Ramblings by Jaya Jha in a world that is neither black, nor white!
English is closest to anything called universal language, isn’t it?
I have lived
For love, and
For duty, and
For success.
I have pursued
All things material, and
Interests of all humankind.
I have seen enough humility
To say without irony
Been there, done that.
At the end of the day
The senselessness of it all
Is the only sensible thing to believe in.
Misfit
In a big, grand, happy family,
With women cooking lovingly,
Children playing merrily,
Men coming back home after a hard day of work,
Being treated royally.
Fretting over the patriarchy,
The mundaneness of life,
And the narrowness of mind.
Misfit
In the corridors of power,
With men trampling on whoever they can,
And women striving to catch up,
To make it in the world of men.
Fretting over the privilege
Taken for granted; and judgment
On the less endowed flying about.
Misfit
On the roads, behind sloganeers,
Activists in black armbands, determined,
Convinced of their worldview,
Noble, but flawed and incomplete.
Fretting over the lack of nuance,
The disregard for the truth,
In search of revolution.
Misfit
In the streets on the city fringes,
Smelling thick of sweat, alcohol, cynicism
Of drugs, of lives languishing,
Of hopelessness, dead rebellions against the system.
Fretting over the futility,
The pointlessness, the waste,
Misfit – even among the misfits.
It’s a house of snow.
Summers will come,
And poof! it will go.
While it lasts
It’s beautiful though!
Be grateful
That it isn’t the emergency yet.
That the daughter is spared the rape
Even if the father is lynched.
That they still pretend that killing is bad
Only they are not responsible.
And don’t gloat over it openly.
That they only ask you to
Close your mind, you mouth.
And bow in blind obeisance.
They haven’t come for you yet.
Be grateful
While you live.
After that
It won’t matter.
Let there be a war.
At least you know
Who the enemies are.
Else in peaceful times,
Compatriots commit
Worse than war crimes,
Not even batting an eye.
Whataboutery defending them
Against the shaming cry.
Who do you even fight,
When the angels of last evening
Blow out this morning’s light?
Miles to go... 