Hands meant to,

pull the kite chord,

pat on sand mounds,

paint with colours 

Are now sadly

hands that,

sell fruits on roads,

reach out begging,

scrub floors clean. 

Hands meant to,

hold a cricket bat,

put pen to paper,

solve math problems,

are now sadly,

hands that,

serve tea under trees,

caress strangers,

reach into pockets. 

Hands meant to,

heal the sick,

build bridges,

save the planet

are now sadly 

hands that 

grip iron bars,

pat fruitful bellies,

pay the price

for the society’s sins.




The wedding. 

Hues of white and purple,

soft flowers and lace. 
Ladies laden in gold,
Sarees hugging their waists. 
The ceremonial chantings
precede the dance beats. 
A western take
on an eastern ritual. 

Perfectly parted hair,
jewelled by the sun and moon. 
Her reflection flawless. 
Her expectations endless.
He was so handsome,
They’d have beautiful children. 
They said. 
Her parents promised 

The suit clung to him,
forcing the air out of him. 
His life’s story,
written by those around him. 
She was sweet and innocent. 
She might never know. 
He liked her enough,
but love her,he did not.

They danced under the lights. 
Yet their lives would be dark. 
Every time she looked at him,
his eyes were averted. 
Sweeping the crowds. 
She followed his eye. 
A pair of tear filled eyes,
stared back from the crowd. 

Three heart broke that night. 
A woman,a man and a man.