The Sweet Tea Man's World

Farmers hunger for rain
Scholars thirst for knowledge
Time sears fast, year after year
I struggle my days waiting for the tea man.
Ticking in patience, perched on a chair
My mind hovers to the office pantry
To instinctively pick up a cup
At 4 o'clock in the evening
It's a pleasure to hear
'Chai' is here.

The pain of writing is great
The thought of earning bread sucks
Learning new things everyday is the only gain
In the end the extra sweetened tea help me survive the storm.
Money never matters in the past nor now and may never
Had learned the art not to want more than a stick
To shoo away scary street dogs sometimes
But now, for good or for worse
I am addicted to sweet tea.

I do thought serving tea
As a profession is so monotonous
Yet counting the waiting parched people like me
I realized it is too much fun as a profession and worship
Admiring how people are ready to lick even the cup.
Though the world may seem like hell to martians
Getting bored and cursing never helped me.
If I were to die today for some reason

Monsoon In The Hills

Nature suddenly wakes up to listen to the rain songs

To take a satiating peep at the soaking and drenching

Of man, buffaloes and the green sleepy surrounding.

Men wake up early, women never seem to sleep

Worrying about their fields, their survival bowel

While frogs and crickets goes on throating undying jubilation.

Cultivation song sounds from every corner

Echoing away the pride of being born in the hills,

Fighting the swift wave of transition

A slow change; a better world, yet a sad lullaby.

Listening to the rain drops beating on the roof

Tuning my ears to the stories of grandpa

I used to dozed off often into the land of yore

Knowing nothing about the impending expulsion

Into the land of sky scrappers and motor world

Far from where grandpa sleeps an eternal slumber

Too far from the lovely monsoon mood of the hills.

Memory being a painful boon, it's useless to struggle

Trying to forget what we can never reinvent

But time has shaped even the the hardest rocks

Being mortals we were shaped to change with time

Grow up to see the painful burial of a tradition

Like the rotting of mushrooms in the monsoon rain.

A peaceful or a sad adieu no one knows for sure

The passing of time that has wiped away Civilizations.

Great and small streams merged to make angry rivers

Mighty rivers unite to make gigantic seas.

As that life in the hills become distant

Realization finally settles in its own force

That our lives are driven by the seasons of time.....