AN ANGLO-INDIAN ICON

This poem is inspired by a recent photograph of the railway institute in Arkonam. I do not know if such is the state of railway institutes elsewhere in India. However, I am sure many in AJJ will relate to this poem.

I stand here now, lonely, lost and decrepit
For I no longer seem good enough and fit
To be the host of any joyful celebration
Such is my fate, such is my station.

Weddings I have hosted, many dances too
Under my eye, many lads and lasses grew
And at Chrismas time, I was so full of cheer
For it was the best time of the year

Alone and with heavy heart, I now recall
Crowning the May Queen, hosting the June ball
Watching parading lads and lasses in fancy dress
Smiling, when a priest, would another wedding cake bless

I was the heart and soul of any festive season
And to many people I was the reason
They could shout “Housie” or dance the night away
Or with fun and frolic, Wheel of Fortune, play

Yes, my red brick walls and my creaky wooden floor
Saw a wonderful, enterprising community grow
One that filled me with their music, cheer and dance
But, alas, now I am no longer given the chance

Which is why I can only stand here and simply cry
While the grass that does, around me, wither and dry
And wonder where all those people have now gone
As I gaze out at the railway tracks, with a memory forlorn

Yes, as the trains whizz past, taking people here and there
I can only silently stand, gaze and stare
At a period in time, when I could proudly boast
That, of the entire town, I was the toast

So, my friend, if anything, let this my verse pay tribute
To an Anglo-Indian icon – the good, old, railway institute.

Christmas Cheer

It’s a December evening, we’re back from school
The house feels nippy, as a breeze nice and cool
Wafts through the trellis, while Papa gives a rendition
Of carols that herald an annual family tradition

Mummy’s come back with bread, eggs and flour
We little children, get ready for many an interesting hour
Of digging our fingers into a tub full of batter
As the house vibrates with loud, cheerful chatter

It’s that time again, that time of the year
For, cul-culs and cake and Christmas’ cheer
To roll out on forks, an Anglo-Indian delight
And to grease the cake tins with all our might

As "Mum-mum" calls out for us to ‘take care
Or we might fall into the oil that’s boiling there’
Which is ready, of course, to crackle and splutter
As we dip in forked creations of eggs, flour and butter

The whole family sits at the dining room table
Each one doing what he or she is able
And stories are told of Christmases past
While ros-a-cookies are, into the boiling oil, cast

When the whipping and blending has been done
And the cake’s in the oven, it is time for more fun
So we lick our fingers with many a hearty smack
At left-over batter, a tasty pre-cooked snack

That comes for us, only once every year
A time that is filled with memories dear
As carols croon in the chill evening air
And family stories, Papa, does joyfully share

It’s been years now, since I have had such fun
And I hope, I can, one day relive it with my son
Those hours spent in a house on a railway colony
Hours that I now recall, with a smile and much glee.