‘My Cat Spies on a Hen’ and ‘Evening Meditation’

MY CAT SPIES ON A HEN

My cat spies on a hen

While crouching in his den,

The shoebox by the door.

What charm is in a chick

That’s not found in those thick

Rugs we bought in galore

For him to scratch and shred

Or use them as his bed?

Perhaps my cat is bored

Of things now used and old,

Just like me when I sold

The French harp—full-ignored—

When Pa purchased a new

One from the shop. So who

Am I to underscore

This change in my feline

When I myself am fine

With the desire to store

Brand new hens more and more? 

EVENING MEDITATION

(As narrated by my manager, Mr. Khanna)

“First, keep the Om between your brows, then fix

your focus on it,” the instruction reads.

It’s of no help—some thought or feeling pricks

my poise. My guru says, “Use chanting beads.”

I try, but then a bug bite won’t spare me

nor message tones, nor sweet wafts of the dinner

my neighbour makes. One day, I pledged to be

locked in my room. And yet, I was no winner

as duties greeted me and said, “Forget

this worthless thing! Go get the cleanings done

and file your office papers, or I bet

the following day will be a fatal one.”

What should I do? — End every care and toil?

Become a monk? Trek to a chilly height?

But still, the cruel mind’s yammering will spoil

my goals and smoothly shift its inner sight

to curves and shapes (you know well what I mean).

Hence I get up, stop turning those long pages

of the book, calmly lie, and think, “It’s been

a nice attempt. Good skill comes as one ages

and turns more wise, hence I must not push it.”

A voice then yells, “You’re fifty! Get up now!”

Hence, spreading up the yoga mat, I sit

again and fix the Om between my brows.