Trimurti

 

Brahma 

Lotus at the first light -

creation opens slowly

Petal after petal 

Vishnu 

Shesha holds the night

Upon the cosmic ocean 

Dreams will become worlds

Shiva

Ash settles softly

Beneath the silent crescent

No end - only change.

The four Vedas

 

Rig veda
When crimson sun rises
A single hymn lifts the dark-
Agni learns its name. 

Yajur veda
Smoke from the Vedi
hands offer their oblations
to the morning breeze 

Sama Veda
River after rains
Every note remembers how
silence became song.

Atharva Veda
A healing herb blooms;
Its bitter leaves gather a
sweet elixir within.

Flowering

You sat at your desk,

your spine a bare trellis

beneath a cotton sky.

I watered it

with the rain of my tears,

warmed it

with the sunlight of my eyes,

hoping that one day

courage would climb it

like a vine,

self-belief would leaf along it,

and flowers would bloom

from every vertebra—

until you stood,

no longer merely possessing a spine,

but blooming one.

A widow’s song

 At night

it is not your body

that I miss the most.

The years have taught me

that hunger can be endured,

that longing settles eventually

like dust upon forgotten books.

No,

it is the space beside me

that aches.

The place where I would fold myself

into the certainty of your arms

and lay down the burdens

I carried through the day.

Who will listen now

to my small fears

that seem foolish in daylight?

Who will hear me worry

over imagined slights,

over children grown distant,

over wrinkles and ailments

and the thousand little doubts

that visit a woman

when the world grows quiet?

You never laughed.

You would draw me closer,

your hand tracing circles

upon my back,

and somehow

every storm inside me

would lose its thunder.

The nights are the hardest.

The moon spills silver

through the curtains,

but its light no longer soothes.

It enters me

like saline pushed

through a clogged cannula—

meant to heal,

yet burning its slow path

through tender flesh,

each drop carrying

the sting of remembrance.

The darkness still arrives

at the appointed hour,

but there is no one

to gather my scattered thoughts

and hold them gently

until sleep comes.

So I lie awake,

speaking to the silence

as though it were you.

And the moonlight keeps flowing,

cold and merciless,

through veins narrowed by grief,

until every memory of your kindness,

every word you once spoke

to quiet my fears,

returns with that same sharp ache.

And sometimes,

when the silver burning softens,

I almost believe

that if I turn quickly enough,

I will find you there—

waiting,

as you always did,

to listen

all night long.

Prakriti and Purusha

 She swirls in green fields

Singing of birth pangs and blooms

Change is her language. 

 

He is the blue sky

Quiet witness to all her moods,

Still and beyond time. 

Shiva and Shakti

Shakti is the breath

Shiva the space it traverses

Without her,

He is inert 

Without him 

She is fire wild

She coils at the muladhar

He waits at the Sahasrara

Breath bridges their kiss. 

He is the mountain still

She a gurgling river that sings

Love erodes all forms.

He is sky, untouched.

She, the moon that waxes bright

Each night,

she dances wilder

but never leaves

his gaze.

Shiva stands alone

A Deodar tree on high peaks

Shakti is the light 

That filters through ancient leaves

Warming his Himalayan heart

Navagraha (nine planets as per Vedic astrology)

 Navgraha 

Surya 

Seven horses drive

Golden chariot full of light 

Soul’s eternal guide

Chandra 

Sky’s silver cradle,

rocked gently by the mother 

feelings ebb and flow.

Mangal 

Peacock-mounted Skanda

hurls his spear through stubborn dark —

red fires up his veins.

Brihaspati

Yellow-robed Vishnu

the lotus of wisdom blooms

where his footsteps fall

Budh 

Emerald orb spins

as Ganesha shapes the mind —

celestial scribe.

Shukra 

Lakshmi’s jasmine feet

trail stardust across the sky —

peacocks whirl in bliss.

Shani (Saturn)

Midnight’s sentinel

weighs truth against each karma —

Saturn carves the soul.

Rahu

Skies rain down silver,

the head whispers golden lies —

stars blink in doubt.

Ketu

Though eyeless, he sees —

ego journeys toward moksha,

metamorphosis.

Navrasa

 Navarasa

Shringara (Love and Beauty)

The scent of parijat

lingers in the soft moonlight —

my breath entangled with his.

⸻

Hasya (Laughter).

Sethji’s fat hands reach,

prasad vanishes mid-air—

monkey grins, mouth full.

⸻

Karuna (Compassion and Sorrow)

My child sheds a tear,

a mother bird mourns her nest —

grief lingers, silent.

⸻

Raudra (Fury)

Another Nirbhaya.

The third eye of Shiva must

burn this world to ash.

⸻

Veera (Heroism)

In Subhadra’s womb

a young warrior keenly

awaits the battlefield.

⸻

Bhayanaka (Fear)

Swords and lit torches

in hands of people praying

to another God.

⸻

Vibhatsa (Disgust)

Vultures encircle

the red-bloodied, reeking earth —

death dances about.

⸻

Adbhuta (Wonder)

The joy of catching

fireflies in little hands —

the wonder of twilight.

⸻

Shanta (Peace)

Blessing of full moon

washes over the suckling

babe with milk divine.

The Hindu calender

 The Hindu Calendar

The earth smiles in flowers

as Chaitra heralds with joy

the birth of Lord Rama.

Vaishakha sun smiles bright,

promising cornucopia

on Akshay Tritiya.

Jyeshtha’s parched lips,

chanting Vishnu’s thousand names,

burn lifelong sins.

The dark Ashadha clouds

rain rivulets of delight.

Devotees throng Puri.

Green succulence paints

the chunris of womenfolk

swinging Sravana jhoola.

Bhadra skies are dark;

Yamuna swells to kiss the feet

of baby Krishna.

Ashvin’s moonbeams adorn

each form of Navdurga,

lighting lamps within.

Cool Karthik winds charm

the fragrant hearts of parijat;

Lord Ram comes back home.

Margashirsha’s mild sun —

seeking Krishna as a groom,

girls weave marigold haar.

Granaries brim full

in Pausha’s hush before spring;

hearths hum with promises.

Magha’s saffron tides

call pilgrims for sacred rites,

as Ganga flows on.

Palaash blooms ignite —

Radha blushes in delight,

Krishna’s Phalguna.

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.