Copyrights reserved to Poetic Soul
(As the subject struck me, my imagination took flight on two separate wings.
Which one do you prefer and why?) 

DAWN
Dawn, a pictorial, tingling word that strikes the heart 

Stirring vivid flashes of untold, soft,
velvety, feelings and muffled thoughts

Flirting
with 
colourful, 
fresh
with colourful, fresh visions
of picturesque  landscapes

Tantalising and
pearly dew drops 
on petals 

Rapturous
sounds of
chirping
birds and
gurgling brooks 

Of gentle awakening from dreams 
and liberation from nightmares 

From sleep to reality stretching 
languorously and deliriously 

To the anticipation of another phase of life
A fine, invisible line dividing consciousness
from drowsiness

Crossing the threshold of a very recent past
into the oncoming present
Embracing hidden, futuristic hopes

Subtly evoking nature’s magnificence
Sensuousness and mysteries

A state of fragile delirium
Brief, fragmentary, illuminating
A delicious, cherished and radiant moment
A glowing, relishing instant when reality dawns
Giving way to routine life! 

*******************************************************
DAWN

Luminosity filtered in,
accompaned by
a soothing breeze
And
a lingering fragrance
 
Provoking the curtains
to waltz to their
rhythmic harmonious tune
Gliding over softly in their reluctance to disturb!

In this semi state of consciousness,
I sense an invisible, magnetic
Yet positive presence watching over me
With a puzzled expression!

The blowing breeze lifts strands of my hair
Chivalrously requesting for a dance
A request which can not be denied!

A quiet debate ensues
In which Breeze and Fragrance
Oppose Light
“Don’t wake up the sleeping damsel!”

Unknowingly Fragrance fans my cheek faintly
Silken Breeze breathes in my ear

And Light flashes over my eyelids
My eyelashes flutter
Languor is gently overpowered ... While it softly dawns upon me that DAWN is here! 











POETIC SOUL






                

(The fifth in a series 
of True Stories 
from Aunt Bobo’s Adventures)
Copyrights reserved to Poetic Soul 

Recap: Aunt Bobo – the main protagonist - dramatic, dynamic, eccentric and tough lady with a child’s heart. Wherever Aunt Bobo is, unusual events occur…


FEAR ZONE
Her ears and eyes sharpened like antennas to pick up any sound or movement. She expected the attack at any moment, her tender heart thundering with fear. She could smell her own fear. They would sniff it too! That thought chilled her to the bone.

She desperately tried to suppress that destructive emotion, but Fear had its own ideas. It pricked her like thorns moistening her temples with icy beads of sweat.

To a passer-by, she would have looked like a normal 11-year-old girl in pigtails. But where were the passers-by?

It was in the early 1960’s and Mauritius was still a virgin island sparsely populated.

Aunt Bobo was born and bred in Quatre-Bornes, known as the Town of Flowers. It was a quiet and posh residential locality before the nouveau riche barged in with their fake glitter.

Heavy silence hung over the place. The deserted street was dark and brooding. 
It looked forbidding, 
bordered with massive trees which swung 
under the baton of Maestro Wind! Their 
shadows and 
the sound of rustling leaves turned the atmosphere menacing and eerie. With each cautious foot forward, the little one breathed a sigh of relief. Each step was a move away from Fear Zone. 

Little Bobo (I doubt whether she ever dreamt that some day she would be known as Aunt Bobo!) moved stealthily. She wore rubber-soled shoes and a dark-coloured frock. Majority of her wardrobe comprised dark-hued garments, and she insisted that her frocks were equipped with pockets. Nobody knew the reason except her!

Every week, the little one had to go through this terrifying street for her Fine Art classes, and she adamantly refused to be dropped by her dad. She had to overcome her fear and grapple with this hellish problem on her own.

Her ears and eyes were alert, her heart boomed, her lips moved in a silent prayer to dissipate her fearful mind. She dipped her hands in her pockets. The latter were stocked with sharp little stones wrapped in paper. These were her weapons, missiles and grenades! Contact with the cold rough stones gave her a feeling of reassurance.

As she had already covered three-quarter of the street, she was feeling slightly more relaxed when a big black brute sprang from one of the yards, barking ferociously. Then, it came to a standstill, a snarl spreading over its ugly mug as it began to growl. What dirty yellow teeth? Aren’t they ever brushed? They must be filled with cavities! If things went on like this, the brute would soon lose all its teeth (which would have been a good thing indeed!), the little girl could not help wondering. As soon as these thoughts flashed through her mind, little Bobo braced herself. She had unknowingly turned rigid, and braked in her tracks. On a quick impulse, she started firing her missiles on the evil beast without flinching though her heart was hammering.

Shocked by the sudden and unexpected attack, the brute retreated. At the same moment, the gardener appeared and shoved it back in. “Thank God you did not run,” the man told our little Bobo, “or else he would have chased you…”

Aunt Bobo stared at him straight in the eyes, “Why should I run? By the way why don’t’ you confine this beast in its kennel? ” Surprised by the little girl’s dare, the gardener retorted, “The master prefers to keep his place guarded. This street is a very quiet one and he does not want to take chances with thieves.” Having said so, he disappeared in the premises of the grand mansion.

With Danger Zone left behind, relief flooded the little girl but … 

…it was not all over! After her classes, she would have to tread through Fear Zone again! This dreadful experience lasted 
for more than a year 
but 
little Bobo did not 
breathe word 
to anyone. 


She wore dark-coloured clothes during such expeditions to escape the eyes of these dangerous dogs (guarding their wealthy masters’ bungalows), and the frock pockets stored her war weapons…the stones! Those were her innermost secrets - which she shared with me during our numerous tete-a-tetes. And, now you know it too - how and when…

…Aunt Bobo CONQUERED FEAR! 


 

 - POETIC
 SOUL

(The fourth in a series of True Stories in Aunt Bobo’s Adventures)
Copyrights reserved to Poetic Soul


Hostage

Aunt Bobo closed her eyes and bid farewell to this world!

The ferocious bull with its lethal horns was charging towards them in a vicious rage. Aunt Bobo sat still and calm on the back seat of the motorbike. She knew her last moment on earth was reaching to an end. There was no time for even a prayer except a fleeting communication with the Almighty!

That morning, Aunt Bobo and her twin brother Tito decided to ride out of the city of Bombay (as it was called then) on this powerful motorbike which belonged to uncle Tito’s friend Dilip, the son of a business tycoon. Obviously, uncle Tito could not own such a beauty as he was just a mere student in a foreign land. It was in the 1980’s. Aunt Bobo and uncle Tito were doing their graduation in Bombay. 



Aunt Bobo was staying at the Government Ladies’ Hostel on Marine Drive while her twin brother put up at the boys’ hostel reserved for foreign students (ISH) International Student Hostel at Churchgate. 
That feverish examinations period had taken its toll on Aunt Bobo who dislikes such
 formalities. At a point of time, she even envied the
chameleon sun tanning itself without a care in the world, and the gram seller advertising his goodies “Mumfali…channa” on the 123 bus stop at Marine Drive. 


Now that the nightmare was over, she needed to celebrate – to do something exciting, let her hair down and paint the city red. Little did she know that she was about to see RED!

Without any fixed plan, the twins found themselves at the Borivili Park. Probably, it was more fun to ride there (no traffic jam and pollution) with the breeze fanning their face and blowing in their hair.

They were speeding through a narrow road bordered by shrubs, trees and greenery until their unbelievable eyes met the angry bull charging towards them. 
A group of frenzied people were chasing the animal. Some even had sticks in their hands. They were slum dwellers. 

Aunt Bobo has had an unbelievably adventurous life which is still going strong. Somehow, unusual things always happen around her. As we are great chums despite the age gap, we converse on any topic under the sun with ease. What with one thing leading to another, real life incidents crop up. To set the record straight, Aunt Bobo is not her real name, and I am the only one allowed to address her thus. As a baby I could not pronounce her name properly, 
blabbering “Bo”…”Bo” 
and that’s how the name took birth.

To get back to that nightmarish mid-morning in Borivili Park, Aunt Bobo was chilled but neither did she utter a word nor make a sound. Squeezing her eyes tight, she tightened her seat belt for the one-way ticket up there! She had no qualms and anticipated the piercing pains of the bull horns at any moment.

The very next second, she was lying on the road. Everything had happened so fast that she was still dazed when she felt a hand pulling her up. It was uncle Tito.She stared at the scene around her speechlessly. The motorbike was reduced to a scrap of metal. The bull lay dead with blood oozing from its body.

But Aunt Bobo came out without a scratch!

The crowd chasing the bull stood still looking sullen and hostile. “You killed our bull. You must pay for it…,” they threatened. So saying, they circled Aunt Bobo claiming money from uncle Tito. He deemed it wiser to seek rescue from the law as he did not have much money on him. Moreover, he was convinced that they were double crossing him. Chasing a bull in a public place was not a normal thing! “What if we had died instead?” he asked them only to be stared with cold hatred.

Unfortunately, there was no one in sight. So, there was no other alternative but to foot it down to the main road for help. As for the motorbike, it was lying like a smashed corpse on the road. Surely, there had to be a police station on the main road, and with some luck he might bump into a police officer on the way. His numerous pleas to take Aunt Bobo along met adamant denials.

Aunt Bobo was held hostage.

Aunt Bobo maintained her poise and tried to ignore the animosity from the slum dwellers. The atmosphere was crackling with tension and from time to time they passed mean and provocative remarks. But Aunt Bobo remained tight-lipped while her heart echoed a silent prayer. After nearly two long hours, Uncle Tito returned with a police inspector and a journalist friend.

Relief flooded Aunt Bobo. She was released. The crowd started arguing about their ‘cherished’ dead bull, their livelihood, all leading to cash. Uncle Tito sent Aunt Bobo packing. “Return to the hostel. I’ll call you later!” Her numerous protests to stay behind went unheard. Moving like a zombie, she boarded the train to Chandni Road station and the hostel. Neither could she eat nor stay in her room. She sat downstairs in the hall for the long wait. Seconds, minutes, and hours sped by! Each time the phone rang, she dashed to pick it up. No luck. Finally at about sevenish in the evening, the much awaited call came.

“The matter is resolved thanks to my
journalist friend or else I would have had to pay much more. Moreover, the cop would have demanded a bribe,” uncle Tito said in a tired voice.

Aunt Bobo and Uncle Tito had had a scrape with death. The bull was a mad and dangerous one, his journalist friend said. It had snapped the rope with which it was tied to a tree and was tearing down the public road. The slum dwellers were actually chasing it to kill it. In return, they extorted a tidy sum of money. 
The motorbike was a goner but …

…what mattered was that the twins had a lucky escape! 


 




- POETIC SOUL

Copyrights reserved to Poetic Soul

(The third of a series of True Short Stories in Aunt Bobo’s Adventures)

Troubled Waters

“Enough is enough!” exclaimed Aunt Bobo, stamping her feet. Her voice betrayed annoyance, irritation and grief. Whoever had crossed swords with the lady was in troubled waters. In fact, no sane person would ever wish to be in her black list!

But somebody did dare, and that person was Noiro (Blacky), the husband of Tangale. 
The latter was Aunt Bobo’s former maid.

Tangale was sobbing bitterly. Hot tears sprang from her eyes, running down her cheeks like a silent waterfall.

 
Her eyes were puffed and red. Her nose ran like a
 loosened tap. 
Wrenching a tissue from the box, Aunt Bobo handed it over to the maid. 

Aunt Bobo was perturbed. She kept herself under tight control lest she exploded. Her face changed expressions from remorse, compassion, indignation to sorrow. Her temper was rising like a meteo as Tangale narrated her tragic tale between racking sobs and gasping breathing. The maid’s plump frame shook with the intensity of emotions. “Guette mo lebra..li ti batt moi avek enn boutey” (Look at my arm...he hit me with a bottle),
she stammered.
We stared at the scar which marred her fleshy arm with incredulity. Her hand was trembling.

Aunt Bobo just stormed out of the room. “Kot ou pe alle madame..pa alle sil vou plait. Li pu touye moi si li konney ki monn raconte ou” (Where are you going madam, plz don’t go. He’ll chop me if he knows that I told you about it). So saying, Tangale threw me an appealing look. Her face was crumpled with anguish. We shot out after Aunt Bobo who looked like an army commander on the firing line. She was simmering with anger. Tangale pleaded with her while I provided the back-up. Finally, Aunt Bobo calmed down and flopped down in the garden chair.

I’ve witnessed similar scenes with Tangale umpteen times. She had been Aunt Bobo’s maid for about six months. During that period, the maid had absented herself on countless occasions. Whenever we phoned her, she could hardly whisper, and stuttered. The following day she would arrive with a bloated face, red eyes, trembling hands, and would move about in a trance.

Tangale was a battered woman. Her husband Noiro was a drunkard and nicked her hard-earned money to quench his thirst for alcohol and his excitement for gambling. He spent all his Saturdays at the Champ de Mars race course (in Port-Louis, the capital of Mauritius) during the horse racing season only to return home in drunken stupor and rage for draining his resources. He lashed out his frustrations on his poor wife who was struggling to make both ends meet. 


Every time that Tangale cried out her heart, Aunt Bobo tried to reason with her.
 Why not file a complaint at the police station? Why not report the matter to the Domestic Violence section of the ministry of women? Why not seek refuge in women shelters?

Unfortunately, as many other victims of domestic violence, Tangale was ruled by her heart. She shuddered at the very idea of sending her husband to jail or to leave him. She loved him despite all these atrocities. Her emotional feelings had turned her blind, deaf and into a zombie. She never realized that her self-respect was in doldrums.

My heart grieved for Tangale’s dilemma and Aunt Bobo’s powerlessness. There was so much that we could do to alleviate the young woman’s miseries but we were helpless. We had to respect her wishes.

Events repeated themselves. Aunt Bobo always saved food for Tangale, offered her clothes and kept any other extra something for the maid. We had an idea about Tangale’s house but had never ventured there to save her from further domestic problems.

However, one particular Sunday Aunt Bobo had organized a small lunch party for few close friends. This was done on rare occasion as Aunt Bobo is a very busy lady. Tangale had been informed about the event and did promise to turn up very early.The guests were to arrive by 12.30 p.m. It was already 10.00 p.m and there was no sign of Tangale. What could have happened, we wondered. Was she lying in a hospital beaten by her violent husband? Or had she…? Nightmarish ideas flew across our imaginative minds. Finally, we could not bear the tension any more.

Aunt Bobo and I set out in search of the dame in distress. Inquiring here and there, we located her place. The house was closed, windows and doors. Yet, we knocked suspecting foul play.

“Open up…,”Aunt Bobo said in a terse voice, “I know somebody is in there!” Silence! She called out again, and this time in a more provocative and authoritative tone driven by panic. The door opened slowly, and two persons came in sight: Tangale – puffy-faced, red-eyed, a half bottle of rum in one hand, and a cane (what we call ‘rotin bazar’ in the local lingo) in the other one. Behind her, peeped a thin, dark-skinned and frightened man, with bruises and cuts all over his face, and in tattered clothes. 

HE was the BATTERED MAN! 





-POETIC SOUL

True Story (The second in a series of Aunt Bobo’s adventures)

Copyrights Poetic Soul

When THIEF yells “POLICE!”

My head was pounding and my heart hammering. I woke up abruptly from a deep sleep realizing that someone was actually banging on the door.
“Where was I?” 

Then it hit me that I was actually at Aunt Bobo’s place as my cousin had gone abroad on business.
I scrambled from the bed and dashed to the hall.

Aunt Bobo was already there, standing by the door.

Her back looked tense and she had an iron bar in her hand. Nevertheless, without losing her usual sang-froid, she demanded crisply “Who’s there?” A tough male voice replied “It’s the police ma’m…open the door!” Unruffled and without flinching, Aunt Bobo flicked on the porch lights, pulled the curtain aside, opened the window cautiously and told the nocturnal intruder, “Show me your identity card!”

The man repeated impatiently, “I’m Inspector Margoze ma’m, please open the door!” But his words did not have the desired effect on Aunt Bobo who firmly repeated herself. With no other alternative, the man slipped his ID card through the gap in the window.
Adjusting her spectacles, Aunt Bobo peered at the credentials and then at the guy outside. “No wonder he looks so sour…just like his name,” she whispered to me. (Margoze in the local lingo means bitter gourd!) Seeming satisfied, she jerked the door open. I stood close to her as body guard. (As if Aunt Bobo ever needs a bodyguard!!!) She would guffaw if she hears this!

Three men, two constables and a police inspector stood on the front steps. Inspector Margoze looked harassed. When his gaze fell on Aunt Bobo, a myriad of expressions flashed across his face. His eyes reflected respect and awe. I was seized with amusement as I had seen that expression often where Aunt Bobo was concerned.

“I am sorry to bother you at this hour ma’m…” he began ...but was cut short by Aunt Bobo, “You better have a good reason to disturb respectable folks from their sleep or you’ll really be sorry.” She paused, adding “By the way, why didn’t you ring the bell instead of banging on the door?” Inspector Margoze flushed with embarrassment in front of the constables. “Did you hear anything unusual about an hour ago or so m’am?” He managed to utter.

Rubbing her sleepy eyes and running her fingers through her curly silvery hair, Aunt Bobo replied, “Not really Officer! Should we have done so? I mean, is something the matter?” By then, concern had crept into her voice.


“About one and a half hour ago, we
received a phone call from a motorist who came across an unconscious man lying on the road in this area.”


Inspector Margoze continued with the narration. It seems that the ‘unconscious’ man was severely bruised.

His clothes were tattered and his feet were in roller skates. His name was Longaille, a notorious thief.
And, at that particular moment, Longaille was lying in a coma in the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) of the local hospital.


“We’ve been moving from door to door for the past hour. Strangely enough, nobody in this neighbourhood seemed to have heard anything.
Each door that we knocked on was opened by people yawning or rubbing their sleepy eyes!” On this baffled note, Inspector Margoze bid us goodnight.


Aunt Bobo locked the door leaving the iron rod in its corner for emergency purposes...like thieves. She was in her blue sleeping gear and her feet were shod into her famous pink socks. It was a cold winter night. However, in her haste, she had tiptoed to the door without her bedroom slippers. Her sharp eyes wore a distant look for a fragmentary second.  


Then, they lit up like two bright bulbs.
She looked at me as if she had discovered a new continent and murmured, “Intruders can’t even sniff around. We have neighbourhood watch here!”

So saying, she rushed to the telephone cubicle (where the lone phone sat on its desk. This phone cubicle ensures privacy to callers.) Within a second her fingers were feverishly dialling a number. Listening to others’ conversations is not in my nature, so I made a move…but Aunt Bobo stopped me.


Alas, I tried to block my poor ears from loafing around the telephonic conversation. My mind reverted to the police inspector’s expression when he saw Aunt Bobo’s powerful personality and the pink socks. (Aunt Bobo can look intimidating at times but she is actually extremely generous and soft-hearted!) I was unable to suppress a smile. Snatches of Aunt Bobo’s telephonic conversation floated to my ears despite my unwillingness to hear. “Whaaaaat? Oh…I see…Wheennn? hmn…Is thaaat so?...ook..”

Finally, she replaced the receiver in its cradle and marched into the sitting room. Her expression spoke volumes. I could see that she was in a haste to share the information with me.


It seems that the notorious Longaille had unfortunately picked this neighbourhood to loot. As it was Saturday night, he was confident that most residents would either be out or too engrossed in suspense and action movies on television to bother about any real action taking place around. 
Longaille wore roller-skates for faster action in case of unexpected danger.


Little did he know that the short arm of this neighbourhood was faster than his roller-skates. Somebody sounded off the alarm and the chase was on. His roller-skates were of no help. Some of the swift-legged residents caught the thief and thrashed him till Longaille was forced to yell “POLICE…HELP!”

But the enraged residents did not spare the intruder. Utterly weak by the beating, our thief sank on the road.
Not realizing the gravity of the situation, the inhabitants
sought the safety of their homes. 

By the time the police siren was blaring, they were snuggled in their warm beds. The pounding on the door sought each one in their sleeping gear, disheveled, and yawning. Nobody had any information for the police, but within minutes the news had spread like wild fire in the neighbourhood, the neighbouring towns and the villages as well. After all, Mauritius is a small island. 

No thief has ever dared set feet in Aunt Bobo’s neighbourhood after that lethal night!


- Poetic Soul

WIPE OUT THE FILMY DUST FROM THE MIRROR!


For years women around the world, have been cribbing about ill-treatment by their male counterparts. Most of these complaints are 
genuine... 


…however, ladies have we ever paused to have a real glance in the mirror?
Do we ever reflect on the misfortunes dumped on us by people of our own gender? 



Who are mothers-in-law, daughters-in-law, sisters-in-law? 

WOMEN, WOMEN, WOMEN!!!


Very often, we grumble and cast aspersions on our colleagues (of the same gender) for a promotion at work."You know how she got that promotion!”
Knowing looks are exchanged … bitchy remarks are made and a smirk springs up on our faces. The corridors of the corporate world echo with such hideous comments…


Why raise catty remarks, cast dirty glances and harbour revengeful feelings in our hearts? Why waste time and energy in concocting evil plots to destroy others joys and successes? Can’t we appreciate their prosperity, praise their charming looks and good deeds instead of raising fingers at them?
Why don’t we try to be tolerant and kind?

Let’s cleanse our minds, hearts and souls of evil, jealousy, hatred and ENVY!

Let’s go back to the original way in which God created us 
gentle, 
kind,

tender,

compassionate

and

                           generous.

In fact,

WOMAN 
is the most 

gracious

and

courageous

living human being

God has created! 


The word ‘RIGHT’ has been sullied by our silly actions. 
We can only fight for our Rights
when

we are United!


So, 

Let’s

Stand
United! 


Be a Lady!
-POETIC 
S
O
U
L

                      
"MUSICAL RAINBOW" - Keep in Tune

                                    
    Linking Hearts
   

Winner:
          
                
Mumbai_Ka_Raaja



Music is Balm to the Soul!
Its lingering presence in our life can't be denied! It whisks us away from mundane and routine conflicts. Thus, we launched this musical blog - antakshri style where songs are linked in sequences, that is the last sound of the previous song with the following one and refraining from repetitions. Participants were invited to play this game in a spirit of fun and relaxation.

                        Congratulations
       To The Winner
             For His
          Relentless
        Participation
                         

                             - Poeticsoul
                              

 MUSICAL 

RAINBOW
-

LINKING HEARTS


I am very upset because nobody wants to play Antakshri with me… 



Will you do the honours? 




I’ll start and you take the cue after the resounding last syllable...  
Join in
with a song that starts with the sound of the last syllable 
of the previous song..
The first two lines of your song will do..

It’ll be a continuous process… 



Any song.. 

Old or New,

Ghazal or Disco…. 



Solo Or Duet..

You can play with a group of Friends

or 

                                 


as a Couple 


                                     Once in a while I will join you in this 

Unbreakable Chain 

of 

Musical Notes



Sham 

-E- 

Mehfil 

ki raat ayi hai


So, let’s launch this musical masti
Here we go
Hoping that this game will link hearts 
in

LUV

N

FRIENDSHIP



-POETIC SOUL  

BIRTHDAY BASH 

                                                      
                                                                                                                                 The QUEENDOM of  Poetry                                         
will be honoured by your gracious presence
at the birthday party of PS

(partly funded by the
Kind Mother House Fropper) 
to be held at my 'Ghareeb Khanna'
(see photo to the right)
on May 21, 2008.


The air fare will be taken care by our Dear Old Fropper (God Bless!)
The bill will be kindly handed in by our Comrades 
JD132 and prashantnaik2000 (Thank You Ever So Much) 
The accomodation and organising will be handled by the Queendom of Poetry.
The poetic nymphs will receive you on May 21 morning with due respect at the airport and take you to your respective lodgings.

Each one of you is requested to bring in your contribution to the party. 
The Queendom is not that poor but your personal touch will liven the party.
Please let us know what you intend to bring so that we know where we stand!
Note that there will be a bonfire under the moonlight with the sega dancers!

You will also be taken for a tour around the island during your two-day stay here.

A sea cruise is on the menu

Please give your suggestions where you would like to go. Your requests will be valued.


Rest assured about your leave from work, colleges or homes
The Queendom will handle that!

As you are the guests, please jot down your thoughts about the party theme and any other ideas are welcome! 

All comments in the box below and to be sent urgently. Thanks!

Find enclosed your formal invitation below.