Revisiting my old house now on sale

My old house must have 

swallowed a magical mushroom

to have diminished so.

The giant sentinels of

Weeping bottlebrush, 

Pomegranate and Frangipani

that once guarded us 

now seem but average trees

which even in full bloom 

fail to create the euphoria 

felt as we married off 

our dolls under their 

benevolent canopies. 

The veranda with the 

circular arches 

that remained hidden 

by the chick curtains

like a shy bride under 

the full gaze of summer sun,

where we sat waiting 

for our turn to get our hair 

oiled by mom every weekend, 

now disappeared to make 

extra rooms perhaps to 

accommodate the growing 

family of its erstwhile owners. 

The garden where bloomed 

Cosmos flowers pink and orange

interspersed with Nasturtiums, 

Poppies and tall Hollyhocks 

where we chased butterflies

and cringed away from 

the garden geckos, 

now has been cemented over

to perhaps give the previous owners 

more parking space 

to their increasing fleet 

of budget and luxury cars.

it’s only the backyard 

jackfruit tree

under whose shade, my grandpa sat 

on his comfortable folding chair, 

poring over the Urdu edition

of the daily newspaper

that remains the same, 

But then again, without 

his presence, Not quite so.

Going to Nani house in Delhi-6 in early 90s

In the narrow lanes 

that branched out 

like capillaries from 

the main aorta of 

the once opulently

resplendent Chandni Chowk,

before the wafts from 

the succulent jalebi, 

and of the sonth poured 

magnanimously in the 

leafy cups full of yoghurt 

based creamy and minty chaat

could reach our young nostrils, 

we were whisked away 

quickly by our genie mother 

as if on a magic carpet 

as we saw bazaars full of 

trimmings and tinsels, 

the silver ornaments, 

glass chandeliers, 

vats of attars and heaps of

ground and whole spices, 

so tantalisingly close 

and yet so unreachable 

due to the expert dexterity 

of our mother and her kin 

who only stopped at 

the entrance of this 

tottering Haveli which had 

certainly been imposing once.

But, now swarming with 

people of all hues and 

dialects occupying its

multiple rooms that 

were spread around a 

multi-storied chowk and

were interconnected in 

ways totally alien to the 

privacy loving and

“Me-time” demanding 

current generation. 

II 

After many rounds of greetings 

and touching of elders feet 

to their gentle chiding 

that girls don’t touch the 

parents feet,

And, after many rounds of 

home made kadi chawal 

and a sneaky snack 

of Top Ramen and orange 

flavoured Rasna, 

hours of school gossips 

and boasting of our 

excellent academic grades, 

as the heat subsided, 

we headed to our Sanjhi terrace

to witness the most interesting 

soap opera romance conjuring 

right in front of our  eyes, 

as the dusky and fair didis 

who came out to dry 

chana papad and moong 

mangodis  on tarpaulins 

received lovesick looks 

from the kite-flying tall, 

handsome but gawky 

bhaiyas , 

causing flutters of butterfly 

in our tender stomachs,

giving us vicarious pleasures

much to the chagrin

of our all knowing mothers

giving us those stinky eyes 

and ordering us to run 

their sundry errands. 

III 

 

As the sun dipped behind 

the old minarets and new 

haphazard encroachments, 

thousands of pigeons, parrots 

and even tiny sparrows filled 

the sky in kinetic patterns 

forever changing and yet 

so heart warmingly assuring 

as we cleaned our part 

of the terrace and cooled

the baked floor with 

mugs full of water, 

our senses heady with 

the thirst-quenching aroma 

of the water drenched bricks, 

as we spread cotton filled 

mattresses, bolster pillows 

and newly washed top sheets 

and stationed surahis

along with different

shaped steel tumblers.

And after evening Aarti 

and watching 6 songs of Chitrahar 

along with ever increasing 

number of advertising films, 

and a rare treat of vanilla 

cup brought by our Mamaji, 

and hours of spooky 

stories that were fabricated 

almost extemporaneously 

until warned by elders 

of dire consequences like

cancelling of our favourite 

nagori puri and halva 

for the following day, 

we gave much needed 

respite to their ears 

and traced the constellations 

with our little fingers, 

outlining the Orion 

and the Ursa Major 

in a midnight blue sky

till the dreams invaded our eyes.

On Sheetala ashtami (Basoda)

In the cooler days

of March, 

when the sun is but

a timid boy 

who loves to play

peekaboo with the

undulating dunes, 

and the village women, 

in the brightest chunaris

with the  mirror work 

reflecting the soft beams

of the benign sun, 

moved around the barren land 

collecting paltry produce 

from the Thar xerophytes

and the camels sit lazily 

filling their humps 

readying themselves 

for further adventures 

across the barren landscape, 

people begin to arrive 

in hordes

in rickety jeeps, 

on camel carts, 

on tractor trolleys

in ramshackled buses

to this sleepy hamlet

for the annual fair 

to honour Shitala Ma. 

When women young and old

having prepared the prasad

the previous day, 

offer curd, ghaat raabdi, 

Bajra khichdi, Kair sangri,

missi roti and gulgule

to the goddess 

as they sing folk ditties

seeking the boon of 

good health and freedom

from the poxes, measles

skin diseases and 

pestilences for their 

offsprings and loved ones, 

while their ecstatic children

fed on the cold feast

enjoy the rapturous rides

in ferris wheels, toy trains

and the country carousel.

The treats outside our school

The sweetest sound those days

was that of the gong 

that put an end to the

last stretched hours 

at the school when the 

teachers droned on 

and the keen types 

finished their homework 

and we dreamt with 

the eyes wide open 

of the mouth watering 

treats that were displayed 

on cycle carriers, carts 

and even thelas. 

Treats that were prepared

with not so clean hands and 

ingredients absolutely doubtful, 

but the lure of the tamarind 

and rock salt churan and 

the mango pulp candies

brought out smiles that 

were perfect with 

imperfect set of 

half milk-half permanent teeth. 

The fried papads, 

salted phalsa berries and 

boiled corn cobs enticed

the kids enough to not 

drop their precious rupee 

coins in the piggy banks 

but splurge them all here.

And, as we tried to fit 

those mashed potatoes and 

lemony mint water filled 

 patase in our little mouths, 

it was the unsophisticated 

shaved ice golas infused with 

sherbets in myriad colours 

and flavours that melted the 

hearts of even our mathematics 

and PT teachers who 

were seen giggling 

as they relished the wickedly 

tangy Kala Khatta sorbets. 

- Neha Bansal 

Lohri

As the flames 

leapt skywards

a fountain of 

warm orange 

brought colour 

to our cheeks 

and thawed our 

icy limbs 

on this cold 

wintry night 

and as the shells 

of peanuts and 

the sesame of 

gajjak - rewadis 

crackled to 

celebrate the 

coming of 

joyous harvest 

season as the sun 

geared northwards

bequeathing on us a 

veritable cornucopia 

of burnished wheat,

juicy sugarcane and 

golden yellow mustard,

we sang the

folk ditties and asked 

our neighbours and

elders for tasty treats

and in the mellow 

comfort of a 

sacred bonfire 

danced to the 

rhythmic beats of the

traditional dholkis. 

And, as the night

deepened into 

a darker hue 

and the red embers 

of the bonfire 

glowed like 

after-thoughts, 

we reluctantly went 

to our beds after

glassfuls of jaggeried

turmeric milk, 

dreaming of next day’s 

kite flying on our roofs

and the breakfast of 

savoury khichdi 

and the Batís baked 

in the leftover 

cinders of the fire 

the night before.

Weekends in Carnicobar

As the golden beams 

of a tropical sun danced

against our window pane

and the roosters of our

Nicobarese neighbours

would join the nature’s 

Orchestra, it was our son

who with his cheery alacrity 

would be so ready for his

weekend morning at 

Kinyuka village’s beach 

where silver sand stretched

like whispers in the breeze

and the shades of cerulean,

cyan, teal and turquoise 

made the homogenous 

azure skies so envious. 

As our young one fought

the imaginary sea monsters

and defended valiantly 

the loyal subjects of 

his shell-adorned sand fort, 

we would sit on the warm 

white sand to soak in the 

calm and appreciate the 

rhythm of this slow

sweet life and watched 

for hours in an unhurried serenity 

as the Nicobarese men 

leisurely fished just enough

for their family’s need 

from their arcanely decorated 

single-outriggered narrow canoes. 

  

The noon arrived unassumingly 

with a glistening sharp sun 

and the lazy wind that refused

to blow inwards,

playing hide and seek instead

with the shore based 

casuarina trees. 

And after many small naps 

and reading and re-reading 

of previous day’s newspapers 

and having filled our tummies

with the Bengali, Rajasthani, 

Nicobarese and Tamil food 

from our potluck lunch 

in an isolated isle without 

a single restaurant 

and after singing to our 

heart’s content 

often tunelessly with 

with homely karaoke mics, 

we would drive down 

the narrow serpentine road 

which traced along that 

wondrous shoreline to witness 

the tangerine sunsets

when a riot of fiery orange, 

vermillion and scarlet 

against a gang of exotic

purples, mauves and lilacs

painted the beach of Passa

like God’s own canvas 

making it now the turn 

of the velvety sea 

to turn dark with envy. 

The twilight lasted just 

long enough 

to appreciate the Cicada’s 

mournful song. 

And as we drove further 

the night deepened in 

its inky glory. 

No light pollution veiled

the cosmic dance 

witnessed by us 

as we lied supine on 

Pandanus-leafed, handcrafted 

Nicobarese mats near Kimious bridge

And as these myriad stars 

filled the inverted sky-bowl 

like hordes of fireflies, 

we closed our eyes 

to etch this memory 

deep within forever.