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Water and air, the two essential fluids on which all life
depends, have become global garbage cans
The poems (or doggerels, if you may), in this compilation have water as the leitmotif – the common strand running through all of them. The language and the construct are intentionally lucid. Poetic license has not been availed of, in order to reach out easily to a much wider readership than conventional, contemporary poetry does. Illustrations in the form of photographs and sketches have been used, and the poems and accompanying tit-bits of factual information, in their capacities as the rational counterparts, places them in context.
Water has possibly been taken for granted over the years. Its value has been known only when the ‘well has run dry’, so to say. But during the last couple of decades, the long-overdue realisation of its importance has slowly dawned upon the world. It behoves one and all to seriously contemplate upon and feel grateful for every drop of water that makes our lives liveable in the true sense of the term. What you will read in the pages that follow are excerpts from this compilation.
I am keen on reaching out to potential publishers / magazine or newspaper editors / NGOs who may be interested in publishing this compilation or sponsoring its publication for that matter-for-profit or for-charity. The poems have been introduced and critiqued in forewords by well-known people associated with the field of water and sanitation. I shall look forward to hearing from interested parties at venkatesh_cg@yahoo.com and/or Venkatesh.govindarajan@ntnu.no
Early in the morning before going to school,
little John went to pee and poo.
He flushed once, twice, thrice and a fourth time;
papa Jack had to disapprove.
‘Don’t keep flushing, son; once is enough,
you do not waste good water ever.
We are lucky to get water everyday,
without it, there are millions who suffer.
‘If it is good water, Daddy, why do I
use it to flush my poo down the drain?
Why don’t we use dirty water instead,
from puddles which form outside in the rain?’
‘I have no time to answer,
you’re getting late for school, John.
Hurry, take your satchel and get going,
else, the bus will be gone.’
At night when he went to bed,
Jack’s thoughts kept him awake for long.
‘How come it never occurred to me -
this question raised by little John?’
One rainy morning
in 2024,
the laboratory ran out
of H2SO4.
Class starts at
quarter to nine.
It is already
eight thirty-nine.
Jack looked out
wondering,
at the dark sky
thundering.
He sought and found
a way out.
Acid rain from
heaven’s spout.
‘Every cloud has
a sulphur lining,’
he smiled sarcastically
at the modified saying.
An ecosystem, neat and clean,
lotus leaves and fish and bird.
Snake in hiding sometimes seen,
buzzing bees often heard.
Chirping birds at eventide.
Yellow butterflies aflutter.
The snake scurries away to hide
as a toddler pitches a pebble in the water.
It was all so enthralling, serene and calm,
But that was yesterday evening.
Today, I see something more,
deplorable, despicable wrong-doing
Haughty man or perhaps mindless woman
of the supreme homo sapien breed,
shamelessly stooping down to commit
an utterly unpardonable deed.
Washing cars, watering lawns
bathing long at wintry dawns.
They sent a lot down the drain
and cried foul at the truant rain.
Those old pipes leaking away,
none was bothered, none did pay.
‘Not my problem,’ all did say,
passing the buck, the Indian way.
Taps today are running dry.
They blame their fate, and curse and sigh,
grudgingly get their buckets and buy,
privileged few with hoi polloi.
The monsoon next year will be strong,
There’ll be water in pipes all day long.
Lessons learnt will be forgotten,
and taps turned on with gay abandon.
Hands! Wish I had them
to close myself when others don’t,
or the power of speech
to talk to those who won’t.
It has been a dozen years or so,
a saga of silent suffering.
Mute witness to callous wastage
that has gone abegging.
I shall soon find myself
amidst a pile of metal scrap.
I pray that I am not recast,
as a helpless kitchen tap.
Snow atop compact snow,
staying put happily for long.
Baby in her comfort zone,
mother’s arms, lullaby song.
Icy stretches throwing off-balance
careless pedestrians and reckless vehicles.
Disobedient teens, erring, impatient,
raising unfailingly their parents’ hackles.
Flowing water, as spring blossoms,
young adulthood marching to freedom,
moving onward towards its goals,
fluid flexible, gathering momentum.
Stormy seas get their moments of calm,
basking under the warmth of the Sun.
Old men, in retirement, contemplating,
life’s journey from snow to ocean.
And then the warm vapours ascending,
as the Spirit Soul commences its flight.
Clouds form in the heavens above,
to send down snow on a wintry night.
I hear that many people spend,
over a third of their lives in slumber.
Five years sating the palate,
as many in purposeless chatter.
More idle hours criticising and complaining,
about things that do not matter.
Consuming with egregious delight,
all they get on a platter.
Ever since I was four years old,
I have spent four hours everyday,
carrying a pot of water on my head;
that makes its six years to the day!
Water droplet stopped in its tracks,
on its way down from the cloud,
at a very puzzling crossroads.
A pause to think out loud.
‘What’s the best service I can render,
for a sense of total fulfilment?
They all need me equally,
for food, drink and raiment.
Farmers need drinking water
but also water for their fields.
They can feed and clothe their family-folk,
only if they increase their yields.
Wish I could vaporise at will,
head back up and wait longer.
Take more time to study the scene
and drop back when the will is stronger.’