T'was a Score and 15 when my world started changing
a bare expose of skin on my head started gleaming
the storms within my brain lost all forms of containment
a desire , a need , a demand of more hair in the making

It started when nosy Ms Shetty gleefully revealed
a sparseness on top of my brain casing sheath
an arrogant denial ensued from thereon
i couldn't lose hair - my family's got a ton!

but claws of age were pulling at the seams
wider and deeper the clearing was being

Mother wasn't happy -
a perfect son lacking in trees
well - it's all her fault as X chromosome would agree

Mother-in-law on the other hand
was calm and composed
with only a futile question I wish never arose
She deliberated" You're losing hair - how could it be?"
but then - did Red Sea have a choice when parted in BC?

The patterns keep emerging in negative proportions
Time waiting for no one especially hairline solutions

What is my purpose
I see others with
A uniqueness, a place
On earth that is gift
Blinded by nothing
Can’t see the road
A destination, a meaning
A mirage unfolds
They say it’s easy
Just have a goal
But what is a goal
When you don’t know your role.
The earth is burdened
By my weight in a state
Of Constants
due to lack of a gait.
At the age of 14
When you’re neither adult nor child
Life was depressing
And I couldn’t smile in a while
Earth didn’t allow me
To unburden my anchor
But she did allow me to
Cry Out my rancour
There have been wonderful experiences
That I may have missed
If Earth had allowed me
To go ahead with my dismiss
But I still don’t know
To where I’m supposed to row
Maybe one day
My knowledge will sow

At the crack of dawn as my young memory serves  
In a nook of Thazhathangady on a historic curve
Melodies of children chanting Rama abounding
Drifting through trees an uplifting moment
The household still still
Can they not hear?
Of beauty, devotion, and innocence near

Burdened at childhood,
A young waif stood.
Wandered to open backyard,
With bundles of twigs on her hood.
All that she wanted - was the rotten mango,
to satisfy her yearnings and pangs of hunger.
My spoilt cousin retrieved a stick,
from the dirt laden terreno.
To assert his authority and cowardly commanded
‘’This is my land; you have no right to be here’’
And proceeded to remove the fruit with a jeer.
The little Ragamuffin took it in her stride.
Carried on her journey with a sense of pride.

In the shivers of a London morn
With a stretch and pull after a yawn
Those gentle eyes in tender created.
A mutual look of love unabated
Four legs and a trot over the hills
A company that transcends all glorious thrills