The World unbalanced

 A thought,

between sunshine, and the dark,

desolation,

or a spark,

of hope,

and tomorrow,

or heartbreaks, and sorrow,

Of friends, and foe's,

the High's and low's,

decadence, harrow,

downtrodden,

and narrow,

Of haste,

and waste,

or expensive tastes,

Of Damnation,

or a morsel,

snatched from Dog's,

Of Pioneer's,

and Premier's,

Haughty, callous,

Of Beggary,

The Noble,

The Rich,

the unjust,

The poor,

the broken,

The Farmer, weeping at the sky,

Rain Gods who couldn't be appeased,

This time,

The unending vanities, ever growing,

There is a timeline,

to every treasured trove,

to every enchanted grove,

and the pulse in the throbbing vein,

Be not Vain,

On elevated pompous designation,

Every mountain must crumble,

One day,

as did Pompei,,

Caesar,

Napoleon,

Hitler,

Amin,

The entire lot.

came from nothing,

and receded,

into naught,

A sincere, thought,

thus,

plagues, my mind,

and to share, is my intent,

for true awakening,

for comradery,

brotherhood, and human kindness,

which are Godly virtues,

and thus,

must be allowed to flow...

The wordsmith- sometime in the year 2020.

Hope.

 Weary,

dusty, and tired,

of frivolous bondages

of Mankind,

unheard, unspoken,

unsaid,

I wearily seek,

strength,

an anchorage,

sure, strong,

I pray, once more,

as i do,

everyday,

Seeking firm ground,

beneath my feet,

I beseech,

Beg,

Implore,

yet, succor, there is none, anymore.

Loyal and trusted,

stabbed my back,

Loyalty, sold, traded like a commodity.

I pray,

amidst stumbling feet,

for strengthened nerve,

for people to be of loyal stuff,

I look heavenward,

Whisper a feverent requiem,

for an opportunity to make it to shore,

to a warm hearth,

and childlike sleep,

rest and healing,

for courage,

and strength,

towards journey's more.

5th July- 2018

Julie- The pet Tigress

 The North East part of India, even today boasts of dense jungles, and impenetrable deep, dark forests, lined with Creepers, trees, lianas, bush and thick forests, and teeming with wildlife. This is despite the changes of economic growth, development etc, as in tune with this day & age, therefore one can imagine, just how isolated, and wild the places would have been at the turn of the 19th century, in the Tea Estates of Assam.

The Britishers, who were the first Tea Planter's of Assam, hailing from England, settled down to a life fraught with dangers, malaria, wild animals, isolated from the mainland, their own people, and to live in a country where language, the weather, everything was completely opposite to what England was.

many an Englishman, was an avid hunter, some went on to keep exotic pets, like Tiger's, Leopards, various kind of smaller wildcats, some married into the local population, the Adivasis, and even had children, who were given the choice to return to England, after India's Independence. A bare few did go, but didn't like it there, they were , looked down as inferior, those that stayed in india, went on to live simple lives, and married within the Adivasi community.

This story was shared with me as a child, may years ago, by three Nanny's, or Ayah's as they were called, the difference was that one swore it was a Tigress, another was sure that it was a Leopardess, the third believed this was two separate tales, of similar occurrence's, one involving a Tigress, and another involving a Leopardess..

I don't know if this is a true story, it's an old tale, and deep in my heart, i wish this be a true story, as i'm sure, would you, once you've read it.

The early sixties, a Manager (Burra Sahib- as they are called in the Tea Estates), had a pet Tigress, called-Julie, based on sheer size, and owing to the fact that she was well looked after, Julie, was a Terror of the Burra Sahib's bungalow, few dared to enter, despite the fact that Julie, was by nature, an overgrown kitty, with no malice towards anyone Human.

Every Christmas, the Burra Sahib would throw a lavish party, which continued well into the next day, as Christmas for the Christians is a much awaited time for rejoicing & letting their hair down, with delectable foods, and copious amounts of free flowing liquors to wash the food down.

The Head clerk Mukherjee Babu, was a man who shook at the very mention of Julie, there had been instances of him fainting, and on occasion bawling at the sight of the Tigress, in the past.

This year, the Burra Sahib, had devised a plan to lead Mukherjee babu, to a centrally located room, where, upon cue, the handler of Julie would lead the Tigress into the room, while the exit gates - other doors, would be closed, bolted from the outside, just to have fun at the cost of the poor man, his hysteria was to be a joke for everyone.

So, the day arrived, food was piled on plates, and the moods were high, aided by the spirits that flowed unchecked, Mukherjee babu, having been reassured, Julie was tied up, and caged at the back of the bungalow, had let his guard down, and was too, in good cheer & high spirits.

While the guests, one after the other, on some pretext or another, went about, leaving Mukherjee babu, alone in the bid Bedroom, the doors, bolted from the outside, while the french glass windows, behind which the spectators, giggled, and waited for the final act, the Tigress to be brought into the room, with Mukherjee babu.

The Horrific plan was in play, Sure enough, a Tiger walks into the room, alone, un leashed, no handler, just the Huge feline & Mukherjee babu, babbling incoherently, praying, pleading, crying for help, yet frozen, unable to run, transfixed, on the bed, the blood fast receding from his face, leaving him ashen, pale, the Tiger snarling, tail twitching...

Amidst peals of laughter, from the outside, the spectators bent double in splits of laughter, The handler and Julie, enter, thru another door,  Leashed, to a chain, there are now two Tiger's inside the room, within seconds, the place is hysterical, everyone manages to get Mukherjee babu, Julie, the handler, to an adjacent room, bolted now from the inside, while a wild Tiger growls, spits, and calls, a deep aaaoon, aaoon...

The people locked inside the room, settle down for a long long night, between the calls of a wild tiger outside, serenading his lady love Julie, with frightening songs of love, passion, which none of the people inside found pleasing.

Plaintive love songs from a wild Tiger, to Julie, whose scent had led the male into the Bungalow, the serenade lasted till the afternoon, the next day, when word got out, and laborer's, beating drums, pans and tin plates, armed with bows and arrows, managed to drive the Tiger away.

A taste of one's own medicine, i guess.

Mukherjee babu,  retired thereafter, the city of Calcutta was more to his liking, away from the Tiger's and their Love songs, apparently. Julie, continued to lead a happy life, in the Tea Estate of Assam, and her story stays alive, told to eager children, by their Nanny's to this day.

Wordsmith..

The business of Life & Death- an ode to the Hospital

 ICU, is potent,

Ripe.

A surge and ebb of tides,

the flow of people tween this mortal world,

and the other side,

the exchange is constant,

incessant, 

ceaseless,

I see strangers, united, in a singular solidarity,

a unity of their miseries,

Misery, is a great leveller,

any difference of opinions, outside these transient portals, 

walls,

loses its veracity here,

for here, Pain and suffering are absolute Monarchs,

Monarch's that suffer no fools,

Over time, everyone accepts,

by the hands that write,

fate,

This was written, was fated,

never expected, but decreed,

Some pull through, 

with a few scars,

as death laughs, at the lucky one,

"Tis not yet your time"

" we will meet again, surely, someday".

While, those less fortunate,

Succumb,

The monitors, and frequent beeps,

are silenced,

a few light flash, signaling the end,

"Bed number 2, gone" they say, 

Listless,

every limb sucked dry,

Of that ancient elixir,

called Life.

No silent tears, no time,

for a whispered adieu,

"Why dwell on the past, Usher in the new,"

"Its Business, and we're open", 

And,

A slew of people, are in the que,

Hastily, the remains of the recently deceased,

Are covered, and whisked away,

and,

Another Patient rolls in,

Amidst groans, and moans,

and tears.

"Its Business, and we're open", they say,

I whisper a silent prayer,

for my Mother there,

I am solemnly reminded,

there are other's here too,

Abysmal fate,

A foreign tongue, screams in agony,

a young girl from the cradle of Humanity,

Africa,

Her folks try to hush her, comfort her,

She whimpers acceptance,

The bed next to her,

Mr. Islam,

Liver almost dead,

Heart with issues,

Kidneys, dysfunctional,

Hands tied to his bed,

For, he fidgets,

Pulling open, catheters, 

Pipes, and tubes,

A lad next to him, early twenties,

Screams in delirious convulsion's,

Face, Ribs, Forehead,

a mess,

A head on collision,

Daredevilry, or worse,

Aged Parents look on, helpless,

Sigh's, tears..

Silently cursing the decision,

to give him a Motorbike,

Still,

There's more,

To this pathetic tale,

So much more,

I see them all,

And pray equally,

for all,

One cannot be selfish, in a place thus littered,

with Humanity's rise and fall,

Pitfalls,

The Comings and goings of Men,

Some Hardened,

Some wizened,,

Some, unrelenting,

A constant mess.

The floor Below houses the Infants,

Pink hands and feet,

Mewling little Angels,

Covered in the softest of wool,

I see them, 

and silently say,

"Welcome"

" would you be the one to change the world, and make it a better place?"

I get no answer,

Only a set of beautiful eyes,

On a most cherubic face,

Chuckle, gleam, Twinkle,

at me, 

" Wait", she says,

" I am a surprise"..

In hope we are all tied,

Between the latest victory,

or,

the last tragedy,

So much,

And nothing really,

Depends on whether you feel,

or don't,

Conditioning of the soul,

Battered by circumstances, we learn,

Anyways,

Fret not,

"Its just business, and we're open, Waiting for you."

"whether inbound, or outbound, We, are the portals between this World,

and the netherworld".

Poignant writes the pen,

Poised,

Hissing like a viper,

a Sabre, singing it's way,

to delivery justice,

or,

a crime.

Poignant writes the Pen,

belittling the silly world of Men,

They call themselves Giants,

yet, cannot control their own comings & goings,

This world, there are many that need Succour,

God's touch,

maybe a human touch..

Change is sometimes, too much.

The Wordsmith - September 2021-

is potent,