The Unadorned

My literary blog to keep track of my creative mood swings with poems n short stories, book reviews n humorous prose, travelogues n photography, reflections n translations, both in English n Hindi.

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I'm a peace-loving married Indian male on the right side of '50 with college-going children, and presently employed under government. Educationally I've a master's degree in History, and another in Computer Application. Besides, I've a post graduate diploma in Management. My published works are:- (1)"In Harness", ISBN 81-8157-183-5, a poetry collections and (2) "The Remix of Orchid", ISBN 978-81-7525-729-0, a short story collections with a foreword by Mr. Ruskin Bond, (3) "Virasat", ISBN 978-81-7525-982-9, again a short story collection but in Hindi, (4) "Ek Saal Baad," ISBN 978-81-906496-8-1, my second Story Collection in Hindi.

Friday, April 30, 2010

The Poor King


It's a feeling to resume the blog, an activity that had to be left on the back burner to accommodate other chores. I've seen my scores sliding drastically and alerts from pouring into my inbox, but I was undone. My next book was to be pushed ahead in the drafting phase and I'm glad that it has nearly reached its finishing line. So it's time to show up in the blogosphere, read contents, browse and browse.




Ventured the farthest possible

For its tiny feather

Into the sky, away from the shore

In quest of day's grub,

The poor Kingfisher.

Its luck had it this way,

Returned it to the dried branch

Of the lonely mangrove, its serai of hope

At the end of the day,


The tired Kingfisher

Sat pensive, brooding over his miss

A hero with a setback, all its guts scrambled

To hazard another bid,

Before the nightfall.

While lamenting the catch

That escaped from its grip

The evening star in the sky, began to wink

Parodying its saga heroic,

It was time to give up.

At a distant corner

Lay a corpse of a tiny fish

The fisherman's leftovers, for a sordid scavenger

Sparkled invitingly

Before the hungry Kingfisher.

To gulp or not to

The dead fish?

The rotten fish? And without catching it?

It was not a regal way to consider

For its excellency-the Kingfisher.

''The king can do no wrong''

He can't even sing a song

In the public, for his mental peace

He is a beast of burden

Voluntary and honorary.

Born to bear the dead weight

With no grumble nor protest

The vestige of the past, the tyranny of present

He should carry on and on unfed

Like my lovely, hungry Kingfisher.



A. N. Nanda