By day, it does seem that our troubles won’t cease,
But at night, late at night, the world is at peace.
Slum Children at Play
Imps of mischief,
Barefoot in the dust,
Grinning, mocking, even as
They beg you for a crust.
No angels these,
Just hungry eyes
And eager hands
To help you sympathize…
They don’t want love,
They don’t seek pity,
They know there’s nothing
In this heartless city
But a kindred need
In those who strive
For power and pelf
Though only just alive!
They know your guilt,
They’ll take your money,
And if you give too much
They’ll find you funny.
Because that’s what you are—
You’re just a joke—
Your life is soft
And theirs all grime and smoke.
And yet they shout and sing
And do not thank your giving,
You’ll fuss and fret through life
While they do all the living.
The Pool
Where has it gone,
the pool on the hill?
The pool of our youth,
when Time stood still,
Where we romped in its shallows
and wrestled on sand,
Closer than brothers, a colourful band.
Gone is the pool, now filled in with rocks,
Having made way for the builders’ blocks.
But sometimes, at dawn,
you will hear us still,
And that’s why they call this
the Haunted Hill.
Granny’s Proverbs
A hungry man is an angry man,
Said dear old Gran
As she prepared an Irish stew
For the chosen few
(Gran’dad, my cousins and me).
But then she’d turn to me and emote—
‘Don’t be greedy, or your tongue will cut your throat!’
And if I asked for more of my favourite fish,
‘That small fish,’ she’d say, ‘is better than
an empty dish!’
Like Manu, she taught us to honour our food,
She was the law-giver, seeking all good.
Gran’dad and I, we’d eat what we were given
(Irish stew and a tart)
But sometimes we’d sneak away to the bazaar
To feast on tikkees and chaat
—And that was heaven!
What Can We Give Our Children?
What can we give our children?
Knowledge, yes, and honour too,
And strength of character
And the gift of laughter.
What gold do we give our children?
The gold of a sunny childhood,
Open spaces, a home that binds
Us to the common good…
These simple things
Are greater than the gold of kings.
On Wings of Sleep
On wings of sleep
I dreamt I flew
Across the valley drenched in dew
Over the roof-tops
Into the forest
Swooping low
Where the Sambhur belled
And the peacocks flew.
And the dawn broke
Rose-pink behind the mountains
And the river ran silver and gold
As I glided over the trees
Drifting with the dawn breeze
Across the river,
over fields of corn.
And the world awoke
To a new day, a new dawn.
Time to fly home,
As the sun rose, red and angry,
Ready to singe my wings,
I returned to my sleeping form,
Creaking bed and dusty window-pane,
To dream of flying with the wind again.
Humour
Cricket—Field Placings
Long leg has a cramp in one leg,
Short leg has a cramp in two;
Twelfth man is fielding at mid-off,
Because mid-on’s gone off to the loo.
As short square leg has a long leg,
Long-off has been moved further off;
Silly-point goes back to gully
Cover-point backs off a pace or two.
Everyone is thinking of the drinks’ trolley
When first slip lets a catch through his fingers,
Forgetting the old ball is now new.
A Frog Screams
Standing near a mountain stream
I heard a sound like the creaking
Of a branch in the wind.
It was a frog screaming
In the jaws of a long green snake.
I couldn’t bear that hideous cry.
And taking two sharp sticks,
I made the twisting snake disgorge the frog,
Who hopped quite spry out of the snake’s mouth
And sailed away on a floating log.
Pleased with the outcome,
I released the green grass-snake,
Stood back and spoke aloud:
‘Is this what it feels like to be God?’
‘Only what it’s like to be English,’
Said God (speaking for a change in French);
‘I would have let the snake finish his lunch!’
We Are the Babus
Soak the rich and harry the poor,
That’s our motto and our law;
We are the rulers of this land,
We are the babus, a merry band,
Under the table, or through the back door,
We’ll empty your pockets and ask for more!
We are the babus, this is our law—
Soak the rich and harry the poor!
Do You Believe in Ghosts?
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
Asked the passenger
On platform number three.
‘I’m a rational man,’ said I,
‘I believe in what I can see—
Your hands, your feet, your beard!’
‘Then look again,’ said he,
And promptly disappeared!
The Demon Driver
At driving a car I’ve never been good—
I batter the bumper and damage the hood—
‘Get off the road!’ the traffic cops shout,
‘You’re supposed to go round that roundabout!’
‘I thought it was quicker to drive straight through.’
‘Give us your license—it’s time to renew.’
I took their advice and handed a fee
To a Babu who looked on this windfall with glee.
‘No problem,’ he said, ‘Your license now pukka,
You may drive all the way from here to Kolkata.’
So away I drove, at a feverish pitch,
Advancing someway down an unseen ditch.
Once back on the highway, I soon joined the fray
Of hundreds of drivers who wouldn’t give way:
I skimmed past a truck and revolved round a van
(Good drivers can do anything that they can)
Then offered a lift to a man with a load—
‘Just a little way down to the end of this road,’
As I pressed on the pedal, the car gave a shudder:
He’d got in at one door, got out at the other.
‘God help you!’ he said, as he hurried away,
‘I’ll come for a drive another fine day!’
I came to that roundabout, round it I sped
Eager to get to my dinner and bed.
Round it I went, and round it once more
‘Get off the road!’ That cop was a bore.
I swung to the left and went clean through a wall,
&n
bsp; My neighbour stood there—he looked menacing,
tall—
‘This will cost you three thousand,’ he quietly said,
‘And send me your cheque before you’re in bed!’
Alas! my new car was sent for repair,
But my friends gathered round and said, never despair!
‘We are all going to help you to make a fresh start.’
And next day they gave me a nice bullock-cart.
Foot Soldiers
‘Where’s Solan?’ the private was asking.
‘Somewhere in Tibet, I should think.’
‘There’s a brewery there.
And it’s brimming with beer,
But we can’t get a mouthful to drink!’
So we route-march from Delhi to Solan
In the dust and the devilish sun,
And we’re cursing away like Hades,
’Cause there ain’t any ladies
To hear every son-of-a-gun!
And when we have climbed up to Solan
Our language continues profane,
For right well we know
We shall soon have to go.
Down from Solan to Delhi again.
Self-Portrait
There was an old man at Landour
Who wanted young folk to laugh more;
So he wrote them a book,
And with laughter they shook
As they rolled down the hill to Rajpore.
Portents
Spider running up the wall
Means that rain is going to fall.
Spider running down the wall
Means the house is going to fall!
In Praise of the Sausage
I like a good sausage, I do;
It’s a dish for the chosen and few.
Oh, for sausage and mash,
And of mustard a dash,
And an egg nicely fried—maybe two?
At breakfast or lunch, or at dinner,
The sausage is always a winner;
If you want a good spread
Go for sausage on bread,
And forget all your vows to be slimmer.
A Nightmare
Cupid, with his famous dart,
Struck me just above the heart—
‘Life’ he said, ‘is just a gamble,
You’ll take to her without preamble.
And so there came, all bent and grey,
This withered crone, and she did sway
Backwards and forwards, as though she’d seen
The phantom lover of a dream.
She hypnotised me with one glance
And there and then began to dance,
Then tossed me in her waiting carriage
And promised me her hand in marriage.
She took me to her home in state,
And chortling, said, ‘There’s no escape,
I’ll keep you in my empty cupboard;
You know my name—it’s Mother Hubbard!
I’ll feed you frogs and make you fat—
A kofta for my favourite cat.’
Her cat? The thing she called her darling
Was a monstrous tiger, fiercely snarling,
Its eyes were burning bright and red.
It pounced! I woke up in my bed.
No tiger lady in my cupboard…
But when I opened my front door
I found the brass plate bore
My name: Mr Hubbard.
Granny’s Tree-Climbing
My grandmother was a genius. You’d like to know why?
Because she could climb trees. Spreading or high,
She’d be up their branches in a trice. And mind you,
When last she climbed a tree, she was sixty-two.
Ever since childhood, she’d had this gift
For being happier in a tree than in a lift;
And though, as years went by, she would be told
That climbing trees should stop when one grew old
And that growing old should be gone about gracefully
She’d laugh and say, ‘Well, I’ll grow old disgracefully.
I can do it better.’ And we had to agree;
For in all the garden there wasn’t a tree
She hadn’t been up, at one time or another
(Having learned to climb from a loving brother
When she was six) but it was feared by all
That one day she’d have a terrible fall.
The outcome was different while we were in town
She climbed a tree and couldn’t come down!
We went to the rescue, and then
The doctor took Granny’s temperature and said,
‘I strongly recommend a quiet week in bed.’
We sighed with relief and tucked her up well.
Poor Granny! For her, it was like a season in hell.
Confined to her bedroom, while every breeze
Whispered of summer and dancing leaves.
But she held her peace till she felt stronger
Then sat up and said, ‘I’ll lie here no longer!’
And she called for my father and told him undaunted
That a house in a tree-top was what she now wanted.
My Dad knew his duties. He said, ‘That’s all right
You’ll have what you want, dear, I’ll start work tonight.’
With my expert assistance, he soon finished the chore:
Made her a tree-house with windows and a door.
So Granny moved up, and now every day
I climb to her room with glasses and a tray.
She sits there in state and drinks grape-juice with me,
Upholding her right to reside in a tree.
Song for a Beetle
A beetle fell into the goldfish bowl,
Hey-ho!
The beetle began to struggle and roll,
Ho-hum!
The window was open, the moon shone bright,
The crickets were singing with all their might,
But a blundering beetle had muddled his flight
And here he was now, in a watery plight,
Having given the goldfish a terrible fright,
Ho-hum, hey-ho!
The beetle swam left, the beetle swam right,
Hum-ho!
Along came myself—I said, ‘Lord, what a sight!
That poor old beetle will drown tonight.’
Ho-hum.
A beetle is just an insect, I hear,
But what if I fell in a vat full of beer?
I’d be brewed to light lager if no one came near—
(It happened, I’m told, to a man in Ajmer)—
Ho-hum, ho-hum.
The beetle I seized;
The goldfish were pleased!
The window was open, the moon shone bright,
I flung that beetle far out in the night,
And he bumbled away in a staggering flight,
Ho-hum, hey-ho,
Good night!
The Cat Has Something to Say
Sir, you’re a human and I’m a cat,
And I’m really quite happy to leave it at that.
It doesn’t concern me if you like a dish
Of chicken masala or lobster and fish.
So why all these protests around the house
If for dinner I fancy
A succulent mouse?
Or a careless young sparrow who came my way?
Our natures, dear sir, are really the same:
Flesh, fish or fowl, we both like our game.
Only you take yours curried,
And I take mine plain.
Song of the Cockroach
We are the survivors,
Crow and I,
And beetle and bed-bug and bluebottle-fly.
We dine on your refuse,
Exult in your drains,
Your poisons can’t touch us—
You’ll not hear us complain.
When you c
hoke on your gases
And drown in their fumes,
All the rot in your gutters
Are the choicest perfumes.
So carry on turning
Earth’s treasures to ruins,
We will sit here and laugh
While you build your own tombs.
Travel
Remember the Old Road
Remember the old road,
The steep stony path
That took us up from Rajpur,
Toiling and sweating
And grumbling at the climb,
But enjoying it all the same.
At first the hills were hot and bare,
But then there were trees near Jharipani
And we stopped at the Halfway House
And swallowed lungfuls of diamond-cut air.
Then onwards, upwards, to the town,
Our appetites to repair!
Well, no one uses the old road any more.
Walking is out of fashion now.
And if you have a car to take you
Swiftly up the motor-road
Why bother to toil up a disused path?
You’d have to be an old romantic like me
To want to take that route again.
But I did it last year,
Pausing and plodding and gasping for air—
Both road and I being a little worse for wear!
But I made it to the top and stopped to rest
And looked down to the valley and the silver stream
Winding its way towards the plains.
And the land stretched out before me, and the years
fell away,
And I was a boy again,
And the friends of my youth were there beside me,
And nothing had changed.
Garhwal Himalaya
Deep in the crouching mist, lie the mountains.
Climbing the mountains are forests
Of rhododendron, spruce and deodar—
Trees of God, we call them—soughing
In the wind from the passes of Garhwal;
And the snow-leopard moans softly
When the herdsmen pass, their lean sheep cropping
Short winter grass.
And clinging to the sides of the mountains,
The small stone houses of Garhwal,
Their thin fields of calcinated soil torn
From the old spirit-haunted rocks.
Pale women plough, they laugh at the thunder,
As their men go down to the plains:
Little grows on the beautiful mountains
In the east wind.
There is hunger of children at noon; and yet
There are those who sing of the sunset
And the gods and glories of Himaal,
Forgetting no one eats sunsets.
Wonder, then, at the absence of old men;
For some grow old at their mothers’ breasts,
In cold Garhwal.
Parts of Old Dehra
Parts of old Dehra remain…
A peepul tree I knew
And flying foxes
In a mango grove
And here and there
A moss-encrusted wall
Old bungalows