Posts Tagged ‘Sand’

Its four in the morn
there’s a knock on the door
the boat is waiting
to take her offshore

She stretches and yawns
and gently looks around
at four hungry mouths
sleeping on the ground

She’s all but twelve
and a mother of four
though in blood, a sister
a childhood gone sore

The last of the big tides
smashes the sand
the seagulls go calling
to lend a helping hand

To whom you may want to know
to the Fisherwoman of course
for she is just a girl
Feeding mouths of four

She calls out to the birds
she’s grown up with them
Throws a few chips
and laughs at the mayhem

Her uncle waits
for the small feet to arrive
His eyes go moist
His heart swells with pride

She was but eight
when his brother was swallowed by the sea
Her mother much before that
When she was just three

She stands tall
As the boat pounds over the waves
Fearless and confident
Through the morning haze

The seagulls cackle
As they fly overhead
Soon they will lead her
To the feast up ahead

The sun dressed in gold
Rises to salute
The figures in silhouette
As they return with the loot

She sells her catch
In grams and kilos
Sweating on the road
Bordering the shore

By mid afternoon
She’s counting the gains
In metal and paper
And trying to be sane

She runs home now
As fast as she can
To work on the stove
With a knife in her hand

Her siblings soon arrive
Twins of eleven and ten and nine
With hungry stomachs
As high as the tide

With their bellies full
They rush out to play
While the Fisherwoman begins
Yet another day

She cooks up some snacks
And packs them in a tin
As the sun bids goodbye
Calls her siblings in

The twin eleven year olds
Then rush to work
Chasing customers on the beach
With the tin, smile and a smirk

As night falls
The cold winds shout
The foursome snore
And the lights go out

She stretches and yawns
and gently looks around
at four hungry mouths
sleeping on the ground

Copyright © 2010 by Narayanan G. Vincent – All rights reserved.


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I used to be a big Kite Flier in those good old days of innocence. Imagine wearing shorts that were far too short for a tall eight year old like me. Imagine crushing and grinding ‘tube-lights’ and ‘bulbs’ into fine powder and mixing them with colour and maida and concocting a ‘maanja’. Imagine applying them religiously on a large thread roll as if your life depended on it. Imagine tying this ‘maanja’ thread to a really noisy ‘Kite’ and letting the big bird soar through the skies. Imagine cutting another ‘Kite’ and jumping with joy and almost falling off the terrace. And even when you are not flying Kites, imagine chasing and running and chasing and running after other Kites that seemingly took light years to fall into your hands after getting cut five hundred feet above you. And all this when I was wearing shorts that were far too short for a tall eight year old like me.

This quite frankly went on till I was thirteen-fourteen I guess. After which there were numerous other interests. Including the two legged ‘Kites’ with pink ribbons tied to two black tails popping out from the back of their heads. Ah! Those were the days.

But a few months ago, when I took my four year old daughter to the Marina beach in Chennai, she wanted to fly a Kite. So I bought her a colourful one with a tail ten times longer than her pony tail. Oh, you must have seen the joy on her face. It was worth over a million words. But then, just as she was flying the Kite, I heard her scream, “Dadaaaaaaa… Kite goneeee….” I looked up from tying my shoe laces. She had let go the thread that I had carefully tied around her soft and baby fingers. I saw the tears swelling in her eyes and before they turned into a torrent, I leapt and chased and ran and chased and ran, just like the eight year old many many summers ago. In no time I had the Kite with me.

Copyright © 2009 by Narayanan G. Vincent – All rights reserved.

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