was truly gold - that hay.


the land changes and people change too.
i have changed but memories stay.
of this sad pool of water and the dead field beneath.

nothing happens just like that. maybe i have been left with this to brood.
not to belt out a mourning song and then just leave. Maybe loved ones in the other world
deliberated that somehow I could hear the pining of the river and the earth

are they telling me to stay unchanged. the winds around seem to know me
they envelope me in a caress. let the river flow again they sing.
let the earth wear emerald once more, let us start anew our search for the real gold.

its 12 midnight.
while day sleeps, the night is awake with windy dreams
lashing on the edge of your conscious
thoughts disconnected falling and then away
softy licking ,softly tingling me in my half-sleep and then dying

and i sit , selfish. Because i thirst a turquoise poetry wave
a lashing of exquisite words. of this world yet not quite
for the day: kills every thought. there is no more perfume in words
maybe it is that the sun in december -scorches dreaminees
cruel sun and added to it- slits in the ozone

nowadays i brood too much on plastics.
depressing activities like garbage sorting occupy too much time
depressing herons sit around the open drainage that flows next door
their long pink beaks beaten down, they fold their majestic wings-hiding them
wary of opening such visual luzury in such darbiness

eleventh hour citizens cannot write much poetry, i guess
we know too much and yet we cling and clutch on to our laziness
the world is crumbling-but slowly. and we hurry on
the herons are dead , the trees mourn silently ,
their cries stretched out from dried branches

so who are you looking for?

didn't you get it yet?
it's you.
one person.
Yes the entire universe, 100 billion people
is you.
look around, above and below
you, you and you.
The people on the bus,
the burka clad muslim woman with her vegetables
is you,
the man who washes your toilet in office is you
krishna is you,
and jesus and allah live in you
you pray to yourself'
you wound yourself
you plot and scheme and cut yourself down
only you.
one person - the voice of the earth
earth spirit alive in you
fine . now you can smile
sit back ,close the book by Vivekananda.
listen. nobody else. its all you.
all of us are one person.
Usain bolt is you, mohamad ali is you
khalil is you
beethoven is you, hilter is you
khayam is you, yesudas is you,
madonna is you, geoge bush is you
obama is you, osama is you.
shiva and brahma is you.

when you light them candles all 38 of them , its for you
when you are asleep
your dreams leave you
creep out of a stuffy world and become everywhere and everyone
its simple now isn't

the howl of the dogs , the sound of rain
is you
life is you. unbroken chain of life within you
all the goodness in you
beauty and sacredness
and every misery too
there is ugliness and that too is you

you have the mysterious key in the palm of your hand
you know it now that iam you and you are me
will you stop searching outside now?
can you look within , because all the answers lie within
you.

and finally -Love

love was never meant to be a poem
for love was above words , a fleeing bird
love can wait, first let me know life

getting to know life takes a lifetime
tasting life was humbling
life rubs you down , changes perceptions

and then you understand that
its all about love
love and life - is one

to love is when you discover
that a God lives in you
multiple limbed, peaceful stone divinity

love helps you reach spritual heights
no sadhu ever thought of
love cleanses your heart , makes a better you

love is no emotion
love is the quiet strenght
love is a giver,

to be loved is a lesser gift
the true treasure is to learn how to love
its a reward and an end

love is a journey within
love is a struggle
and love is a revealation

love teaches you life
and you are happy when your loved ones are too
love humbles you, love teaches you selflessness

love ? what do you gain
true love will gain you a truer self
true love exudes a beauty that difficult to conceal

loose everything to love
and you stand to gain happiness
and a life that is worth

a poem for you life

and finally i fall in love with you
life.
iam all sweet surrender .
This morning i listened to a hindu bhajan
in a telungu
i didn't catch the words but the tone
was an ode to life
the rising and falling of the raagas
and i sang it in heart for you
in the language of a sacred hymn
life.
cant have enough of you
you have spun this web around me
silken and complete
and i am content to be your prisoner
drink me in, life
let me live till iam drained

a world in my belly

being pregnant
is carrying a watr bag in your belly
a blue earth water logged
inside you.
and like the infant
who escapes the water womb
tommorow i will have to puncture a hole
out of the earth into another round thing
and after that another round safer haven
a neverending journey
from one circle to another
leaving one home
bursting this bubble
only to enter another
but iam not complaining
blue delicate bubbles
nurturing and mystical await me
the colours diminishing
fading
pointing to a transluscent state
from red hues to blues
to snowy hues of clouds
and we breaking out of one watery state
into another state of matter
there is no easy escape
malleable us, entering one door
and exiting another
temporary spaces -this world

i nearly lost my url

i nearly lost my url
itsmayahere.blogspot.com
iam writing different things
so far away from starry nights,
summer nights, grasshoppers
far removed from poetry
i write about enginnering software
every morning when i drive to work
at the corner before the second traffic light
i catch a brief glimpse of a patch of bromstick blooms
i dont know what they are called
but its the grass that they make brooms with
but they are so perfect when they stand in the sun
not meshed together in a corner of your room
their softness melting me a little
and i dream of writing poetry
that used to come so easily
without effeort from my fingertips
imagine the songs that flow
without sound , straight from my soul
anyway every even as we turn the corner
the bromstick flowers corner
my fingers dry,my song unsung
for months its been like that
could never weave a song for the broomstick flowers
but tonight the song flows out of my heart
and my hands are heavy with words
once more
and i can dance on the keyboard again
and what about the broomstick flowers's special song
you ask
and i will say sheeh for now
its enough to let the music flow

where nature is a malayali girl .

come to kerala
for the rain festival.

pack an umbrella
and rubber footwear
your cotton shorts
book your ringside seats
in my balcony
i will organise
beachchairs
lemon tea
feed you roasted groundnuts
thin gruel with cooked lenthil
with grated coconut

if you impress the mother in law
she will fix you
tapioca and red fish curry
and i can smuggle in some
authentic local toddy
inside cola cans.
while we watch the coconuts-tree-dance
"possessed" with the all the devils
of the monsoon winds.

those of you
who like adventure tourism
can stay for the evening
thunderstorm and pshychedilic lightning
the scared ones can keep my daughter
and our little dog company downstairs
where Daddy can give you updates on
the current dirty political game

watch the rain with me
come huddle
say nothing
dont move
watch the blessed rain
and let the wicked sores
of summer heal


when was the last time
you admired a perfect puddle?
the garden hibiscus , the mango tree
the azure sky, the shivering crow
thrown into a magical mirror
fallen from the sky, unbroken still.

listen to the rush of rainwater
hurrying by the roadside
paper boats, twigs, dry leaves
all of the summer's sweat
this music of flowing water
soothing cool music
will play on far into the night

and you can sleep in the children's room
all four windows open
fanned to sleep
by rain angels.
you will drink
sweet monsoon night air
in your sleep and i promise you
you will dream of rainbows.

if you wake up early enough
we can go for a morning stroll
listen to the dripping sound
of rain slipping off my garden plants.
its rain festival in kerala .
and nature is this malayali girl
with jasmine buds on her wet mangled tresses.

my daughter sitting
On my shoulder
munching hot groundnuts
from a newspaper cone
I walked the temple grounds.

“trissur pooram”
a haze of colours
a symphony
so perfect
laid out for gods
gods craved from granite
some from gold.

The sun lost his luster
To the ornamented elephants
29 docile beasts.
Mammoths make me a little edgy
but then this music
infectious rhythm of the drums
That played a tune some centuries old,
The crowd was of the earth
No sophisticated airs
And it was so easy to join in
Point out the which one was “Ramasway”
And “Vasu”,
we beat invisible drums
Roared when the krishan Umbrellas were hoisted
Our hearts Washed by the music
Made pure by worship


The music was so heavenly
The golden haze reflected from the
Elephants’ ornaments magical
The pooram lovers so simple
It was enough I guess to melt
The granite and golden hearts of idol gods
I came away my heart melting
Like the sea
With waves
And a rainbow.

I don’t know when I breathe my last
But I pray.play me these drums then
And let me die with smell of the pooram grounds
Let me die with thoughts of God
And simple people, sweet music and
And an evening sky full of colourful umbrellas.

this april

dear stephen hawkings,

this april or is it june
i hear you are going to space.
uncrumple , sir
without your wheelchair
and float

know weightlessness for me
this earth is grown too heavy
so stay away awhile
like a jecko cling on the walls
of your spaceship

while washing the dishes
i leave the windows open
to gaze up at the stars
and i think of you floating free
somewhere among the stars

i wish i could come too
oh just for a week.
help around with some chores
dust the hubble maybe
hold your hand for space walk

spacecrafts have glass roof, dont they?
drifting off to sleep huddled by galaxies
seems perfect for a holiday.
we could watch the earth from afar
they say she's beautiful from out there

you without your wheelchair
me of deliquent mind
off on a holiday
with stars and floating
and weightless thoughts.

sleep well, grandfather.

we were all there
at St Mary's yesterday
to remember you
its been seven years
of living without you.

at st mary's i can
never pray.
instead i stand and stare
at the domed ceiling
and see if the painted stars are still intact

the sunlight through the stained glass
the gold engraved scupltures at the altar
Fresco of heaven on the right
towering above the choir
Gabriel with the flaming sword , cherubs at his feet

black bulls
satan and his darkness
contours of sin
fire and the twelve winged lucifer
all spliced together on my left

i muse over Seraphs
hierarchies of angels
the softness of the cloulds on the wall
strain to trace the "M" on the last supper
run my fingers over the lifelike grapes on vines

and at your grave we lighted small candles
lay flowers from our garden on your tombstone.
i wonder if you made it to heaven past Gabriel?
are you an angel in white dhoti?
do you teach history and author grammar texts still?

a few old students ,2 classmates from MCC
your brother and his family
your son and daughter,all your grandchildren
your immediate nieghbours.
a measly crowd.

we stood awhile head bowed .
as we left your side,all of us crying.
even your son in law.
its been only seven years
another seventy and yet we will feel your loss.

heavens may exist only on frescos
painted inside church walls.
its a long reach anyway, this heaven.
Appachan, for now its enough that we are all here today.
sleep well.

another morbid birthday poem

death whispers, i am no stranger to that.
when leaves fall from my garden plants
unsung death.

when raindrops innocently meet the ground
rain dies.
every sunset.death smiles softly.

i know its death
but then its only whispers.
but lately death has started shouting.
today morning at the wheel
death shouted at me

and yesterday
while cutting leftover meat for my dog,
unfortunate blood.

and iam scared
at night
as i watched my kids
drifting off to sleep

it was a funeral night
i dreamt loved ones
being lowered to the ground eyes shut
death claiming them
forever.

death licks at my feet
for now
i ignore them

morbid birthday thoughts about death

to die
is when life melts into colours
and then you will find me in the first monsoon rain
for i will be the dewdrop an youngster finds
amid the fresh green grass

might be if i have luck enough
i will be the blue
of the summer sky
and i'll be the black of a moonless night
that makes the stars seem brighter still.

holiday

unplanned vacation in an bird resort offseason
Husband and his best friend
guzzling beer from a single bottle singing
Out of tune to dire straits
from the car stereo
while their women
carefully try to lay their limbs
between 5 rowdy kids
and a dozen bottles of cold beer
lovingly wrapped in newspaper

there no migratory birds this season , sir
the boys at the reception smile at my binoculars,
camera and Salim Ali guide
and the Swamps are forlon graveyards
for rotting river weed.
No ergets only cows
knee deep in chocolate mud frisking tails,
and lonely unused canoes
abandoned till August end.

the flamboyant Periyar
reduced to a trickle
but a trickle is enough
for 2 middle aged men
to prance around in underwear
children like little hippoes
roll around in the soft riverbed mud
catch small fish to keepin beer bottles.

afterwards indulged in building bridges
"little Hanuman" inspired first from rocks
and then with Truimphant coconut branches
we were cradled
on all sides with majestic blue mountains
thin waterfalls streaming down
(like melting icecream, said my son )
we took a walk on the dried up swamps
made a bounqet of the lotus flowers
explored shady coves among the rock ridges
with dragon flies
collected slimy snails
to return to find the men
buried in mud
which maybe was the latest ayurveda fad
but i guess its mainly the beer

we heard rain.
cloudbursts on the mountain tops
we sat resigned in our waterhole
the hotel room a few civilisations away .
headbowed giving in.
the children ecstatic.
the adults overcome.
the swamp horded with mynahs,
local cranes and wagtails
and after the rain
we were strangely refreshed
cleansed.
and the men suddenly sober.

20% reduction for deluxe rooms
because it was off season
Nature threw in a rainbow
or maybe half over the skyline
as we drew away
this time the men
in the back trying
to build a convincing argument
on why fish couldn't live in beer bottles for ever.

the schoolteacher

dear Manju,
or man juju , the name you called yourself when you were 10
the princess from the himalayas
who sometimes visited our house in the guise of my sister
mostly when the refridgerator was loaded
who gulped down our offerings of coca cola and icecream
i was 9 and brother was 7.
and we were overwhelmed with the stories of snow and snow leopards
and black magic.

you loved football, arm wrestling and WWF
at 13 you became famous in school
when you said you wanted to be Prime minister
in your english composition.
do you still have your Bible
the one you won for "Best Allrounder"
(the front page i scribbled my name next to yours
and you bit me and i had to have a tetanus shot)

you taught us to pray
when papa was sick
and we knelt three times a day
for rosary . and brother always slept in between
for you insisted on reading all the pslams
you hated Paul, said he wasn't a feminisit
and then you buried yourself in Tolstoy
Shakespare, wordsworth
tHE PRUDE period
when you went by the book. all the rules of road.

your teenage was brutal.
because of your uncommon beauty
you were not allowed to play football with the boys
no more treeclimbing. no cycling
everyone fell in love with you
the young tution sir wrote plays with you in it
and after you joined the women in the fields for harvesting
toiling with the farmhands
you became the village diety

in college you learnt to fly
and to fall.
you broke every rule in the book
a communist
an atheist .
like oscar wilde's flute
you played every tune.
flippant.
somewhere around here
i lost my sister and gained a friend
We shared the same hostel room and souls

you didnt make it.
didn't become prime minister.
you didn't write any book.
but its nice to see you
in church sometimes.
its nice to see you all organised
and last weekend at the resort
i saw your student running upto you
and how you smiled on him
full of love
i am sure you will listen to him
accept him for all he is
nurture his dreams
never once breach his trust.

i am sure you will encourage them to question
every rule
but will still point out the right direction
for you had been searching all your life.
and i know you never grade children by test scores
for you have the magic
to see their souls.

i know
for you were my teacher all along

wind from dreams

last night i dreamt a windy dream

a cool night wind balloning from my
dreamy sleep.

stirring the bedspreads
and even my childrens night shirt a little

lifting the curtains even.

i am left with just snatches of my dream

but the wind was blowing so vividly.

that i can still feel pleasant mountain air

we were living in hills and valleys

and there were pretty wooden fences

my neighbours (from once upon a time)

were calling out

their faces happy though sleep-veiled

their tresses unruly

and the wind

carrying their happy voices to the valleys and behold

and i felt so light.

suddenly after so many months

standing there in the wind

and i remember

a sudden realisation when i woke up

i must be terrible unhappy otherwise

so angels, send me more windy dreams

make me smile in my sleep

ambition at 33

my ambition at 33
is not gandhi. not van gogh. but close.
is not to write poems. sweet like street blues jazz.
with an inner understanding so that i can write like solomon
about"vanities of vanities"

nowadays i am trying to be like a potted plant
dont laugh. honest. a tree, a creeper
an anthurium in the sun.
holding my one single flower like a prayer
be one of the paddy people. live in the marshes
and wet places.

my ambition at 33 is to learn to speak fluently
the language of flowers
beautiful fragrance. mute
straightforward conversation. flawless.
my tongue.a big purple flower.
honeyed, but not in your face
only bees and butterflies would listen

my ambition at 33
(sorry papa)
is to understand silence
listen. always. like the coconut palm.
learning to nod my head. in affirmation.
know that the taller you grow the more shade
you need to live behind.
learn to share my shadow.

to learn to stand up like garden plants.
always like life is too sacred to sit down
life is too passionate, too worthy of respect
that one cannot lie down , even for a second.

my ambition at 33 is to be a creeper, grow translucent twines
cling on to my near ones, grow into thier lives
hold on to bonds. lest i grow complacent.
to grow roots . deep inside into the soil thats my country
and hold together my family, my language and customs
my brethen.
to marinate in life's joys and sorrows. alike.

come away

“For sale
Estate :2 acres of rubber, teak and coconut with a house (Tiled roof )in good condition.
Location: Muvattupuzha, kerala”

Said an ad in the folds of the morning paper, just this morning
And I feel I have bought the place already

And I can feel the rain already
The rain falling on my house with the tiled roof

And the soft peaceful pillows of smoke that float out of rustic chimneys
Slow smoke that tell you not to rush,

And my hands . they can feel the rough bark of the trees already
My hands are tired of touching keyboards,steering wheels and such

And I can taste the sweet milky morning tea I will sip
Sitting on the steps of the verandah waiting for the sun to come out from the trees.

And I can hear the calling from the cows already
All five cows and a calf , calling from the hills around


(this city does not have hills enough
this city does not have calves
this city does not have paddy fields to hold july rains
this city does not have the crickets song)

and oh that ? that’s me under the huge cashew nut trees(the estate will have cashew nut trees of course)
picking fallen red orange yellow fiery fruit

trees with low bouncing boughs near my feet
and I take the swinging stairway. up high

and I can hear only the thunder for iam under the blankets with my son and daughter
whispering .

the mango tree is on fire. Fallen from lightning
but its okay. See the cows are quiet. Its safe.

And I know my farmhands already
A man and wife who will tend to each bittergourd flower like their child

And they talk to their cats and they will weep hugging the bark of the trees
They wont say much,and I don’t expect them to.

But don’t be surprised if the man walks in at dusk
With sleeping orphaned baby squirrels in his shirt pocket

And I will have a fallen coconut tree bridge made
So my neighbour can walk across and have tea once a week

And I know what I will speak. About the thunder and the fallen mango tree
About the harvest and about the pepper prices

And my son and my daughter . I can see them run to school, after they feed the cows
And bathe in the stream. Barefoot with the lunch wrapped in banana leaves.no books

No books . only we will read Tennyson while watering the plants
And the rest they can learn of the land.

Oh I didn’t tell you about the stream? We discovered it by accident.
I can hear the paddling in Banana tree canoes.

The crumble of the dried leaves , the wild berries and the rabbits we will catch
The green shiver of moss after it rains , the mushroom patch

(You see, this city doesnot have mango trees
no frogs, no grasshoppers
this city does not have gooseberry trees
this city is never mine)

I saw the ad just this morning and I have fled
to a house with a tiled roof among trees.

free

free.

#a poem addressed to you

I am writing you a poem
on a thursday morning
sitting in my cubicle

i have some work piled up,a few mails to read
my little daughter has sty,
i need go home early

but these words are tossing and turning
within me, i feel them sit sulking in my chest
heavy, weighing me down

sir, are you the one who planted bombs?
and are you sitting at home today,drinking coffee,
sprawled out. relaxing after a job well down.

surfing channels,smiling as you answer the phone
your boss is mighty pleased i guess
and maybe you've made some dough

or maybe you are walking amidst corpses,
bundles of white.Carefully stepping over the bits of flesh
listening to the broken cries, breathing it in.

yeah, there are pools of blood,brains spilling out
that? oh it just some piles of limbs
did you see the faceless people,the mangled torsoes stacked up.

listen. its just the mourning,some are bitter cries,
oh! to hear the silent ones, place your hand
over some heaving hearts

yes. you got us this time.you've briused our soul.
gruesomely blown up our fathers,mothers,sons and daughters
made widows. orphaned our young.


you have our tears.take our hoarse cries too.
our anger and our anguish
take them with you.

take it to your home.
lay it on your wounds
and see if they heal.

our cries will return to you every night
before you drift off to sleep
and your dreams will be about faceless people

if you did this for money,
your abode will carry the stink of blood
your drawing room will echo with cries of anguish

and we?
we will bury our dead. we will mourn.
we will be filled with righteous anger.

we will grow stronger. heal.