Damn "You"!

Damn 'You'!
All 'You' do is crib of hair loss, a non-size zero figure and a big fat nose...        
When brave soldiers put up with disfigured limbs and a broken pose!!
And yet there are those who live with spoilt faces and a burnt skin      
Thanks to the terrorist who rejoiced and danced into yet another sin!!

Damn 'You'!!
All 'You' do is mock the cold food served on a flight with more hue and cry...
'You' forget with no shame, no guilt; as you sit on cushioned chair in the sky...
The little kid at the traffic junction polishing shoes for a daily glass of milk,
Fathers assuming gravel, brick and tar weight to fend for a family so abject, so sick!

Damn 'You'!!
All 'You' do is fuss over passe clothes and mock the outdated cell phone... 
While wearing mismatched rags street kids walk naked feet on hot stone!!
When the toast gets burnt, 'You' throw a fit; a slow internet gets 'You' to gripe... 
On the street you walk beside hundreds who see no food, no aid - under the sun they ripe!!

Damn 'You'!! 
All 'You' do is rant about the hefty drink that failed to induce a kick...
While on the footpath across the lane a mother sleeps with her baby, thirsty and sick! 
A mother with a dry parched throat, her breast produced not a drop of milk... 
Yet 'You', the damned 'You', snugged in your couch - cursed the slipcover for being linen and not silk! . 

Damn 'You'!!
All 'You' do is suck up more power to run fans in empty rooms and coolers for men in coats...
While children in villages far away, train under oil lamps and in bleak light they wrote...
'You' ridiculed, gibed, sneered, scoffed and wasted...
While they endured, preserved, saved, smiled and adapted

Damn 'You'!!
My conscience cringes and heart aches that 'You' are so many...
But killed I am as I know, that most often than ever, its 'You' who are ME! 





....................................................... SOCIETAL INSENSITIVITY is a serious problem.

Pain

I remember tears trickling down her sad face,

Like blood oozing from an open wound.

Each drop like in a ruthless, mad race,

Ran down her cheeks to be lost, to be never found...

Her eyes were sore, choked with pain,

Like the shrill shrieks of a chicken being slaughtered,

Her eyes screamed the agony of a cruel stain,

That left behind a soul so scarred, a wish so murdered!

The black kohl in her eyes smudged dense and far...

Like a deep dark fear shutting her gaze,

Her smile masked a spirit so crushed, so marred...

Yet she wiped every tear with her 'Will' ablaze!

She turned to the window uncomfortable and breathless,

And with all her might for freedom she did hanker...

Like a loud orgasm from sex inconsiderate and reckless,

She begged to scream out, to break free and wander...

Staring at a skein of birds garlanding the clear sky,

She wondered if they would return to fill the empty blue above her head...

That now felt like the void inside her, she didn't know why...

'Its the end, a Dead-end', her restless uncaring thoughts said!

As the ache inside her blinded every sense,

Like the clouding that happens from 'Snakeing a Spliff'...

She longed for hope, for faith and for a prayer hence,

While she fell dead inside; so dead, anguished and stiff!

As she lay in her bed disturbed, her sister barged into her room - looked at her state and ridiculed, "OMG! Stop being a kid. Its just another MENSTRUAL CRAMP!!!" :p :p :D :D

A Prayer for 'Insha'

She stood hiding behind the platform bench,

And the hunger in her eyes ceased to quench.

Her silver anklets did some music to her reduced hip,

As her little tanned feet strode every mighty step!

Her cheeks were parched and eyes sad,

Dense, arched eyebrows I saw she had,

That met at the center of her forehead.

And she followed every word her mother said.

‘Insha’ a baby of roughly three years,

Before she could stand steady or speak clear.

Had to grasp the tricks of begging for aid

As her mother pushed her onto every woman, every maid!

She tugged at my bag and let out her tiny palm,

Stared straight into my eyes with no fear, no qualm.

Her silver nose-ring glistened in the sun

Her deep eyes telling a story with no cheer, no fun!

A white rash outlined her pink moist lips

Her gaze twinkled a spirit that never wanted to dip.

And when I dug into my bag and pulled out a protein bar,

A bright smile I saw that hid every facial scar...

I unwrapped the snack to fit into her fist,

And she grabbed it with both hands, not moving her wrist.

I watched as she hopped towards her mother

Her joy I could feel in the moment, not looking further.

She looked back at me with a shy glance

As dimples faded into her cheeks, not missing a chance.

To the twinkle in her eye, I smiled my best...

As the little child clung to her mother’s breast!

Her mother carried her to the other side of the railway platform,

‘Insha’ once again opened her lil palm and followed the norm.

I gazed at the fate of the child; helpless and sad...

One of those miserable experiences i must have had.

As I write this, my heart reaches out to every street child,

Who have seen no home and no instance mild...

Who are born onto the streets, all blood and raw,

O’great Lord, unto the unfortunate child, a Prayer i vow...

 

A Special Something...

Ok. So this is my first post and it has to be something special...

Right since my early schooling years, I've had this habit of scribbling little somethings almost anytime and anywhere. Everything that was mine - from my books, to my lunch box, to my school bag had something or the other written on it. I cant really figure out when was it exactly that I really gave thought about what I wrote. However, every article for the school magazine managed to hold back my undivided attention, as it always had to pass an editorial board review! But countless essays - for exams and otherwise, stories, poems and scripts kept happening as i grew old. Freelancing for a local weekly newspaper happened when I was still in college and it was the sheer thrill of having my own stories published that made me graduate to an established daily newspaper. I quiet really did not realize when I had made it to the editorial board of a Biotech Business Magazine and thereafter, a Medical Publication. 

For someone who is a freelance journalist and a Medical Author, writing is a part and parcel of daily routine. However, complex medical write-ups and stories on socially relevant issues, mostly to do with lethargic, incompetent local 'netas' easily gets to the head!! I don't remember the last time I sat down to write something that was "special". 

So, that's how I finally decided to blog. So everyone who drops by can surely expect a lot of ranting, raving and cribbing happening here. Agreed, that happens in the newspapers as well; but the only difference here is that its STRAIGHT from the Heart! lol.. (That's what happens when you get to bypass a partial editorial board and high-profile recommendations!)

None of my "special" writings have been recorded all these years. But simply to end this post in a special way, let me share a tiny rhyming scheme (which I had confidently called a 'poem' then!!) that I wrote while I was probably in my 5th grade.. I have it still because this had been published in my school magazine... 

My Daddy's been the Best.. 

Been the best!

Been the best!

He's never had the time for some Rest..

For some rest!

For some rest!

As a baby, I used to sleep on his Chest...

On his chest!

On his chest!

To see me happy, alone he took the Test...

Took the test!

Took the test!

To make him proud, is my Quest... 

Is my quest!

Is my quest!

And to see him smile, I'll be the Richest...

I'll be the Strongest!

I'll be His Daughter Dearest!