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.

A love song

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.