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.

Moong dal halwa

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. 

Shivcharan : our gardener

 

He just didn’t have 

green fingers

but those of a 

thousand colours

as he commanded 

coral ixoras to grow 

in enviable clusters, 

coaxed the voluminous

Purple Wreath to cling

to the arched trellis 

which in full bloom 

appeared nothing less

than a portal to the 

floral fairyland. 

He demonstrated magic

as Nasturtium leaves

turned water droplets 

Into crystal beads 

and bent the mulberry

laden trees at his will. 

As the pomegranate tree 

presented him with 

the reddest ruby like arils, 

he cajoled the headiest 

redolence out of 

the orange-hearted Parijat. 

The Gulmohur whispered 

coquettishly under his gaze 

while Amaltas showered 

the golden flowers on 

the very path he tread. 

The garden hailed 

him as the king and 

yet this widowed 

childless man 

slept in our garage. 

And as his hands diligently 

polished the terracotta pots, 

he found time to fashion 

the flat stones for our 

game of hopscotch.

Wishful thinking

My eyes are searching

frantically for one more

yellow beaked Myna,

as the pair of them 

would bring me happiness

as opposed to the 

lonely miserable one 

considered harbinger 

Of sorrow. 

The eyes also look for

that red van of India Post

carrying my wishes afar

and the lips would refuse 

to utter a syllable till

the sighting of a black car. 

Also did you know that

A single eye lash often 

sticking to the cheek 

if blown away gently 

while meditating on our

deepest desires, 

can build a rainbow 

to teleport us to 

the very haven of fulfilment.

Clothesline

 

It’s surprising 

that even something 

as mundane as 

a clothesline 

can stir memories 

of a far away home

where mom would 

dunk the washed clothes

in a metal tub filled

with Neem-infused water

before sun-drying them

on clothesline, secured 

with colourful pegs, 

saving us from 

infections and 

summer rashes.

Naankhatai

 

The best of Hindustani

and Parsi gastronomies combine

to create this cookie so 

crumbly and meltingly divine

like the confluence of 

indigenous and exotic flavours 

baked in perfect harmony

on the quaint little coal ovens

being carried on carts

emanating an aroma 

that would thaw any heart

that froze in Delhi’s winters.

Sanchi Stupa

That day it drizzled 

so perfectly 

that it washed away the dirt 

both with in and without. 

the grass gleamed greener, 

so did the happy leaves

and shone brightly 

the weathered sandstone

of this ‘cosmic mountain’.

An absolute peace 

engulfed me 

as I circumambulated 

the balustrades ramp, 

admiring the handiwork 

on the four Toran gates

by those ancient artisans

who with little more than 

chisels and blades

created poetry in stone. 

Perhaps Ashoka’s remorse,

Sunga and Satvahana 

ceaseless ambitions also 

found some succour here. 

The three dances (haiku)

 Kathakali 

We are so enthralled

as a man paints his face green 

to become the God. 

*~*

Purulia Chhau 

The beat of Dhumsa,

as masked Durga slays demon,

louder by second.

 *~*

Kalbelia 

Is it a woman 

Or an enchanted she-snake

writhing on music.

*~*

Six of Cups (a minor arcana card in tarot)

I have possessed 

a deck of tarot cards 

for ages. 

The rational me chides 

the more intuitive one 

and calls it a 

mere hocus-pocus, 

the skulduggery of a 

smooth-talking charlatan. 

While the romantic in me

wants to believe in the 

unfathomable energies 

of the universe, 

in de-tangling our own 

minds to reach 

the elusive truth, 

something intangible 

that can be perceived 

but certainly not with 

the available senses five. 

And I, oscillating between 

the two of us, 

was filled with the memories 

of how I made my bestie

gift me this 

promising to read her future. 

How we used it 

to get attention from 

that crush, 

to be appreciated by 

that snooty senior,

to impress that favourite 

teacher who too, perhaps

torn between rationality 

and the charm of unknown

succumbed to its lure.

And, also to earn lots of

funds in the college Fete 

to be able to donate to

the nearby orphanage.

And, as I fiddled with 

the strangely tantalising deck, 

inscrutably six of cups 

turned up, symbolising 

the hiraeth for 

a lost good time, 

A longing for shared happiness 

and  a yearning for joys 

of  childhood and youth.

Mahasivaratri

There is an image 

etched in my heart,

of an eight year old me

carrying a wicker moon 

basket full of bael patra 

and hibiscus flowers, 

accompanying my stout 

and feisty Amma and 

a very frail but 

kind-hearted baba,

while listening to 

the story of how 

Siva drank halahal 

and saved the world 

from a certain death 

and suffered the 

excruciating agony 

silently for the 

mankind, earning the 

name “Neelkanth”,

to the temple with 

an ochre coloured 

shikhar and a 

golden Kalash, 

and a big Peepal 

tree wrapped with 

red mouli of devotion

and a lingam where 

rich and poor, 

men and women 

stood in a queue silently

waiting for their turn 

praying to the God 

to drink the poison 

from their lives

yet again. 

Invaluable gifts (haiku)

I

What do I love more

the Vietnam pearls of my mom

or the carved jewel box. 

II

Perforated sheet

a window to different climes

Dad’s stamp collection.

Hariyali Teej

If my grandmother

could have her way,

she wouldn’t 

let our lady sweeper Dulari 

enter the kitchen 

Or even clean her room.

Admonishment by our father,

veiled criticism by mom,

and outright revolt by us

led us nowhere but to

a blind or rather deaf alley. 

But as the skies filled

with dark pregnant clouds 

promising to slake the thirst

Of the earth and even 

our very parched hearts, 

We could see our Amma

giggling like a small girl, 

sharing ghevar with Dulari, 

getting intricate henna patterns 

drawn on her hand and feet

enjoying the courtyard swing 

on the day of Hariyali Teej.

Mt. Fuji

 

As the Shinkansen 

picked up the speed, 

and the forest of 

buildings 

gave way to 

a myriad flaming 

maple leaves 

which kissed its 

divine feet, 

and cradled hundreds 

of Torii gated shrines,

I saw Fuji Yama 

reflected in its 

five grand lakes, 

as it stood tall, 

crafted with a 

hand divine, 

majestic, calm, pure 

not very far from 

the sea of humanity 

and yet so tranquil,

So inspiring, so eternal, 

and so very cardinal 

So much like 

the Sun 

in a solar system.

My grandpa’s stories

Night after night

A rainbow bridge 

magically appeared 

and took me to a wonderland 

of stories where 

an upright woodcutter

won it all;

axes of all metals

much to the envy 

of his avaricious 

neighbour who gets 

suitably chastised

losing even his iron one.

There were birds

that sang of Krishna

who redeemed Sudama

from poverty,

surprising him as 

His grace turned his 

humble hut into 

an opulent palace. 

There were trees that

bore sweet stories of 

simple Alibaba 

who opens 

the cave portal with 

an arcane “open seasame” 

but takes only enough 

to sustain his needs. 

Lost in these 

I didn’t realise when 

this enchanted realm 

gave way to that 

of dreams, 

settled cozily in 

the warmth of my

Baba’s arms 

as he sat in his

wooden rocking chair.

The parrot called Harial

Yes, it’s an unimaginative name. 

But the choice was between

the ubiquitous Mitthu  

or this very generic one. 

So just to defy everyone’s 

boring wishes like 

a rebellious six year old, 

I named him Harial 

as my sister and I 

nursed him back to health

when we found him 

next to the Neem tree, 

wounded and unable to fly. 

Trying to be vets, 

we applied Soframycin 

hoping it would heal him

as it healed all our boo-boos.

Feeding him with grains 

of rice and green chilly 

to make his bland food tastier.

Hoping to make a pet of him

till he flew away 

perhaps to his awaiting 

parrot or human family.

Hairstylist

I loved it when my son

caressed my hair 

as I requested him 

to style my hair

feigning an inability.

His five year old hands 

would make this 

wondrous mess of 

Medusa like tangles, 

just like I did years ago

when I tied tens of

little fountains of hair

on my dad’s sleeping head

with colourful rubber bands.

A pale lilac cardigan

My mom loved to dress me 

in all shades of colour yellow.

She said it reminded her 

of the happiness as one sees 

the fields of mustard

swaying gently under

the amicable winter sun. 

But I think it was 

an attempt

to make my dark earthy skin 

look brighter and lighter. 

I also remember her

fighting tooth and nail 

trying to foil my attempts 

at buying a pale lilac cardigan 

which she thought, 

brought out the dusk of my skin,

blurting out her objections 

rather bluntly,

exasperated at my adamancy, 

and made faces 

every winter as I chose 

to wear it oftener than 

her favourite turmeric one.

Now it lies in her sandook 

as a priced possession, 

a relic from the past, 

as a memory of our banter.

Aspirant

What would pearly gates 

of the veritable heaven

look like to an aspirant 

of the Public service exam? 

I remember 

sitting in the corner 

of the last reading room 

in A.C. Joshi library 

nestled in the very heart

of the sprawling campus 

of Panjab University,

amidst a hundred others

whose eyes were glued to

the notes and books 

or sometimes stared vacantly 

at the wall or the glass panes, 

And lips moving perhaps 

to internalise what was read

or, perhaps in a silent 

prayer to the God Almighty,

reading and re-reading 

editorials from the Hindu, 

old and new NCERTs, 

yearbooks from Publication Division 

magazines like Yojana 

writing copious notes 

and critical essays, 

pestering professors, seniors

and previous years’ successful candidates 

for tips, shortcuts and 

their formula of success. 

Sometimes, we walked aimlessly

eyeing the romancing Enfields

and Kinetic Hondas, 

And then reminding ourselves 

of a far superior goal, 

Getting restless reflecting at the

options or rather the lack of them, 

dreaming of the white simplicity

of the elegant Dholpur House.

At Mandore Gardens

Deep within the walnutty 

crevices of our brains,

lie the pearl of memories

whose eternal ashes  

serve as a cooling salve 

to our scorched souls. 

One such memory is that

of a mellow afternoon

in the middle of deep winters,

when no words were 

necessary as we walked

hand in hand, admiring 

the symmetry and marvelling

at the sandstoned grandeur 

of the royal cenotaphs, 

listening to the hauntingly 

beautiful but ubiquitous 

notes of “Kesariya Balam” 

being played on Ravanhattha 

by a Bhopa musician.

My grandpa (Baba)

 

My earliest memory 

is that of crying 

inconsolably over my 

swirly lacy sky-blue 

frock that got stained by

the petrol fumes of 

our old Ambassador car, 

and being picked by

those not so strong arms

of my fragile-looking Baba

who immediately promised 

to buy another swirlier,

lacier and more blue one 

in the colour of a limitless 

open sky where my dreams 

and imagination would fly

like an intrepid bird.