Of my native tongue
Then an English poet
Rather then calling me international
Instead of national?
Just after reading a few poems of mine
At some media conference
Of a selected few,
How can I call myself international
Thgough the people in India
Know me not nationally?
A tongue-twister’s English, know I not,
Nor can I speak so fast initatively
Just like an Englishman,
I am an Indian of my earth,
With the roots struck into the soil
Of the earth I belong to
And look I to the roots of nativity.
Let me run awayTaking my father’s nameAs they will not let me goWithout making me hear their poems.In the hopes and aspirations of their own,They are comingWith the dreams of Spenser, Milton, Shakespeare and Wordswrth.
Of the Theravada sectLiving with the tigersFreelyWhich but astonishes meTo see the tiger babiesReared and trained and keptBy the Buddhist worshippers.
They are all good,SadhusAnd the victimsBut characterless and unchaste.Dump you but your mentality.
In firm clasp,Just shake it outwardly,Nay inwardlyAs have forgotten itAll courtesies and mannersWhat it was good in them.Times have changed,Men have changedAnd so have their manners,Now people like not to mix up withRather than being private and personal.
With the anklets soundingStrange and bizarreWith the blood-laced tongueOut of the lipsHeld in shameAs for trampling SivaUnder feetAnd anger lessened.
How did they calculateWithout telescopes?But miscalculated they tooIn saying about the sun and the earth,But we should not mix jyotirvigyanWith astrology and palmistryAnd if you give a chance,The Acharya Brahmins will earn from.
