Author Archives: Srishti Sharma

Poverty hits you right there!

An innocent face,            

Wet.

Scattered hairs.

A torned school bag,

Mismatched, large-sized,

School uniform.

Chappals complimenting,

The entire dress.

A ten hours ordeal,

For the young poor kids.

A four and a half hour school,

The rest spent on travelling.

No food.

No gadgets.

Hardly twenty rupees in pocket.

All alone in this,

Big, damn world.

But the emotions,

The happiness,

The energy,

The faith,

Is higher than the blessed,

Well-dressed human beings.

People need to learn a lot from them.

God bless these,

Fantastic souls.

Who keep going,

Even when everything,

Works against them.

And they have been,

Cursed by,

Human’s biggest enemy-Poverty.  

*Note-Chappals (Cheap Shoes)

On Father’s Day

On Father’s Day

A  F.A.T.H.E.R,

Is a source,

Who is,

F-Forever Available,

A-Adorable

T-Trusted,

H-Happy Soul,

E-Elegant,

R-Ready to stand for his children.

A father,

Has an understanding heart,

With a support right,

From the start.

My father is a soul,

With purity and a mole.

He has a golden heart,

Apart from being smart.

He is strict from outside,

But tender from inside.

Many gifts from all,

But a few caressing words,

From dad,

Calms down all.

I love my dad,

And that’s all,

As he is a gift sent by god.

My hero, my love, my strength and my role model.

A role easy to hear,

But hard to perform.

Dad- A salute to you.

©Srishti Sharma

 

 

 

Eve of New Year

Two little kids,
Covering
Their,
Malnourished bodies,
With a dupatta,
Walking,
With a spring
Bare-foot,
Gawking,
At the,
Towering buildings,
Mesmerised,
Where,
Mindless displays,
Of Scarce energy,
In halls and lobbies.
Whereas hovels,
Opposite,
Remain dark,
And unlit.
Lanterns, lights,
Put on,
French windows,
For ushering,
In New Year.
Pretty ladies,
In slim-fit sheaths,
And I-Pods,
Men in Jackets,
And branded
Leather shoes,
CK fragrances,
Driving off,
In a chauffeur-driven sedan,
For splurging,
On the,
High-calorie food.
Without bothering,
For the,
Poor, hungry people,
In unhealthy slums,
Waiting to get,
A two time-meal,
Which will,
Help them live and sustain,
In this big world.

 

© Srishti Sharma

The Powerless

The helpless,
The weak,
The neglected,
Middle-class folks,
Struggling
To provide,
Happy and comfortable,
Life,
To their kids,
Rush in a frenzy,
To board local trains,
That will ferry them,
To their destinations,
In the fast-paced city
When,
Suddenly held hostage,
By a few,
Aliens with long beards,
And black-masks,
Gunned down,
By them ruthlessly,
Leaving their families,
Completely impotent,
Fighting with,
The corrupt system,
Which provides justice,
In the form
Of monetary compensation,
Can precious human life,
Be equal to money?

Copyright-Srishti Sharma

Street Singer

The tall,
Dark brown man,
Clad in a white kurta,
And a dhoti,
With a decorated,
Round topi,
On his head,
A prayer bell in his hand,
A lone man,
On the wide streets,
Of Mumbai,
Chants,
Hymns of God,
In a very strong,
Sharp voice,
Which reverberates across the,
Streets,
A large,
Number of population.
Who get tempted,
To peep,
Out of their,
AC bedrooms,
And French windows,
And leaves,
Them enthralled.

© Srishti Sharm

Diwali-the festival of lights

The illuminous festival,
Of Diwali,
With rackety noise,
Of firecrackers,
And delicious,
Nectarous,
Over-flow of,
Sweet dishes,
Served in,
Silver platters,
With,
Guests enjoying
Lusciously,
The heavily-made sweets,
People religiously,
Following the tradition,
Of not gambling,drinking.
Meeting each other,
With a smile on face,
And gifts,
In hands,
Appreciating the,
Sartorial choices,
Decorated sarees,
And,
Khadi kurtas,
Brings in,
A common interest,
And,
A positive vibe,
Of celebrating,
The spiritual festival,
Of deepavali,
Very peacefully,
And with oneness.
© Srishti Sharma

Money

The pleasant smell,
Of the crisp,
And the green notes,
Fresh and raw,
Taken out,
From the bank,
Attracts the,
Billions and trillions,
Of people,
Bourgeois and affluent,
Who slog hard,
Day and night,
It produces ego,
In those,
Who possess it,
And envy,
Who do not;
People can murder,
People can die,
People can forget,
Their own,
That is,
The power of money,
That makes,
Some feel superior,
And others inferior,
Of their species;
It can make,
As the,
Bard of Avon says,
The lame walk.

© Srishti Sharma

Plastic Bottle

The inferior material,
Made from,
Semi-synthetic organic solids,
The- plastic,
Allures the poor kids,
To run widely,
And catch a bottle,
Of malleable material;
This molded substance,
Fills them with happiness,
As the kids don’t have,
Amazing toy cars and,
Cute Barbie dolls
To play with,
And so they,
Enjoy with,
The plastic bottle
A poor substitute,
But a rich source,
For imagination,
The semi-starved,
Children of the slums,
Give forms and shapes,
By twisting and turning.
Opening and closing,
Filling it half,
Seeing the clear aqua,
Through the,
Plastic’s transparency,
The vibrant,
Malnourished kids,
Find their happiness,
Through very,
Small objects,
Which,
On the other hand,
For the affluent,
Posh society,
Is useless waste,
To be thrown,
Or merely crushed,
Under their uncaring,
Well-Shod feet.

© Srishti Sharma

The Towering Lord Ganesha

The red-clothed,
Towering, robust,
Idol of Lord Ganesha,
Mesmerizes,
The common man,
The Ganesha,
Mounted on,
A mouse,
With a,
Trishul in,
His hands,
Is a symbol of power,
The gigantic figure,
Of vighnharta,
Makes us feel,
The true presence,
Of God,
Regains our faith,
Trust,
Belief,
And lets us,
Surrender,
To the
Almighty,
And leaves,
Us vibrant and cheerful.
©- Srishti Sharma