.
Shrine
Next to the rolled-up prayer mat
a catena of scriptures
carelessly stacked
amidst clouds of incense
and a burning oil brass lamp
may hold
answers
no one actually seeks.
They only come here
in search of a magic formula
to get what they want
just now.
At The End
Time skirts around
patches of neglect.
It contours
breathing spaces.
We enter a hollow
chamber
cunningly crafted,
and spin around
with no clue
that we are being played.
We emerge
scratching
the rockface.
But at the end, our lives are vested
with a ripeness
by the scowling, golden sun.
Rains
The city had waited
for rains
standing in queues
for the water-tankers.
Plastic pots
in psychedelic colours
matched the breast- beating anger
of the residents as they
swore and shoved ahead .
Water receding to a lens
in the old wells
added to the despair.
Leaving the city was no option .
They learnt to harvest
whatever water the sky poured down.
Decades later there were floods.
The unused storm drains were overwhelmed.
Watching the morning rain
in a green neighbourhood,
she wondered who sang
the Ragam Amritavarshini
to appease the rain gods
and soften the sullen earth.
Perhaps, it was just the frogs.
Geetha Ravichandran is a retired bureaucrat and poet . She has two collections of poetry Arjavam and The Spell of the Rain Tree published by Red River
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