The Legacy

Inside the cupboard lay

the beautiful black bag,

I wondered who made it

It had no name tag.

Not a Gucci, nor Versache

but as fine as those brands,

The stitches were strong

and spoke of fine hands.

It’s not just a bag, said Mom

but an inheritance of love,

Passed on by a lady

to the seeds she sowed.

From Rangoon to Angrai*

she travelled all the way,

Questioned the traditions

and believed in her say.

Battles she had fought

as a mother, as a wife,

Not in the warfield

but in the journey of Life.

As I held the bag

close to my heart,

I realised we are both

playing the same part.

For we, like the bag

are her very creations,

Her success, her legacy

of five great generations.

We are gathered today

as a mark of celebration,

To remember that womb

the source of all creation.

* - Angarai is a village in Tamil Nadu and my late great grandfather’s native. This poem is on my late great grand mother, as a remembrance, a tribute to her legacy, on her 100th birthday.

The flower, my teacher

As the sun rises,

In the virgin sky,

Your petals still closed

Like a bride, so shy,

I ask you dear flower

What's in your mind?

Is it about the tomorrow

That you will never find?

They tell me you live

Just for a day,

Yet like a child,

You are merry and gay.

Tell me your secret

Oh! Beautiful beautiful flower

A day is all you have

Yet great happiness you shower.

You live today

Like there is no tomorrow

Teach me your secret

That will destroy all sorrow.

So lets live for today

This hour, this moment,

For they say, this day

Is a gift, a present.

What's in a cigarette???

Two men in the street
Walk past each other,
Neither friends nor foes
Complete strangers to another.

One, man of the world

You could say by his gait,
The other with shabby clothes
Left his destiny to fate.

The rich man slows his pace

As if searching for some stuff,
Realizes he has the cigarettes
But no lighter to puff...

No gentlemen around him

seem to have a lighter...

Not even a match stick

His luck not so brighter.

Then he sees the other man

with a cigarette in his hand,

now squatting by the roadside

making circular smoky bands.

His vanity beckons him

But not more than a second,

Walking up to the poor man

He asks for a helping hand.

Alas, says the poor man

no more matches with me,

But the one I am smoking

Can light yours, if u agree.

As the ends meet, amber glow

Each inhale the air and let go...

With a satisfied grin,

their eyes meet each other,

As though to say

you’re my nicotin brother

That they were no friends

now one can hardly tell..

They smile, even shake hands

Old differences dispell

Whats in a cigarette

That a stranger becomes friend,

A mere exchange of puff

And all barriers transcend.

A cup of coffee

And cigarette in hand,

Seem to make things work

Than a great magic wand.

Just a couple of minutes

In any smoking zone,

Brings together people

One has never known.

What’s in a cigarette

A simple white roll,

That so many are

under its complete control.