(Picture – Neha Kumar)
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Blue
Blue is the colour of raindrops,
Of flowers, violet and bluebell,
Blueberries and orchids,
Blue jays and blue whales, as well.
Blue is a sparkling sapphire,
And your beloved denim jeans,
The ink you pen on paper,
Blue movies and blue screens.
The blues music you croon to,
The blue small f facebook logo,
And the blue inland letter card,
Letters of yesteryears, forgotten long ago.
The almighty Lord Krishna,
The Ashoka Chakra on the flag flying,
And the evil eye you hang,
To dispel the spirits stealthily prying.
A blue eyed girl,
The colour for a baby boy,
The blue eyed boy loved by all,
The best worker in the company’s employ.
The boundless blue sky,
The limitless blue sea,
Earth watched from the space,
And the moonlit night in all its sensuality.
Blue is when you are out of spirits,
A surprise, out of the blue,
It is the biting bitter cold,
But the colour of peace and serenity too.
Blue is indigo and aquamarine,
Cobalt and turquoise,
The hue of nature’s best,
The cool beneath the life’s noise.
Red
Red is a ripe red juicy tomato,
A strawberry or a cherry,
A red brick wall,
And the fire engine extraordinary.
Red is the red mail van,
A ladybug on a fern,
Sparkling red rubies,
And a flaming gown that makes heads turn.
The cheeks of a child,
The beak of a parrot,
Snowhite’s apple,
And the bunny’s carrot.
A burning red chilli,
A red umbrella in the monsoon,
The nose perked on a clown,
And a girl with a red balloon.
Red is the colour of roses,
The scent of seduction,
Of rouge lips and the first kiss,
And of yearning and attraction.
Red is a wife’s ‘sindoor,’
A beaming bride’s dress,
The red ‘tilak’ on forehead,
A lovers’ passionate caress.
The break of dawn,
The fading twilight,
A stop sign on your way,
Warning danger in sight.
The prick of a thorn,
The sound of a squeal,
The blood we spill,
And the wounds we heal.
A distress call,
An agonizing, seething burn,
And also a red carpet,
Beckoning you for a twirl and turn.
Red is the colour of love and passion,
The hint of a blush,
And the flushed embarrassment.
The colour of pride,
Of burning rage,
Of fire and fury,
And the wars we wage.
The colour of bravery,
A soldier’s valour,
Of pain and anguish,
And of zeal and ardour.
Red is fierce, Red is might,
Red is a big, bright burning light,
Red is appall, Red is enthrall,
Red is the grandest colour of all !
Kathputli
(Oil Pastels – Neha Kumar)
The Jat Brat
There is this thing about the Jats. It’s an opinion that you’ve had about them for years, possibly not knowing how it came to be. Those bull headed, bandook brandishing, brainless brutes, speaking with the thick Haryanvi “Ghana utawala ho raa sain” accent. And it probably stuck in your head from a few troublemakers you saw, or the movies you watched, or some conversations you heard…
“ Mat time waste kar. Jat buddhi hai saala.”
“ Main to us area mein jaati hi nahi hun. Saare Jats rehte hain wahan par.”
“ Chaudhary bana phir raha hai.”
“ You’re from Delhi ? Must be so crazy, na… with all the Jats there”
I am a Jatni born and raised in Central Delhi. I am yet to be acquainted with the moustache twirling, gun wielding ‘quintessential’ Jat. It’s true, I have not lived in villages. My dreams haven’t been crushed by the hand raising, muscle flinching males of the family. Obviously I wouldn’t know. But let me tell you about my family.
My Badi Nani was a Jatni raised in Haryana. She’d work arduously in the fields from dawn to dusk ‘like a man’ while the other ‘privileged’ women fiddled with needlework at home. She suffered many miscarriages but raised one girl, like God’s greatest gift. This girl, my Nani, wasn’t asked to sit at home and do ‘chuulah-choka.’ She was asked, in the 1930s, to study hard. And when she grew up, she was accepted at Lahore Medical College. No, she didn’t become a doctor and yes, you probably expected that. But a ‘khap panchayat’ wasn’t called to punish her for following her dreams. The ‘elders of the house’ were probably reluctant to send her to would-be-Pakistan in those pre-independence years. She went on to work in the Air Force. She married my Nanaji, who had worked in the Indian army, and a few years later they settled in Uttarakhand where my Nanaji, singlehandedly developed the most treacherous jungle terrain into agricultural land. They raised seven kids and all of them got the best education in the most limited means, to become successful professionals. Including my mom, who became a doctor, fulfilling her mother’s unmet dream.
My Dadaji was a small Jat farmer in a village in Uttar Pradesh. My Dadiji was illiterate, as were most women of most communities at that time. No one in my father’s family had completed school education. But that did not stop them from ensuring that my father did. Nor from finishing his masters in Physics. And when my Dad was accepted for a fellowship in Medical Physics in the UK in the 1970s, my Dadaji borrowed loans from all his Jat relatives to send him there.
A community has many faces. And the thugs are a part of many. In all corners of this land. The irony is that while the country is lauding some sportspersons who happen to be Jats, many are labeling all Jats as loose cannons in the same breath. And Jats are not just your heroes – the Virender Sehwags, the Sushil Kumars, the Vijender Singhs, the Saina Nehwals, and the Geeta and Babita Phogats. They are also those nameless Jat farmers, men and women, who working tirelessly in the fields, raising the rice or the wheat chapatti you probably ate. The nameless Jat soldiers who lost their lives for the country. The Jat doctors and scientists and engineers and politicians and entrepreneurs, who believe it or not, went to the top school and colleges in the country. And they are not the ‘atypical ones’ or those one-off ‘good cases.’ They are in plenty. All doing their bit. All trying to make a difference. As countrymen. Not as, or for, Jats.
Children’s Day
When your inner child knocks out the adult and flashes that triumphant grin.
(Oil pastels – Neha Kumar)
Moonlit blues
(Oil pastels – Neha Kumar)
Animals and Humans
Humans, quite often, are so ‘animal like’,
In the looks that they look, or the pose that they strike,
In their actions, and their ways, and their demeanour,
And in their nature and disposition, nicer or meaner.
A heavy female is a whale, a buffalo or a hippo,
And a fat male an elephant, a boar or a rhino,
A sultry woman is a wild cat who’d bewitch,
But a nasty one is a cow or a bitch,
A cunning person is a sly old fox,
A muscular man is as strong as an ox,
A friendly someone is a social butterfly,
While a doe eyed girl will make your heart sigh.
Gazelle is a runner agile and swift,
A nightingale’s voice is a songstress’ gift,
A treacherous back-stabber is a snake,
A mole is a double-agent in the make,
A brave man has a lion’s heart,
And an ass is the opposite of smart.
A nasty person is a vulture or a dirty dog,
A pig, would gorge, and all the food hog,
A chameleon, would his words and stance, change,
A bear is a rough and uncouth person, with manners strange,
An individual, off balance, would walk like a duck,
But a ballerina with her swan dance, will leave you awestruck.
Parroting words is a mindless repetition,
Wolfing down is a devouring mission,
Beware of somebody who’d tell on you, and rat you out,
And of the charmer, who with puppy dog eyes, put good sense in doubt,
Pigeonholing would compartmentalize, and restrictively tag,
And monkey business is mischief and tomfoolery and a lot of gag.
So isn’t it strange that the men think,
That they are above animals, in a blink,
And disgrace them in any way they possibly can,
Over the ages, and ever since the time began,
Has it ever occurred to the world,
That the humans may be beasts unfurled,
And that the animals may be more ‘humane’,
Quite possibly, the ‘higher’ species of the food chain,
For they wouldn’t know ‘how to act like a man’,
Parade power and pillage, and ‘brutish’ destruction plan.
A boxer plead
This is an appeal to the Indian men,
Who every now and then,
Dare to venture out gallantly,
In a pair of boxers, oh so casually,
Strolling on a morning walk,
In a local market, or out for a casual talk.
You see, boxers are an under thing,
And though the looks may be deceiving,
They cannot, your shorts, replace,
Nor the need to wear your pants, efface,
For this is not a two-in-one deal,
And though we appreciate your undies saving zeal,
Wear your bottoms, you must,
And the laws of aerodynamics, trust,
Coz the territory down south, may get a little too airy,
And turn into a peek-a-boo show, scary.
In the end,
Your boxers may prevent,
A fungal infection or two,
But the ‘flash dance’ will spew,
Chuckles and snorts and some infamous fame,
With the king’s berth in the hall of shame.
Though your inhibitions, you want to inhibit,
Be wary of a ‘chaddi’ wear-and-show exhibit,
There is only one guy who can pull off such a plan,
If you couldn’t guess, his name is Superman,
And even he, would wear them over his costume,
With a matching cape, in red bloom.
But Superman, my dear, you are not,
So even if it is blazing hot,
Do not try the dangerous boxer stunt,
To catch off guard, the world out front,
It may be wise to be a little discreet,
And wear your trousers whilst on the street,
For though I hate to burst your bubble,
Such prudence, will save you a world of trouble.
Metro Womaniya
Beware the female, on the Delhi metro scourging,
In the ladies compartment, surging,
In pursuit of a glimpse of an empty space,
Attacking at a frantic pace,
In an already packed coach,
She’d aim for that wedge to encroach,
Between two women, sitting together side to side,
And head straight towards the mark, glue eyed,
Like a missile launching towards its target,
On a blazing mission, not for the faint hearted.
She’d trap you with an ishaara, a wave of hand,
Urging you to move away, in the direction fanned,
No please or thank you, just a gaze, chilly and still,
Hinting, that move you have to, and move you will.
And if you pretend, to suddenly acquire a squint, and look the other way,
Or act dumb, and not understand what she would say,
Pat comes the nudge, and the shove, and the retort,
“ Arey, adjust kar lo na !” she bellows like a fiery sport.
If you’d be so lucky, and be a little fat,
Well my dear, you have an upper hand in the combat,
For the predator would tend to look the other way,
And direct her effort towards the slimmer, frailer prey,
Jabbing and bulldozing the hapless commuter,
Ambushing her victim, the victorious sharpshooter.
What I can’t seem to discern,
Is that for all the trouble, and the heartburn,
All that is achieved, is to park half an arse,
Uncomfortably lodged in that space sparse,
Which is not pleasant, given the length and breadth of it all,
Vexing the co-passengers, and which is more, boosting self’s cholesterol.
And oddly enough, to manage to get a ‘seat,’
In this modus operandi, is often considered a ‘triumphant feat,’
No wonder then, that I am awed by this ‘lady like’ resilience,
And the metro trips give me a ‘Chak De’ experience.
Wondering frantically in my head,
Glancing at that superwoman with dread,
“Iska pair left ki taraf muda hai, yeh left mudegi,”
“Par iska face to right ki taraf hai, yeh right chalegi,”
“Lekin iske haath meri aur bade hain, ai khudaa,”
“Yeh to seedha shot legi, hai rabbaa mainu bachaa !”
So fear the womaniya in the metro,
She may seem feeble, with mellowness aglow,
But give her, in the train, an inch of free territory,
And you’ll see her unmasked, preparatory and predatory,
As she scorns at you with disdain,
Looking contemptuously, at the game slain,
Her thoughts screaming, “ Look sharp. Make haste.”
“ Let not, a nanometer of bench space go waste !”
Neha Kumar 