Balasinor

BALASINOR

Poem by Eisha Sarkar

The high walls

The lush greens

A white palace

Built in 1883.

Nawabs and Begums

Those tales of the yore

Framed and preserved

Garden Palace, Balasinor.

A mounted leopard

Louis XIV chairs

Gold threads

Antique brasswares.

Collections, collectibles

Crystals, curios

Cutlery, cupboards

Cut-glass, candle-bras.

A diner’s delight

A Begum’s talent

A hearty meal:

Seekh and mutton.

The four-poster bed

Beckons me to rest

The AC’s cool air

Puts summer to test.

Then comes Aliya

The Princess Babi

Of Afghan heritage

And knowledge a-plenty.

In her hand

She holds an egg

No ordinary one

A dinosaur’s egg!

I watch her hold

Time in her hands

The Jurassic past

In stone and sand.

Starlings in the sky

As  gold turns red

The hourglass turns

I whisper, “Goodbye!”

Gran in Colour

This is the next in the series of my works in oil pastels on paper, with granny-in-law, 'Ba' in a colour full colour. 

  

Dad-in-law gets younger

It's my father-in-law's birthday so I decided to make him look like he was when he was 35 years younger. This is oil pastels on paper.

At a party

A room full of laughter

Many faces with voices

Pitched high and low

A crowd of jesters,

chatterers, whisperers

Conversation-starters,

Gossip-mongers

A round of drinks

A plate of appetisers

Bow-tied waiters

A party in full swing.

And there I stand

In the left corner

Smiling shyly

At passers-by.

A phone in my hand

I wish for a beep

A message, a picture

From a faraway land.

The ladies in chiffons

Beckon me to join

I stare at the screen

“Damn! This phone!”

A circle of chairs

Is where I sit

A disenchanted spirit

Longing to go home.

Shrine gets the paint

My granny-in-law complained about her shrine blackened by soot from oil lamps so I gave the brown wooden structure a lick of paint.

Daughter by Eisha Sarkar

Daughter by Eisha Sarkar

My poem, Daughter, in my voice, processed and programmed by my friend, Joy Vijay Fernandes.

Men

Men, of valour and victory

Men, of colour and white

Men, of freedom and slavery

Men, creative and bright.

Men, of hair and stubble

Men, of back-slaps, huddles

Men, of withheld tears

Men, of suppressed fears.

Men, of want and greed

Men, of compassion and deeds

Men, old and young

Men, merry and drunk.

Men, meticulously precise

Men, intelligent and wise

Men, of brotherhood and bands

Men, of shyness and reserve.

Men, of callused old hands

Men, breadwinners in pants

Men, of silence and monks

Men, of love and songs.

Men, of praise and prayer

Men, supporters and slayers

Men, of war and peace

Men, of judgment and justice.

Men, friends and foes

Men, lives of woes

Men, uneasy minds

Men, rarely of a kind.

Men, of drive and ambition

Men, fathers of nations

Men, of beauty and perfection

Men, of skills and innovation.

Men, of honour and worth

Men, of blood and sword

Men, of sex and semen

Men, of many relations.

Men, of words and wisdom

Men, of marriage, for women

Men, Nature nurtured

Men, these men. Ah Men!

Mahabali

There once was a king

Benevolent and caring

Mighty and brave

So must he be praised.

The words of courtiers,

Well-wishers, soothsayers

Fell on the king's ears

Turned pride into vanity.

So the Lord came to see

In the form of a dwarf

Asked the king for a gift

Just three paces of land.

Laughed the king in court

"Is that all thee wants?"

He granted the dwarf's wish;

Praises on the courtiers' lips.

The dwarf started growing

Became the Mighty Lord

A step from heaven to earth

Another to netherworld.

"Oh, where dear king

shall I step for the third?"

The mighty king bowed

"Put it on my vain head."

Such a ruler's humility!

Said the Great Lord,

"With this third step I take,

I grant thee immortality."

And so we remember

On the day of harvests

In God's own country

This story of King Mahabali.