My Daddy, the star maker

In the cold, dark, starry night

One brightly winks down at me,

I know he’s a star up there,

That’s my dear ol’ dad, you see.

He was the best star maker

While down here on earth,

Made one every year at Christmas

To herald the new King’s birth.

Hung up high on our rooftop

This bright white star was lit,

For folks all around it shone

Like a beacon in the seashore mist.

A week ‘fore Christmas they arrived,

Two long green bamboo poles,

One would become the star,

To hold it up, the other one’s role.

Dad sharpened, he measured, he cut,

And smoothened, laid out and bound,

His workplace a mess of sorts,

Tools and sticks all strewn around.

He worked magic on the green shoots

Bending them at points to converge,

Crisscrossed this way and that

Till a star from them would emerge. 

And when the framework was done

He held it for us to see,

Five pointed, it stood stout and tall,

Taller even, than my siblings or me.

Then the star was handed to us

With white tissue and homemade glue,

Four pairs of hands, Dad’s watchful eye,

Silver paper and squabbles few.

Oh, those were happy hours indeed!

When the lumpy glue got in our hair,

When sticky fingers marked the walls,

And Mom sighed in silent despair.

When we bickered ‘bout who did it best

As paper was torn and patched and glued,

And the smells of baking filled the air

While the carolers gently crooned.

Then it was ready, our patched paper star,

And we ran in calling out to Dad,

The smile on his face, the light in our eyes,

This was true Christmas, this what we had.

That night we dreamed of a white Christmas

While Dad took out his magic wand,

In the cold frosty morn, our beautiful star,

Lo, with no tears or patches we found!

It sparkled and shone in the morning light,

The silver trim softly glinting,

The white tissue stretched tautly

It’s tasseled points faintly rustling.

We scrambled up all four(s) to the rooftop,

Shimmying through branches, up handy trees,

Grazed knees, sore fingers unheeded,

Today our star would sway with the breeze.

Inside the star Dad fixed a light

Then hoisted it up the bamboo pole,

We hovered around as he pegged and tied

Eager to help, with our heart and soul.

Returning down to the lawn once again

We gazed up at our bright new star,

And silently prayed in our young hearts

It would guide the three wise men from afar.

On Christmas eve Dad threw the switch

And our star lit up white and bright,

Our faces glowed in it’s encircling halo

As we sang “Silent Night, Holy Night”.

Summer of twenty sixteen

                                                                   

The Toad in the pot 

Similar to a frog in the well?

Well, that’s just an outlook. This one was for real.

I discovered it by accident one day; it was camouflaged so well, in a pot with blackish wet soil that was home to a Christmas tree. It was home to Toady too, as it snuggled deep into the soil. It was clearly comfortable in it’s own skin….black and ugly with warts all over and beady eyes that opened halfway when it sensed movement near it’s home.

It slept through the hot summer days, exultantly opening it’s eyes only once in the early afternoon when the gardener watered the pot.Then it puffed up, shifted weight and snuggled deeper into the gooey mud. I could almost imagine it thinking, “Aah! This is life….sheer bliss!”

Late in the evening after sunset it jumped out of the pot, leaving just a huge depression behind. It hopped along the side of the cemented veranda, jumped down the two steps to the lush green lawn and began it’s nightly rendezvous with insects and grubs.

In the morning I would find it back in the pot, in the exact same spot, doing what it did the day before.

I wondered what would become of  it when the monsoon began and the snakes came out. It clearly could not ‘outhop’ any gliding snake. But for now there were no snakes. It was safe and contented in it’s little pot world.

This went on throughout the summer. One day when I looked in, on the Toad in the early evening I was amazed. It was no longer black and grey, but a rosy pink with red warts. Also it was awake. With eyes wide open it was chewing on something black , sticky and disgusting. Moreover the thing was wrapped around parts of  it’s body. Every few minutes it gulped that down and it’s stomach heaved. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that the Toad was moulting. But eating it’s own skin?? That was strange.

I quickly googled ‘Moulting toads’ and found that they did indeed eat their moulted skin. They did it to cover their tracks and recover loss of nutrients.

Well, this one had no tracks to cover but it had lost it’s camouflage. It was now pink and stood out for a mile in the pot with black mud. It was also high on nutrients now. So it stayed put in the pot that night. The crickets and bugs were delighted and buzzed around chirping happily.

The Toad spent the night in the pot regaining it’s strength and colour. By morning it was black, ugly and asleep once more.

In the summer I learned a few things.

The Toad in the pot was not a frog in the well. It explored and knew the world outside the pot. But it also knew it’s limits and returned to it’s damp sanctuary every morning.  It was wise.

It bore the intense summer rays on it’s thick mottled black skin; confident that the skin which was ugly to me was it’s protection. It was contented.

It lived for the day…..and night too. Obviously it hadn’t heard of the fairy tale and expected no beautiful Princess to come and kiss it awake. It did what it was born to do….sleep, eat, live, survive. It was practical.

Jumping up into and hopping down out of the pot was a herculean task for it. The pot was high and the toad was fat. Yet then it did this every morning and evening with a grace that would put many nimble creatures to shame.

The veranda was full of pots. Yet it sensed and returned to the same spot in the same pot every day. It was not only brave but intelligent too.

In fact I almost began to believe that Toady recognised us as his friends. He sensed we wouldn’t harm him and didn’t try to hop away when he saw us.

A few days after the first monsoon showers had delighted us with the petrichor and Toady with the damp outings he so enjoyed…..he disappeared. I never saw him again. I put off imagining that he must have been swallowed by a long brown snake. Instead I dwelt on a fairy tale ending where he met a beautiful "Toadress"  and they are living happily together .

The Old Man and the Tree

In a corner of the shady garden

All by itself it stood,

Bare of foliage or flowers,

Just a gnarled piece of wood.

Too deep in the soil

Were embedded it’s roots,

So they just let it be there

Forgotten, of no use.

All around the garden grew

With weeded lawns and seeded beds,

Painted fences, watered plants,

Blooming flowers and the shapely hedge.

But no one looked at the crooked stump,

Much less even gave it a glance,

Till the old man visited one day,

Stumbled upon it perchance.

“You are old and bent like me,

Do you have a story to share?

Like me have you lived a rich life?

To each other our hearts we could bare.

Thus saying he sat down beside it,

Around the stump his arm did lay,

Put his ear close to the warm wood,

“I’m listening”, he said, “have your say.”

From a distance the gardeners smiled

At the sight of the old man and the tree,

And thinking the old man senile

Decided to just let them be.

Then when the shadows grew longer

To the corner they made their way,

Gently helped the old man to his feet,

Led him indoors, lest he stagger or sway.

That night by the glowing lamplight

Words swirling around in his head,

The old man sat down and wrote

All to him that the tree had said.

It was a long, long time ago,

I was just a few feet tall,

 Slender branches, tender young leaves,

Not yet mature, just green and small.

Everyone took care of me,

Guided my branches as they grew,

A fence of sorts kept away the dog,

In the noon I had water, at night the dew.

With love and utmost care

And the warmth of the brilliant sun,

I grew up tall and strong,

A haven for birds, bees, everyone.

They all came flocking to me,

Morning, noon and night,

To play amongst my branches,

Sometimes to just behold my sight.

And when I sprouted blossoms

Pretty, fresh, whitish, blooms,

They loved me all the more,

 And for the bees I was a boon.

They kept a loving eye on me,

As the blossoms turned to fruit,

Smiled with joy at the ripe globes

To their heart’s content they did loot.

My trunk had loving scars so many

As they etched and drew and scratched,

I have heard their deepest thoughts

In my shade when they have sat.

While on my boughs have hung

Braided ropes with swinging seats,

I have felt the warmth and softness

The climbing by little feet.

But as the years soon passed,

 Little ones the nest had flown,

The swing hung limp and broken,

From my branches the leaves all shorn.

My fruit lay scattered and rotting,

 No one to pick and choose,

Those yellow globes that had once been

Relished by all, none could refuse.

My bark was made a scratching post

By the dog who had his day,

Then the woodworm too attacked my roots

And I began to decay.

Now I lie here, all spent and sad,

And think back to those years,

When I had all and all loved me,

And there was no time for tears.

All I ask is a hand on my trunk

While I slowly breathe my last,

Hearts that thank me for all I’ve been,

Tell me, is that too much to ask?

With tears flowing down his cheeks he wrote,

The sad story of the dying tree,

And then he penned the epilogue,

We share the same story, the tree and me.

WOMAN

She has scaled the mountains,

And orbited the earth,

Trekked in treacherous land,

Gritted her teeth in childbirth.

Touched down safely on runways,

Walked the ramp, tall and confident,

And stormed the male bastions

In sport of stamina and strength.

She has made the rules and laws,

Worn her badges and crowns with pride,

Hiding no more behind veils and tears,

Challenged the world with her stride.

Those arms that soothe a baby,

 Juggle between workplace and home,

Nurse the sick and heal the broken,

Of her kind are millions….she’s not alone.

So gear up, get ready, dear ol’ world,

This is the Woman of the new age,

Accept her, praise her, emulate her,

And……#BeBoldForChange.

Hands that speak

Hands That Speak

Brown, wrinkled, lined hands

Hands with callouses …. Used hands!

Rough, worn and knobbly hands

Hands that are resting ….. Tired hands

They were once smooth

And soft to touch,

With gleaming tips

And rings and such,

Held up for a waltz

Or out for a shake,

Or holding aloft wineglass and cake.

If eyes are the mirror

Of one’s soul,

Its hands that speak

Of the family role.

They softly caressed fevered brows,

And gently wiped a running nose,

They plaited braids & polished shoes,

And tightened bows which became loose.

Those hands they were that washed the pans,

And kept the house all spic & span,

Arranged the flowers in a pretty vase,

In the garden pulled out weeds n grass.

Those hands were magic

That kneaded the dough,

And dished out cookies,

Cakes, puddings and more.

They bandaged knees,

Sewed a button or two,

Found things that were lost,

Helped with projects few.

They clasped and led

Through difficult days,

And soothed and calmed,

And even mended ways.

And lovingly placed a trophy or two,

Up on the shelf, with pride so true.

And when the children

Flew the nest,

Those hands they were

That did their best,

To hide the signs of tears in eyes,

Turn the leaves of an album

and stifle sighs.

Now those tired hands are

Folded in prayer,

Placing all her children

In His loving care,

Long & hard they worked forever,

They are the hands that speak…

The hands of our mother.

Facebook Characters....Which one are you?

                

*THE RIP VAN WINKLE CHARACTER (OWLS)

They sleep most of the time, then suddenly one day they wake up and go into a frenzy…'Liking’ every post and digging deep into a friend's wall. They resurrect long lost, ‘best forgotten’ photos. And you begin wondering why everyone has suddenly started ‘liking’ a picture of yours posted in AD 2005 with that weird outfit and hideous hairstyle.

# They bring in that element of surprise to Facebook.

*THE FAITHFULS (BULBULS)

They don’t post anything by themselves or about themselves. But they faithfully ‘like’ and ‘comment’ on every post of every friend.

#They keep Facebook alive.

*THE SHARERS (CUCKOOS)

They love to share nests….errr posts. They usually don’t share much about themselves. The shared posts keep friends active. You need to type “Amen”, you need to click on links, you need to share it yourself in order to see what it is….

# They keep Facebook active and a happening place to be in.

*THE “HAPPY TO BE ME” ONES (SWANS)

They are genuinely so happy with themselves and their families that they can’t stop proclaiming it to the fb world….through selfies and pictures of themselves and their families…..what they ate, where they went, what they saw, what they wore, what they bought….

They spread their joy.

# They make Facebook a happy place.

*THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS (CROWS)

They follow their friends, read all posts, see all uploaded pictures, know what their friends are doing, wearing, eating, writing, posting, sharing….

But they leave no footprints behind. No ‘likes’, no ‘comments’…..they are the silent ones.

# They don’t really add much to Facebook…..except to the number in your friend list.

*THE HOBBYISTS( HENS)

They are busy almost every day with their hobbies….Nature lovers, poets, writers, photographers, cooks. They share their writings and pictures of birds, butterflies, flowers, food… (whether you like it or not). Then they impatiently wait for their ‘faithful friends’ to ‘like’ and ‘comment’.

#They are the artistic face of facebook.

*THE DUMPERS ( PEACOCKS)

They literally dump about 78 pictures every now and then, leaving behind a colourful graffiti on their walls. They are happy go lucky souls and have no expectations from their friends. Whether you see all the pictures and ‘like’ them or ‘love’ them or don’t even see them, it doesn’t matter. They will soon return with 78 more after some time.

# They bring the element of ‘beauty with freedom of choice’ to Facebook.

*THE GROUPIES ( GEESE)

They get together with friends, have reunions, go for movies, hang out in malls….and ask hapless shoppers to click pictures of the group. The main purpose of the event (apart from having fun) is to post pictures, tag friends and check in.

These are very informative posts if you look beyond the smiling, pouting faces. In the background you can see which movie is currently screening at INOX, which Shoppers Stop outlet has a sale and which food court offers the best combo meal.

#  They are the Page 4 guys. They bring the juicy, gossipy news to Facebook.

*THE MET FOLKS (SWALLOWS)

They are the weather forecasters, giving out alerts of fog, cloud, sunshine or rain. So anyone travelling to their city knows whether to pack in a sweater or an umbrella in the suitcase. The alerts are usually accompanied by pictures of dense clouds or tall glasses of iced drinks or steaming mugs of chai or screenshots of the Met departments’ Weather Today update.

# They bring in everyday reality to Facebook.

THE JET SETTERS ( ARCTIC TERNS)

These are the travellers….and everyone knows exactly where they are at any given moment. They check into airports, they check into hotels, they check in on Facebook…..though not necessarily in that order. If it’s a holiday trip with family, then friends accompany them too….though only on the virtual trip. However if it’s a business trip, then there are no pictures….only check-in’s ( Great way to let spouse and immediate family know where they are…..one can’t always get connected on phone……but free Wifi is almost always available).

 #They are proof that Facebook has no geographical boundaries

THE NOVICES ( FLEDGLINGS)

They are the newcomers, still getting the hang of Facebook. They declare their mobile phone numbers, landline numbers and other personal data on their walls (and ask you for yours too). They wish Happy Birthday to a friend without tagging him/her…..so the whole FB world knows it is someone’s birthday except the untagged birthday boy/girl.

They haven’t heard of Facebook messenger….they ask you on your wall whether you’ve quite recovered from your upset tummy after last week’s prawn dinner fiasco.

# They ensure the continuity of Facebook as a popular social media.

I have exhausted my knowledge of Facebook characters……and I must add that I possess quite a few of these traits myself.

Have I missed out any character?

(If you aren’t one or more of these, then you aren’t addicted to Facebook)

P S.

I’ve likened the characters to birds for the simple reason that I am a bird lover. A brief description of bird trait will tell you why a particular character is like that bird.

1     OWLS - Sleep a lot, especially when others are awake.

2      BULBULS - Sweet in voice as well as in nature.

3      CUCKOOS - Love sharing nests.

4      SWANS - They are a symbol of love and joy.

5      CROWS - They keep a watchful eye on visitors to and from your home.

6      HENS - Busy, busy, busy the whole day clucking and pecking ( clicking and penning)

7      GEESE - Always move in flocks.

8      PEACOCKS - Have beautiful feathers and love showing them to everyone.

9      SWALLOWS - They read the weather perfectly…know where to find sunny skies.

1     ARCTIC TERNS- Long distance champions. They migrate further than any other bird.

1     FLEDGLINGS - They are young ones of all of the above….you don’t know what they will be when they grow up.

Indian Summer

Beads of sweat 

Trickle down his brow,

The sun overhead,

The farmer at his plough.

Naked children run out,

Jump into near dry pond,

Splash precious drops on black hides

As tails swat flies around.

Brown birds trail the plough

Peck at earth upturned,

Willing the parched soil to dislodge

 A seed or a worm.

Hot breeze stirs dry leaves,

Dust swirls around, picks them up,

Goats nibble at dry stalks,

Bells tinkling as they walk.

The goatherd rests under a tree,

Dog and flute for company,

Tunes float in the hot dry noon,

The cuckoo calls out for the monsoon.

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