Such submissive bystanders they have become…

Necklace of the rich

In a town named gummudippondi,
There was a big man,
With a huge paunch
And a long mustache,
With a wife and 10 kids,
Living in an imperial building.
Now and again we
hear of people who have
gone beyond the trivialities
of life.
They are great people,
For they have understood life truly.
Aren’t the vast majority are imprisoned,
Like in India and elsewhere,
by traditions, that burdens,
women more than others.

Artha Narishwar

Even religion for that matter
Is truly a wonderful thing,
Had it not been made into
A Business enterprise.
Give and you shall prosper,
Or fear will eat your soul.

Country’s men

The crow flies,
Over a brahmin’s house,
Where a memorial event
Is being held with such grandeur,
For the forbears of the family.
The crow momentarily
experiences a trance,
Over the many food that
it is going to receive.


It is believed that cows and crows communicate
With dead souls.
Bare-chested Brahmins,
Wearing a long garment
Resembling a skirt,
Chant mantras of various sorts,
From the four vedas.
Hired they are, by the masters
To pay homage to the dead ones.

Do those loved souls
Want to be disturbed by this cacophony
Of voices,
Of smoke?
Ah… the women,
Those poor creatures.
How much I yearn
For their freedom?
They wake up at 3 am,
Keep the vegetables cut
and soaked in water the night before,
For the next morning,
They wash the floor,
Of the entire house,
In a back breaking exercise.

A septapus displaying its beauty

They cook over coal fire,
With many a sweat and cough,
They spend the next 6-8 hours
Preparing the food
For the dead ones.

And the mouth watering food
They produce,
Brings seven heavens to their doors.
Know many the ‘G-spots,’
But not the secrets of making these mouth-watering foods.

A penitent male

Meanwhile, the Brahmin priest too,
After several hours of reciting,
Couldn’t resist the flavours
Emanating from the kitchen;
Fritters, and stir fries,
Lentil sauces and semolina pudding,
Pickles and spices,
With a dash of ghee,
And of course our venerable

A brahmin sees him as a sudra as he doesn’t have any mark on his forehead. Isn’t he human first ?

The priest, being the head of the tribe,
Says ‘Govinda, Govinda
And sprinkles water over the food,
Puts aside three dots of
white morsels,
For some enlightened souls,
Each morsel worth a pound?
With the meal being blessed,
Children and other men,
Happily consume the feast with great pleasure,
On a banana leaf.

The meals are spread on the leaf,
Like an arch.
Vegetables and pickles go
In the outer arch.
Sambar and rice go in the middle
and many other such rules there are.

Mother and daughter

From time to time,
A (female) member of the kitchen,
Gently reminds the men
To take their time to eat
As they have the whole
Afternoon to finish.
Ah, women, why do you
Always put yourself behind.

The women,
Serving all along,
Standing all along,
Become the unsung heroes.
They are even judged by the food.
How dare others judge them ?
When will they ever get liberated from
this perennial cooking,
And taking care of the family.
Who will serve them ?
Would they ever rise and stop not till
they succeed ?

A ray of hope


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s