The whistle

The whistle blares it is the inky night of 2’O clock
Marked by  feet in old boots, in a Himalayan walk,
With their stick tapping the earth to warn thieves.


Another whistle, man and boy blew this morning
Whose shrillness of blowing sounded quite hollow
Across the bare earth and houses to friends down
All in mirth, the boy in a snigger after the whistle.
Their whistle is mere surrogate for night’s cricket
Since the latter has taken short leave from bushes.


When our rice is ready for meal in pressure cooker
The whistle sounds blowing the lid off afternoon nap.
The pressure rises in vapor, pressing down the valve,
A short whistle-blower on hunger pangs in our belly.




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