The Writer Type

So many arguments in the world,
To earn, to learn,
To strive, to thrive,
Seated on an armchair in a balcony,
They fade to give way to an old audience,
I see, the jobless blue sky, yawn and laze,
The merry green leaves banter with the trees,
Tiny birds in a circle flap their wings,
A mighty eagle cocks an eye and glides effortlessly,
A restless wind blows brittle hair,
Faded cotton saris fly on a wire,
Pungent spices soak the rays of the sun,
Noisy children get off the school bus,
And scamper home,
Unaware of the pressures of a grownup’s world.

I also see, little people under a tree shade eat their lunch,
Little in stature, stooping,
Back to pushing the garbage bins, sweeping the fallen leaves,
A woman, frail, yet, obese from the rice starch,
Washing used plates,
I wonder if they dream of making it big.
How big is big?
A lakh or two, maybe ten.

Really, ordinary people must be truly divine,
To find meaning in the daily grind,
Here, I read, I write, philosophise,
Yet, purpose is as hazy,
As droplets on a windshield,
A burden most days,
A poem, on good ones,
Though,much happier,
Now that I have developed a taste,
For lemon-ginger tea,
I stroll, I sip,
I think,
A person can be such a great influence,
Shaping your life,
Not the clutter or the noisy variety,
But the silent kind,
Sorted in the head,
Mindful, I must add.

Anyway,in awe of the ordinary,
I think of him from my balcony,
His dreams, his aches and pains,
Of what it is like to call a dingy place, home,
Extraordinary isn’t it?

An afternoon well spent,
Alas, my fascination comes to an end,
The writer types seldom dwell deep,
To go in deep,
I’ll have to work on being ordinary,
A tough call, I tell you.