Navarasa

Navarasa

Shringara

The scent of Parijaat

lingers in the soft moonlight

my breath entangled with his

Hasya

Those unabashed squeals

Like a myriad soapy bubbles

Chased by little ones

Karuna

My child sheds a tear,

A mother bird mourns her nest-

Grief lingers, silent.

Raudra

Another Nirbhaya

The third eye of Shiva must

burn this world to ash

Veera

In Subhadra’s womb

A young warrior waits keenly

to kiss battle field

Bhayanak

swords and lit torches

In hands of people praying

To another God

Vibhatsa

Vultures encircle

The red bloodied reeking earth

Death dances about.

Adbhuta

The joy of catching

fireflies by those little hands

The wonder of twilight

Shanta

Blessing of full moon

washes over the suckling

babe with milk divine.

Elemental

Fire

All turns into gold,

As your radiance burns bright,

Purging the impure.

Earth 

Tree roots go so deep,

Whispering patience to Earth,

The only home known.

Air 

A blade of grass sways,

Fluttering with prairie winds,

Dreaming of freedom.

Water 

Rains form little streams,

Paper boats with tiny dreams

Sail hearts’ vast oceans.

Sky/Ether

Stars in a dark cape,

Timeless enormity fills,

Every waiting void.

The six seasons : Haiku

 Vasanta 

A thousand Palash 

Like a forest catches flames

The perfect Holi

Grishma 

Tangy youth of spring

dissolves in summer warmth

glass of Aam panna

Varsha 

Green foliage abounds

As rains cool the parching bricks

Thirsty for ages

Sharad 

A dried pipal leaf 

carrying scent of summer past

Falls without much ado. 

Hemanta 

Coffee’s warm aroma 

sitting by the winter hearth 

An old beatnik poet. 

Shishira

sesame crackles 

To fight the merciless cold

On low roasting flame

Shakuntala: a single parent

Whether it was a curse

of an ever irascible Rishi,

Or a convenient bout 

of amnesia that suddenly 

enthralled a philandering king,

after an initial heartbreak 

Shakuntala didn’t care. 

No stranger to desertion

by a bored mother 

and a detached father

she gathered all the fortitude 

and moved deep into the forest

A single parent to Bharat, 

who played with lion cubs

and was breastfed valour

That gushed through her veins. 

Love and longing: three haiku

 Peacocks dance in gold

On the vast expanse of my

Ma’s ivory saree 

Picking the gold stud

That sat on her regal nose

My dadi’s ashes

Urdu edition

Of the paper Baba read

Lies untouched on floor

नभ नील काया वाले पंछी

 नभ नील काया वाले पंछी

जब तुम उड़ते आसमान में

क्या तुम्हें लगता है 

कि इस नील गगन के आँचल में

तुम छुपन छुपाई खेल रहे हों

जैसे माँ की गोद में एक

नन्हा बालक इठलाता इतराता

अठखेलियां खाता और 

उसी के रंग में रंग जाता।

Festival of lights

Diwali was a very special day

as we would often see 

a very jovial side of our 

otherwise serious and 

workaholic father, 

as he carried a tray full of 

earthen Diyas

guiding us to create 

beautiful patterns brightening 

our mom’s painstakingly 

made Rangoli of Ganesh ji. 

And, lit up the sparklers 

handling them carefully to us, 

keeping an eye on 

my brother and I.

He would light up 

ground spinning chakris, 

Flower pots, 

garlands of crackers

and launched rockets

that bloomed into fiery flowers

across the firmament

as we stood mesmerised

at this fiesta of lights. 

Superstitions

Before every exam

we would partake

spoons full of 

yogurt mixed with curd

believing it would bring 

us unprecedented luck

carrying our luckiest coin, 

a talisman, a totem object or 

Durga Chalisa in our wallet, 

we step out gingerly

avoiding any black cat, 

single mynah or a barking dog

while our eyes seek 

darshana of a street cleaner

whose long broom can 

not only clean away the dirt 

but also the cobwebs 

from the path to 

Our good luck and fortune.

Supernatural

I always looked forward to

to sleep overs 

with cousins and friends 

as it meant no sleeping at all

but a night full of 

spine-chilling horror stories, 

some heard, some read, 

some cooked up on the go, 

mostly apocryphal 

being projected as real 

spooky incidents that 

happened around a relative. 

And, then came the turn of 

seance, often played on 

a home-made Ouija Board, 

as the coin-planchette 

moved wildly owing to 

perhaps individual mischief 

or our collective anxiety, 

leading us to such frenzy 

that we would start believing

in our own hoax,

scared but excited, 

Trying to sleep,  

exhausted after imagining  

entities of all varieties 

lurking in the cupboard 

or under our bed or 

perhaps the dark corridor 

leading to the kitchen 

and bathroom, 

refusing to leave the room 

even for drinking water 

or to attend Nature’s call. 

The first dosa of my life

 

Unlike many girl children, 

I was indulged so very much 

by my doting Baba 

who was my personal genie 

and conjured up things,

as I demanded, 

That purple and black 

beaded hair band, 

tikki chaat with chhole, 

a very gaudy red clutch, 

a pair of toe rings which 

I wore in my fingers, 

Orange-flavoured ice lollies, 

my first ever Barbie doll 

much to the chagrin of 

my Amma and Mom. 

Hordes of bows and arrows 

from the Dussehra mela, 

It just went on and on. 

But that one thing that 

stands out among these 

indulgences, 

was the first ever taste 

of mouth-wateringly delicious 

Masala dosa, 

served with a delectable 

coconut chutney 

and tangy sambar,

unlike anything I had eaten 

in my precocious six years, 

starting a love affair 

of a life time 

with this crispy, 

meltingly divine, 

ghee roasted crepe.  

bicycle

 

Trying to up my

style quotient 

as a nerdy but

impulsive teenager, 

I goaded my parents 

into buying me a 

noir-colored typical boys’

cycle for going to 

my science tuitions

rather than a sensible 

Cross-bar free, narrow 

- tyred feminine bicycle

in perhaps a powdery 

pink or purple.  

I didn’t realise then 

how painful each pedal’s

push would be 

and the sheer hard work 

I would have to do 

to ride this boys bike 

with thick tyres

and yet not let it 

be obvious to everyone. 

 

Power cut

Certainly everything about 

the past was not hunky-dory 

Our biggest pet peeve 

those days 

were those long nights

of forced vigil, 

when the power cuts 

so rampant, 

robbed us of our perfect 

restful sleep.

We would walk up and down

the terrace 

on those hot sticky nights

when the mosquitos buzzing 

in our ears 

further salted our wounds 

and the only relief came 

from the constant motion

and we walked up and down 

like automated zombies, 

singing songs, playing 

midnight Antakshari in 

voices hoarse, devoid of sleep.

Wishing fervently and 

disturbing the gods for this 

small inconvenience, 

and tying the corner of clothes 

in whimsical superstitions.

Hoping, walking, fighting irritation, 

singing, hoping, walking, singing!

Now exhausted, collapsing 

in cane chairs or charpai, 

trying to fan ourselves with 

Palm leaf hand pankhis. 

Dolls

Under the purple haze 

of a briefly blooming 

Jacaranda tree, 

Before my famous feminist 

consciousness awoke in me 

and I started seeing everything 

from this perspective, 

we married off our dolls, 

staging the mandap 

with fires of marigold petals

and as our picture perfect Barbie 

lovingly named as Mrignayani,

in a lehanga made up of 

my mom’s saree fall, 

matching with a little bodice 

Fashioned out of a golden ribbon, 

tied the knot with a very 

desi Ken, named Siddharth, 

in patched up kurta dhoti 

Sewn lovingly by Amma on 

her Usha sewing machine 

and as the guests began 

to feast on bhelpuri 

faintly resembling the biryani, 

it was the halwa made in a 

toy wok, 

A mix of water and 

glucose biscuits

whose spoon fulls were

shyly offered by the 

blushing bride to the 

smug groom. 

And then, the moms began to sing 

the auspicious bidai geet

and cried copious tears 

as the bride sat in the 

groom’s car bidding farewell 

To one and all. 

Picnic

Picnic in our childhood

invariably meant going 

to our kuldevi’s temple 

on an Ashtami coinciding 

with the weekend. 

Carrying ‘sawa mani’ prasad

in the form of besan burfi, 

a gesture of gratitude 

for the fulfilment 

of an old or a new wish, 

along with a large tiffin 

filled with aalu gobhi, 

Palak pooris and my favourite 

gatta curry made 

me drool as we could barely 

keep our minds off the 

pickled peppers and Bikaner Sev,

while the elders performed 

the Aarti to the Devi. 

Later as we sat after sipping 

hot cardamom tea from 

the big thermos, 

it was the distribution of 

Prasad to the entire village 

as we walked in the loose

sand of the dunes, 

avoiding thorns, 

eyeing the gentle camels 

resting under the Khejri trees,

that the true appreciation of 

our roots and heritage hit home. 

Letter box

Those days when the 

STD calls were prohibitively

expensive and emails were 

not even heard of,

 Each time my father 

got transferred 

from one city to another, 

it broke our hearts so, 

as we learnt to adjust 

painfully in the new school 

under the scrutiny of 

curious teachers 

and suffering the non-chalance 

of fellow students,

aching for the old friends, 

waiting every afternoon 

as we returned home 

to open the mailbox ,

hoping desperately 

that we would find an 

envelope with our names 

written in familiar handwriting.

Science Vs Humanities

My best friend and I 

hated physics 

which we were coaxed 

to study like all the 

bright kids who cared 

about their careers. 

Subtle and not so covert

suggestions, nudges, 

guidance and opinions 

of everyone ranging from

the next door didi, 

Papa’s younger colleague, 

to the nosy auntie who 

even predicted a marriage 

with the betel leaf seller 

if we failed to study science,

convinced us to go against 

our aptitudes, our own desires, 

but filled us with a listlessness, 

a despair and 

even a nameless terror 

as the board exams 

approached.

Chanting hanuman chalisa,

we barely scraped by,

vowing to ourselves 

that we will have nothing 

to with this subject whatsoever.

But as we sat in our 

first Literature and history classes, 

and reading the odes of Keats 

and about the perfection of 

the right angles of Harappa roads, 

it felt like the perfect homecoming. 

Much later, preparing for 

the UPSC exam, 

we met this young man 

whose optional of physics 

made us roll our eyes 

and double over in laughter, 

Not realising then 

that this young engineer 

with physics optional 

will not only make it 

to the hallowed grounds 

but also the become my husband

and my aunt was proved wrong. 

Holika Dahan

Sitting around the bonfire

made up of cow dung, 

dry logs, spools of 

cotton threads, turmeric 

and Akshat rice, 

we listen to the story of 

Holika, the cold blooded 

ogress of an aunt, 

with absolutely no qualms 

in trying to burn her 

tiny nephew in the fire

of their unbridled egos.

We heave a sigh of relief

as the adrenaline rush 

subsides and the heart

stops pounding in our 

narrow chests 

as little Prahalad is saved 

yet again by the grace 

of the almighty as always, 

promising inwardly 

to be better kids, 

to eat our greens everyday,

to read more books,

to be more obedient,

to do our homework diligently, 

to not throw paper planes in class 

and to pray every day

So that lord Vishnu 

would extend his divine 

grace to ordinary kids like us.

A love song

Rainforest green and earth brown 

That’s how I first saw you

your goofy laughter,

our scintillating conversations

like cascading waterfalls

booming and joyous 

made me oblivious of 

other dimensions 

that made you fully human. 

I didn’t see how the 

temperature could drop suddenly 

to turn a forest into a desert, 

didn’t anticipate the 

Moon-like waxing and waning

that made me grope for straws 

on those dark nights. 

Didn’t know then the fights 

could be like simmering volcanoes, 

erupting, destroying, settling 

and yet solidifying. 

But I also didn’t realise that 

on cold wintry times, 

after all the fury and hailstorm 

you would be the bonfire 

to comfort me with your warm silences. 

So, after almost two decades, 

I know that you are the Sun

of my Solar system 

and also that constant lamp

that lights up my path 

on those moonless nights

making me no longer afraid.

Janmashtami

 

In the temples lit 

with the fairy lights

and hundreds of 

earthen lamps, 

we trudge along 

the long serpentine

queues, 

drunk in the love 

of the little Kanha

who after being 

born in the prison 

and a long perilous 

journey across 

the surging Yamuna, 

now sleeps in peace, 

dreaming of the 

new ways he would 

surprise Ma Yashoda. 

While the devotees 

after a full day of fast, 

now repast on the 

Prasad of Dhaniya panjiri 

and Makhan Mishri, 

wanting to see the 

the expanse of the universe 

in the grains of sand 

in the puckered mouth 

of baby Krishna. 

Buying saree in Kolkotta

Crisscrossing the lanes of 

the joyous city

sampling phuchkas by dozens, 

marvelling at the bindi Patta 

being sold for less than a rupee, 

Sporting the shankha and pola, 

eyeliner on my upper eyelids, 

I went to look for a perfect

Tangail cotton saree 

that would transform me

in to a Durga - 

alluring, beautiful

and truly valiant 

to slay the demons, 

always full of mischief

lurking deep within me. 

Gobichettipalayam

If the heaven 

were to be painted 

in monochromes alone, 

It would definitely 

be in the hues of 

Gobichettipalyam’s green

as the shamrock green of 

the young manjal plants

stand defiant to the 

emerald hue of paddy, 

which give way rather

deferentially to the 

cadmium green of 

those coconut fronds

which long to merge 

with the pine greens 

Of the not so distant Nilgiris. 

Good old Doordarshan

 

The present generation 

deluged with the sheer plentitude

 of mind-numbing options,

would perhaps never 

know the excitement of 

waiting with bated breaths 

for the entertainment that 

came in small doses. 

When the antenna correction duty 

was as exciting as a warrior 

going to the war to 

set all the wrongs right. 

When the spate of advertising films 

irritated but tantalised us 

as we crooned the jingles

throughout the day.

When Ramayana united 

the motley neighbourhood 

and our house filled with 

Dahi Bhalla, jackfruit curry, 

Rajma chawal and idli dosa 

carrying the subtle gratitude 

of the TV watchers 

who thronged our homes 

to watch the epics on 

our new colour TV. 

When Rooh-afzah and nimbu pudina 

was drunk in copious quantities 

as the audience argued over 

the correct course of action 

for the helpless Pandavas. 

When films were a rare treat 

and we wrote little postcards 

requesting for our favourites,

hoping fervently that

our prayers would be heard.

But the most beautiful memory was 

to be wanting to watch it 

together with everyone 

day after day, 

Week after week, 

unlike today, when we scroll 

endlessly on our individual devices, 

trying to find a companionship 

among the strangers 

in the virtual world.

Rock garden, Chandigarh

Returning after thirteen years

along with my super-excited

ten year old, 

I see the rows of same dolls, 

made up of broken bangles.

I also see the same waterfalls, 

Throw coins in the same old well, 

tread on the same cobbled paths

bend to pass through 

the same arched gates and 

sit gingerly on the same swings, 

admiring the same old rocks 

decorated with people’s trash

painstakingly by Nekchand,

and the same old colourful tiles, 

in our very own park Güell, 

The only thing that has changed

is my breathing 

that has become laboured 

as I trail far behind

trying to catch up with 

my nimble-footed son, 

chasing his favourite imaginary monster 

in this phantasmagoric land.

One earth one family

In the early mornings

I would find our backyard 

full of peafowls surrounding 

my frail Baba as he would 

feed them copious amounts of Bajra. 

He would then ensure the 

squirrels too got their 

fair share of over ripe guavas 

as they sauntered up 

and down the tree quickly 

picking their prize

under his watchful gaze. 

I would also see him sitting

on his haunches making 

Alpana like patterns out of

wheat flour so that the ants

too can fill their little tummies. 

And only after feeding 

banana to monkeys, 

Greens to the cows and 

bread to street dogs, 

He would sit for his breakfast, 

beckoning me and my brother

as he fed us with morsels 

of ghee smeared millet chapatis 

and patiently answered 

our questions and explained to us 

the importance of our 

non-human family.

Sibling squabbles

My elder sister 

like all the elder siblings

of the world 

loved to tell me

how I was rescued 

as a baby from a

filthy _talao_ in a 

nondescript town 

of northern India. 

She would laugh

satanically as she 

would remind me 

how everything from

grandparental love 

to the polka dots 

dress was handed down 

to me after her. 

In my dreams, 

I would often see 

her as this witch 

forecasting that from 

my stomach a giant

orange tree would 

grow as I swallowed 

the seeds accidentally. 

As I grew a little older, 

we literally fought

tooth and nails about

the domestic duties 

assigned by our mom. 

She would cajole me

to exchange the post-dinner 

mango shake making duty 

with her floor mopping ones. 

She will coax me into

bets so that the loser

would attend to desert 

Cooler filling duties 

while the winner would 

sleep right next to it.

We called each other 

with the choicest names 

of ogresses from the epics

and even the most banal

ones common among 

unimaginative siblings. 

In short, convinced fully

that she was indeed the

very bane of my life

how I prayed that she

gets married soon. 

Why then, did I cry 

like a baby, clutching

her left-over clothes, 

the day after her wedding.