Birthday parties

While ordering enchiladas, 

lasagna, burgers, margarita

pizzas and Oreo shakes

in a high-end party place

considered cool enough

by the generation alpha,

all dressed in the trendiest 

Clothes, which were more often 

than not the branded

jerseys of the most famous 

Football clubs.

While they roasted each other, 

trying to outsmart all

in the battle of words, 

I couldn’t help remembering

a Halloween birthday

minus all the spookiness 

when the haze of Diwali

was still scintillatingly golden

And not smog grey. 

It was a time when

the birthday gatherings

unfolded within the warmth

of familiar walls of affable

and cozy homes. 

It was a time when

Coloured crêpe paper 

ribbons were twisted along the walls 

and balloons dangled from the 

ceilings in a casual dance. 

It was a time when

kids wore glittering Merlin-like 

caps but displayed none of that 

legendary wisdom and were happy 

to revel in unsophisticated innocence.

It was a time when 

Food was not  a gourmet grandeur but 

a comforting aroma of the

home-made bhatura served 

with spicy Pindi Chhole. 

While the sweet orbs of 

gulab jamun made guests 

simply ecstatic.  

It was a time when

‘Musical chairs’ and ‘passing the parcel’ 

were played with 

the steely determination of Arjuna

aiming for the bird eye 

to win an inexpensive 

pencil box or ceramic mug

as the game prize. 

It was a time when 

friends, cousins, neighbours

and  grandparents gathered

making life a tapestry 

of simple pleasures 

which was woven 

with the strong yarn 

of unadulterated affection.

Ramleela of my childhood

Years ago

before Ramleela 

became a sophisticated

affair and before

its staging mushroomed

all over the city, 

we travelled miles 

dressed in our best 

sequinned lehangas

with a charpai tied

to our blue-gray Fiat 

in order to reach 

the town’s best and 

only Ramleela. 

On a makeshift stage

in a pink and yellow 

marquee decorated with 

golden and silver tinsel, 

a motley group of actors 

wearing loud eyeshadow 

and ersatz Jewellery

donning masks and 

long tails often overacted,

but still managed to raise 

those goosebumps 

and stir our very souls. 

The shy and reticent 

bodybuilder carrying

clay model mountain  

revived Lakshman to

a collective cheer,

while the aggressive 

street betel-leaf seller 

stoically uttered words 

of Jamvad’s wisdom. 

The milky white fraternal 

twins easily enchanted 

the crowds as the most 

beloved Ayodhya Kumaras.

While a dainty Sita was 

always played by the 

comeliest of the teen boy. 

But it was the entry  

of the ten-headed Ravana 

with his loud guffaws and 

unapologetic swagger

that made people 

go wild with absolute enthusiasm. 

As the moon transformed

from a silvery thread into 

a waxing gibbous and 

the ten days passed by, 

the life’s ennui gave way to 

bellies full of aalu chaat 

and the last of season’s 

Pudina pani gol gappe

and playful hands busy with 

cherished souvenirs 

of cardboard maces 

and golden foiled bows 

with arrows neatly placed 

in silvery quivers.

-Neha Bansal

The black carrot kanji

Soaking in the benign 

winter sun,

lazying over a travelogue 

about sunny southern Spain 

I sip the gut-friendly Kombucha, 

marvelling at the world shrinking 

in to a global village. 

I suddenly find myself

down the rabbit hole 

of a similar winter memory, 

when my grandma would sun herself while 

hand-pounding the Bajra 

and my mom enjoyed 

a balmy after noon as she 

would grind coriander, mint 

and garlic on the weathered 

stone silbatta in to a 

mouthwatering lip smacking chutney 

as we lie down on the dhurries 

drinking by glassfuls 

this tangy magical potion 

brewed and fermented with 

hands unperturbed by the 

relentless march of time. 

Many rows of porcelain jars

bathed in the glorious sun

to deepen the mysterious alchemy with in them 

as the purple of carrots 

waltzed in a delicate dance

with the tartness of red mustard, 

and the savoury rock salt and 

the sharpness of red chilly 

combined curiously

to add colours to the 

toasty winter afternoons. 

And then again with an increased

longing to have yet another

glassful of this drink divine, 

I called my mother up.

- Neha Bansal

Paper boat

 

As a child

with the soft cadence

of pitter patter, 

my senses slowly 

filled with the clean

petrichor of the rain-bathed

happy terracotta tiles

which after months 

of baked agony

find a succour in 

the cool waters that 

so generously fell 

from the heavenly azure. 

The house smelled of 

cardamom, ginger and

cinnamon infused milky tea

that the grownups liked

to sip as they sat idly 

Knitting, poring over magazines and 

solving cryptic clues of the 

Sunday crosswords. 

My brother and I 

having filled our bellies 

with gram flour and 

spinach fritters and 

having licked off all 

traces of ketchup,

raced to float 

our little origami boat

that carried our dreams 

on the tiny rivulets

that flowed unabashed 

unstopped by the dry

prickly grass of our lawns. 

Now, I sit impatient 

as my car snail-paces

amidst a sea of traffic 

on a pot-holed 

tar-coal road, 

cursing the rains 

whose murky waters worsened the already 

nerve-racking odyssey 

I undertake each day

across my polluted city.

-Neha Bansal