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.