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
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.
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
