The Fourth Monkey

Castles in the Air Amrita was meant to be a strong woman, Her name in Sanskrit meant immortality, But she was sent very early to heaven, Being born a girl was her only disability. She could have become a cardiologist, Mending hearts would be her calling, But her birth created a wild tempest, Leaving her mother upset and wailing. She could have built glorious cities, An affordable house for every person, But her parents saw only a dark abyss, Because she could never be their son. Or maybe she could have been a pilot, Carrying people to distant countries, But to society, she was just a maggot, Subjecting her folks to more penuries. She would have become a loving mother, Unlike the mother to whom she was born, Equally treating her son and daughter, No child of hers would she ever scorn. But these are all just castles in the air, Because Amrita was a day old at death, She was buried without even a prayer, A painful whimper on her last breath. In a land where goddesses are revered, Amrita did not stand a chance as a girl, Her parents ensured her head was severed, Forever destroying this shining pearl. Visions of Dawn The silence before the break of dawn, Leaves hovering in seasonal bondage, Flowers budding to bloom and be drawn, To the first ray of light and pay homage. As the sky turns deep amber in color, The twitter of birds fills the cold air, Chirping and chafing at one another, Their cacophony is a grateful prayer. Out in the undulating, wide, blue ocean, Seagulls swoop in to catch their first meal, Waves illuminated in the rising new sun, Fishermen cast their nets for a day's steal. O'er in the mountains on the rosy horizon, Tears angrily gush from the wistful snow, Whispers of milky mist ascend in union, Dissipating anxiously in the ethereal glow. Down in the valleys of the lush, green forest, Fawns clamber for mother's grooming touch, Dewdrops plummet into the expectant crust, Ripened fruits escape the weakened clutch. The sun now shines brighter and much higher, Nature settles into its rhythmic symphony, Visions of dawn fade into their daily rigor, Until the next day begins a new harmony. The Pain Beneath The Paint You elegantly poise in humble grandeur, Your painted face adorned in trappings, Awaiting the folksong of the troubadour, Before the curtains reveal the settings. The curtains fall, you dance with grace, Your emphasized eyes endeavor to express, The troubadour sets the rhythm and pace, As you perform each gesture with finesse. You are an expert in the art of Kathakali, You have admirers from many distant places, But none of them decipher you are lonely, They only appreciate your different faces. Your smile is painted, lips are vermilion, Spectators venerate your glorious facade, You fold your hands in divine supplication, Wishing someone hears you other than God. But none can understand the pain within, You are not the person who is performing, You cannot wash away this unforgiven sin, The memory that leaves you with an aching. For you had trodden upon others for fame, Callously exchanged friends for charlatans, You peddled your soul to attain this name, You forsook your darling for your ambitions. You did not grasp the heartbreak you caused, The sands of time have blown away forever, Much later you found your darling was lost, Her broken heart was too frail to recover. You realized it was too late to love again, You already denied romance another chance, All you presently had was this lasting pain, Your only solace being this solitary dance. Unrequited Love My first real crush, Although not the last. Memories dart in and out, Of my feelings unprofessed. When you were nearby, My heart fluttered. My thoughts confused, Your every word caressed. We were adolescents, Our hearts unscarred. My heart was yours, But you never guessed. Great friends we were, Though we were different. Our faiths, dissimilar, Divergent ideas expressed. Love would not endure, If it was reciprocated. Best it remained unrequited, And in me forever repressed. You are just a footnote, In my history of past loves, You may no longer be around, But with true love I am blessed. The Bargain Distraught parents yearn for some sign, For their daughter is today twenty-nine. She is educated, employed, and beautiful, But in getting married, she is unsuccessful. The search for a perfect match continues, Negotiation for a suitable groom ensues. Indian marriages are arranged by choice, The likely bride has no opinion to voice. The boy's parents desire the finest deal, Their demands are at times quite unreal. A car, a house, a hundred gold sovereigns, They enjoy driving these severe bargains. For them, their son is the bargaining chip, How can people debase such a relationship? They value the son against material things, Concerned about what the betrothal brings. The bridegroom equally lends a helping hand, By not saying anything against this demand. The bride's parents are forever at a loss, They fear their daughter will gather moss. For the educated parents of girls believe, An unmarried girl, God would not reprieve. So they acquiesce to meet the expectation, In order to attain level three of salvation. The groom and his parents never introspect, They have put up on sale their self-respect. The bargain is struck and settled with cash, The wedding is managed with lots of panache. But happiness is only fleeting, not forever, The parents of the bride would soon discover. The bridegroom's parents threaten a backlash, If they are not paid another splendid stash. The bride's parents are now completely broke, Their life's savings have gone up in a smoke. Then the worst of their fears are realized, As their daughter is found dead, brutalized. They woefully question what they did attain, They have lost their daughter in the bargain. The evil of dowry continues till this day, But the time has come to strongly say nay.