You sat at your desk,
your spine a bare trellis
beneath a cotton sky.
I watered it
with the rain of my tears,
warmed it
with the sunlight of my eyes,
hoping that one day
courage would climb it
like a vine,
self-belief would leaf along it,
and flowers would bloom
from every vertebra—
until you stood,
no longer merely possessing a spine,
but blooming one.
At night
it is not your body
that I miss the most.
The years have taught me
that hunger can be endured,
that longing settles eventually
like dust upon forgotten books.
No,
it is the space beside me
that aches.
The place where I would fold myself
into the certainty of your arms
and lay down the burdens
I carried through the day.
Who will listen now
to my small fears
that seem foolish in daylight?
Who will hear me worry
over imagined slights,
over children grown distant,
over wrinkles and ailments
and the thousand little doubts
that visit a woman
when the world grows quiet?
You never laughed.
You would draw me closer,
your hand tracing circles
upon my back,
and somehow
every storm inside me
would lose its thunder.
The nights are the hardest.
The moon spills silver
through the curtains,
but its light no longer soothes.
It enters me
like saline pushed
through a clogged cannula—
meant to heal,
yet burning its slow path
through tender flesh,
each drop carrying
the sting of remembrance.
The darkness still arrives
at the appointed hour,
but there is no one
to gather my scattered thoughts
and hold them gently
until sleep comes.
So I lie awake,
speaking to the silence
as though it were you.
And the moonlight keeps flowing,
cold and merciless,
through veins narrowed by grief,
until every memory of your kindness,
every word you once spoke
to quiet my fears,
returns with that same sharp ache.
And sometimes,
when the silver burning softens,
I almost believe
that if I turn quickly enough,
I will find you there—
waiting,
as you always did,
to listen
all night long.
She swirls in green fields
Singing of birth pangs and blooms
Change is her language.
He is the blue sky
Quiet witness to all her moods,
Still and beyond time.
Shakti is the breath
Shiva the space it traverses
Without her,
He is inert
Without him
She is fire wild
She coils at the muladhar
He waits at the Sahasrara
Breath bridges their kiss.
He is the mountain still
She a gurgling river that sings
Love erodes all forms.
He is sky, untouched.
She, the moon that waxes bright
Each night,
she dances wilder
but never leaves
his gaze.
Shiva stands alone
A Deodar tree on high peaks
Shakti is the light
That filters through ancient leaves
Warming his Himalayan heart
Navgraha
Surya
Seven horses drive
Golden chariot full of light
Soul’s eternal guide
Chandra
Sky’s silver cradle,
rocked gently by the mother
feelings ebb and flow.
Mangal
Peacock-mounted Skanda
hurls his spear through stubborn dark —
red fires up his veins.
Brihaspati
Yellow-robed Vishnu
the lotus of wisdom blooms
where his footsteps fall
Budh
Emerald orb spins
as Ganesha shapes the mind —
celestial scribe.
Shukra
Lakshmi’s jasmine feet
trail stardust across the sky —
peacocks whirl in bliss.
Shani (Saturn)
Midnight’s sentinel
weighs truth against each karma —
Saturn carves the soul.
Rahu
Skies rain down silver,
the head whispers golden lies —
stars blink in doubt.
Ketu
Though eyeless, he sees —
ego journeys toward moksha,
metamorphosis.
Navarasa
Shringara (Love and Beauty)
The scent of parijat
lingers in the soft moonlight —
my breath entangled with his.
⸻
Hasya (Laughter).
Sethji’s fat hands reach,
prasad vanishes mid-air—
monkey grins, mouth full.
⸻
Karuna (Compassion and Sorrow)
My child sheds a tear,
a mother bird mourns her nest —
grief lingers, silent.
⸻
Raudra (Fury)
Another Nirbhaya.
The third eye of Shiva must
burn this world to ash.
⸻
Veera (Heroism)
In Subhadra’s womb
a young warrior keenly
awaits the battlefield.
⸻
Bhayanaka (Fear)
Swords and lit torches
in hands of people praying
to another God.
⸻
Vibhatsa (Disgust)
Vultures encircle
the red-bloodied, reeking earth —
death dances about.
⸻
Adbhuta (Wonder)
The joy of catching
fireflies in little hands —
the wonder of twilight.
⸻
Shanta (Peace)
Blessing of full moon
washes over the suckling
babe with milk divine.
The Hindu Calendar
The earth smiles in flowers
as Chaitra heralds with joy
the birth of Lord Rama.
Vaishakha sun smiles bright,
promising cornucopia
on Akshay Tritiya.
Jyeshtha’s parched lips,
chanting Vishnu’s thousand names,
burn lifelong sins.
The dark Ashadha clouds
rain rivulets of delight.
Devotees throng Puri.
Green succulence paints
the chunris of womenfolk
swinging Sravana jhoola.
Bhadra skies are dark;
Yamuna swells to kiss the feet
of baby Krishna.
Ashvin’s moonbeams adorn
each form of Navdurga,
lighting lamps within.
Cool Karthik winds charm
the fragrant hearts of parijat;
Lord Ram comes back home.
Margashirsha’s mild sun —
seeking Krishna as a groom,
girls weave marigold haar.
Granaries brim full
in Pausha’s hush before spring;
hearths hum with promises.
Magha’s saffron tides
call pilgrims for sacred rites,
as Ganga flows on.
Palaash blooms ignite —
Radha blushes in delight,
Krishna’s Phalguna.
Fire
All turns into gold,
As your radiance burns bright,
Purging the impure.
Earth
Tree roots go so deep,
Whispering patience to Earth,
The only home known.
Air
A blade of grass sways,
Fluttering with prairie winds,
Dreaming of freedom.
Water
Rains form little streams,
Paper boats with tiny dreams
Sail hearts’ vast oceans.
Sky/Ether
Stars in a dark cape,
Timeless enormity fills,
Every waiting void.
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
नभ नील काया वाले पंछी
जब तुम उड़ते आसमान में
क्या तुम्हें लगता है
कि इस नील गगन के आँचल में
तुम छुपन छुपाई खेल रहे हों
जैसे माँ की गोद में एक
नन्हा बालक इठलाता इतराता
अठखेलियां खाता और
उसी के रंग में रंग जाता।
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
