PadmaShree, Sri Jayanta Mahapatra once said,"There is something in me that refuses to die. It’s there, somewhere deep inside me perhaps. And this is poetry."
The genesis of POETICbug was thus an act of unleashing the curbed thoughts in the form of poems. POETICbug,says, "I praise; I dare; I invoke care; You write, recite my glory; I am, Poetry."
-Taking forward the spirit of poetry !
The sun was lazy today,
Yawning to the cool morning breeze,
Cuddled up in the lap of the pregnant clouds,
Still trying to shine bright.
As the water broke,
The clouds came rushing down,
Bringing with them the hue of spring,
Leaving behind the pleasant petrichor.
Sitting in the moving bus,
With empty seats as co-passengers,
Nostalgia just hugged me tight,
Kissing me with memories old.
In such a far away land,
The rain drops still sound the same,
Melilfluous wherever they fall,
But the essence of being your own,
is always at your home.
It was Christmas and news from the hospital so rapidly appeared,
Grandpa was better and his bed was being prepared.
Our happy faces waited for his return, but~
He came wrapped in a white cloth, carried by his sons.
In a moment the house broke down, his glass of ‘Horlicks’ spilled on the floor.
Someone held Grandma tight while I stood near the pillar overseeing all.
It seemed like a design of the nature where each played their specific role.
The women mourned loud, men sobbed sober and little ones did not bother.
They exposed Grandpa in presence of all yet he did not shout a “NO”.
They bathed and dressed him fine, but why at all, when he is already gone.
Too many flowers and incense sticks choked his deflated lungs.
As if that was not all, they had to choreograph with Grandma too.
Broke her bangles, hurt her ruffled skin and each bruise left her a clot within.
When she appeared from that vicious circle of women,
She was not the Grandma I had known all along.
They held him high on their shoulders, calling the Lord,
Headed to where the corpse belong.
All followed suit yet no wife, no grand (daughter), no sister was allowed.
If he never loved me less, why could I not follow him until his ashes?
How was my little brother braver to see ~
The pyre; melting skin; popping skull; charred bones;
Of the man who gave us candies, told us stories, saved us from all thrashings,
Heard the commentary for every wicket, sharing his love for cricket.
Those were just rituals strong enough that held me back from going along,
I thought I would never do that again but the same script followed when Grandma left.
