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.
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
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.
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
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।
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
No heavenly manna
Or a nectar induced
sweetmeat from a
royal kitchen could rival
the moong dal halwa
made by my Amma,
which she cooked painstakingly for hours
as the daal paste separated
from the desi ghee
and the sugar syrup
soaked in the fragrance
of cardamoms fused in,
moving those frail but
hardworking arms
turning the gigantic
spatula in a colossal wok
on the make shift Chulha
in our weedy backyard.
