Middle Age

Together as we steadily brace
Towards the middle of the race
The path ahead is so secure
It leaves me feeling very unsure
No sudden bends, no curves anymore
The road ahead is so straight
and towards our goals we replicate

The road not taken, long forgotten
Ifs and Buts and Dreams lie rotting
Under the pillow of my youth…
And long lost loves and sweet nothings
Murmur no more of could have beens
And I for want of hope and dare
Do to myself declare
“I follow the narrow, steady path of middle age
So that my children’s youth can be saved”J
And so I turn my cowardice to sacrifice
And continue to lead the steady path to middle age.
Niharika Bisaria

Cry My Beloved Nation, Cry

See through wet eyes
The Searing pain
See it once, twice and yet again...
Of a mother who's son is lost
Of a man who's wife and children all have died
Of a child who cries for his mother through the night...
See through wet eyes
The searing pain
Feel the pounding in your brain,
Raise the pen or the sword
Let your feelings over-ride.
All thoughts of reason put aside
Cry,my beloved nation, cry.
And when the tears have dried
Pledge yourself to do your best
Put yourself through a test,
Each and Every Single Day.
Did I do my very best today?
For half the nation's searing pain
And the pounding in our brains
would be at rest
If we all do our very best.

Niharika Bisaria

An Ode to English

In this World of 1,2,3
Where’s the place for A,B,C?

Did you do your sums today?
Is what all the parents say.

English is a dying art
`Tis only in the writer’s heart
Though number crunchers are divine
Listen to this prayer of mine
In this world of 1,2,3
Teach the love of A,B,C

Cos it’s the language of the heart
And it will set your child apart
From the numerate multitude
(And all their godamn attitude)!!

Niharika Bisaria

Reflections on a Metro

Reflections on a Metro

In this city of homes galore,
It was a shame, it was a bore -
There was no space for clothes to dry,
Nor space for souls to sit and cry..
Coming from a forgotten town,
I needed so to hang my gown,
My socks and skirts and kurtas too
The very was I used to do.
Calling my broker friend I said
Get me a home, but he instead,
Got me a hole, he called a home
Forget wet clothes, my sagging soul
Had not a space to sit and cry
(Nor space for blessed clothes to dry)!
In this crazy city of homes galore,
I looked for a balcony high and low
The time flew by and I grew old
Many a houses bought and sold,
There was no space for wet, wet clothes
The ‘angst’ ate at my weary soul…
I came to dream of spaces new
Often of leaves and flowers too
Where clothes would hang and yet be free
Just the way they used to be…

Niharika Bisaria