The Fragile Kite.

          The kite that was flying very high,
          Had the pride to pooh pooh the sky.
          The thread that was holding the kite,
          Scorned at the kite's blowing weight.

          The hand holding the kite on its thread,
          Heckled them both, for their crazy head.
          The wind in a whirl, whipped all the three
          Playing for a while, his blowing game in glee.

          Down fell the kite like a jet, speedier to the ground
          Cutting the glassy thread and its hand in a turnaround.
          Flying one's moments of pride is a fragile fashion
          As living is hiring for a while, an airborne mansion.

          It is not that everyone builds here, castles in the air;
          But life is too fragile a kite to fly in an eternal flair.    
                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.          

Being a Grandpa.

Being a Grandpa.

Come my delightful darlings,

You all have my kisses in plenty,

That I did not offer my children,

Because they had a lot from their grand parents.

It is not that I did not love my children;

But my concerns were more for their character and career.

My earnings were meant for them, not my time.

You have all my time and extra attention.

In turn, your words carry the magic wand  to mesmerize me,

With all your pranks, that went unnoticed in the case of my wards.

Childhood is the same for all kids, with crowded days of innocence.

But the charm of childhood becomes a charter for responsible rearing;

The pains of parenting are set aside by the pleasures of grand parenting.

It looks as though yesterday’s Hitlers are today’s Laurel and Hardy.

A Pa becomes grand in looks and love, after passing out the parenting test

With the power of patience to stay as grandpa until the day he passes away.

There is a thin line of difference that adds purple patches to the grey grandpa.

It is the transition from responsibility to a relaxed return to second childhood.

                                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

First and Second Thoughts.

  First and Second Thoughts.

First thoughts are like one's feel of first love ,

Lifting men closer to the Heavens, far above.

Second thoughts would shine as second to none, 
For those, whose step ahead is never meant for fun.

Thrills and surprises may await all the first moves.

But,second thoughts fit things into firm grooves.

Second thoughts set standards through precision

Pruning routes of multiple exits, prone to deviation.

Fears of first thoughts, could heavily freeze the mind,

Of those who, fingers crossed, get stuck, far behind.

While first strokes belong to galvanizing trend setters
Second thoughts seem to confine achievers, in fetters.

First or Second,thoughts and moves  have their wield,
If firmness of march and fitness of goal hold the field

                                                        P.Chandrasekaran.

The Social Itch.

Man is social;

But where is society?

There is laughter; there are tears.

There are emotions of all frames.
But sharing is mostly in a holiday mood,

For humanity can not hear the voice of sharing,
As many are in their electronic hideouts

Tweeting and posting their social itch.

Education has made us more civilized, but less human.

We hate insiders,for the sake of wooing outsiders;

Just as we visit temples, when we have deities at home.

Logic lays barricades against emotional trafficking 
With the brain losing faith in the beat of the heart.

Man pampers partying as a platform for ,
Personal recharging and promotion of self image,

Betting on mutual terms and conditions for a contract.

Man may not be social,while swiping his debit or credit card;
But he is very much in the social net while swiping hid ID card.
                                P.Chandrasekaran.

Being Indian.

Being Indian is being secular and communal.

Contrary slogans continue as our pet manual.

Temples, churches and  mosques are built to stay,

As three- side waters, of this Peninsula’s role play.

The minority voices keep harping themes in a mood of turmoil,

Even after the exit of the colonials and the partition of the soil.

But the majority voices  boil communal cauldrons, as anathema

While loyalties keep shuffling, between Godse and the Mahatma.
Amenities for public, are thrown as a gift of privilege and favour;
As political groups cry for a share in, projects of people's power. 

 

Being Indian is being traditional and modern.

We have not yet carved for us a distinct pattern.

Our homes allow meek mothers to lead the way,

For the Paternal heads, to rule and have their say.

Our women are free to go anywhere ,anytime they like, at their risk..

Without a biological backing, burdening themselves, with tasks brisk.

Rapists make their roll calls from their ambush, on an outlandish spree;

Wrecking  the fate of their fragile victims, in a reckless dance of glee.

Technology discovers trends new, for trading, men’s thirst for dowry.

To boorishly negotiate proposals of marriage across the table of usury.

Many an in-law, is still bent upon behaving as outlaw,

Downgrading dignity of others, as a dirty heap of straw.

Society is nothing but the cackle of the careless crowd,

With  fashions of  fiery  thoughts, noisily blowing loud.

We own the streets, more than our homes,to be free to stroll and  sleep around,

Making them most of the time, our betting spots, or beaming battling ground.

We have techies around from the I.T hubs and tax collectors from the Capital,
The former outsourcing their stuff, the latter sourcing the currency's black cell. 

We have made books of law, civil and criminal, but we love to break them all;

Breaking besides our heads, to see that our dear democracy is never set to fall.
                                                                              P.Chandrasekaran.

                                                                                    

Getting Disconnected...

               
                 Getting Disconnected..

               When you were born,
               Did you not create a storm?
               The umbilical cord was perhaps
               Long enough for you,
               Not to get easily disconnected
               From your maternal link.
               You made the 'unkindest cut of all'
               To be frantically on your own; 
               How much did you tamper with
               Your looks and life mode, you may not know.
               Nor will you weigh in real terms,
               The load you acquired to make you
               Heavier on the soil and in your hearse.
               That your eyes never shed tears of their own
               And your lips were never severed without bogus smiles,
               Speak volumes of your toxic life style.
               When all the exit gates get closed,
               You will be buried with nothing that came with you.
               Not even a bit of your long umbilical cord .
               Your gains here will become your shroud;
               Your coffin would  lament your presence with in.
               But the soil will solemnly contain your coffin,
               With the manner of motherhood of another womb.
                                                       P.Chandrasekaran