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.

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.

Birthday parties

While ordering enchiladas, 

lasagna, burgers, margarita

pizzas and Oreo shakes

in a high-end party place

considered cool enough

by the generation alpha,

all dressed in the trendiest 

Clothes, which were more often 

than not the branded

jerseys of the most famous 

Football clubs.

While they roasted each other, 

trying to outsmart all

in the battle of words, 

I couldn’t help remembering

a Halloween birthday

minus all the spookiness 

when the haze of Diwali

was still scintillatingly golden

And not smog grey. 

It was a time when

the birthday gatherings

unfolded within the warmth

of familiar walls of affable

and cozy homes. 

It was a time when

Coloured crêpe paper 

ribbons were twisted along the walls 

and balloons dangled from the 

ceilings in a casual dance. 

It was a time when

kids wore glittering Merlin-like 

caps but displayed none of that 

legendary wisdom and were happy 

to revel in unsophisticated innocence.

It was a time when 

Food was not  a gourmet grandeur but 

a comforting aroma of the

home-made bhatura served 

with spicy Pindi Chhole. 

While the sweet orbs of 

gulab jamun made guests 

simply ecstatic.  

It was a time when

‘Musical chairs’ and ‘passing the parcel’ 

were played with 

the steely determination of Arjuna

aiming for the bird eye 

to win an inexpensive 

pencil box or ceramic mug

as the game prize. 

It was a time when 

friends, cousins, neighbours

and  grandparents gathered

making life a tapestry 

of simple pleasures 

which was woven 

with the strong yarn 

of unadulterated affection.

Ramleela of my childhood

Years ago

before Ramleela 

became a sophisticated

affair and before

its staging mushroomed

all over the city, 

we travelled miles 

dressed in our best 

sequinned lehangas

with a charpai tied

to our blue-gray Fiat 

in order to reach 

the town’s best and 

only Ramleela. 

On a makeshift stage

in a pink and yellow 

marquee decorated with 

golden and silver tinsel, 

a motley group of actors 

wearing loud eyeshadow 

and ersatz Jewellery

donning masks and 

long tails often overacted,

but still managed to raise 

those goosebumps 

and stir our very souls. 

The shy and reticent 

bodybuilder carrying

clay model mountain  

revived Lakshman to

a collective cheer,

while the aggressive 

street betel-leaf seller 

stoically uttered words 

of Jamvad’s wisdom. 

The milky white fraternal 

twins easily enchanted 

the crowds as the most 

beloved Ayodhya Kumaras.

While a dainty Sita was 

always played by the 

comeliest of the teen boy. 

But it was the entry  

of the ten-headed Ravana 

with his loud guffaws and 

unapologetic swagger

that made people 

go wild with absolute enthusiasm. 

As the moon transformed

from a silvery thread into 

a waxing gibbous and 

the ten days passed by, 

the life’s ennui gave way to 

bellies full of aalu chaat 

and the last of season’s 

Pudina pani gol gappe

and playful hands busy with 

cherished souvenirs 

of cardboard maces 

and golden foiled bows 

with arrows neatly placed 

in silvery quivers.

-Neha Bansal

The black carrot kanji

Soaking in the benign 

winter sun,

lazying over a travelogue 

about sunny southern Spain 

I sip the gut-friendly Kombucha, 

marvelling at the world shrinking 

in to a global village. 

I suddenly find myself

down the rabbit hole 

of a similar winter memory, 

when my grandma would sun herself while 

hand-pounding the Bajra 

and my mom enjoyed 

a balmy after noon as she 

would grind coriander, mint 

and garlic on the weathered 

stone silbatta in to a 

mouthwatering lip smacking chutney 

as we lie down on the dhurries 

drinking by glassfuls 

this tangy magical potion 

brewed and fermented with 

hands unperturbed by the 

relentless march of time. 

Many rows of porcelain jars

bathed in the glorious sun

to deepen the mysterious alchemy with in them 

as the purple of carrots 

waltzed in a delicate dance

with the tartness of red mustard, 

and the savoury rock salt and 

the sharpness of red chilly 

combined curiously

to add colours to the 

toasty winter afternoons. 

And then again with an increased

longing to have yet another

glassful of this drink divine, 

I called my mother up.

- Neha Bansal

Paper boat

 

As a child

with the soft cadence

of pitter patter, 

my senses slowly 

filled with the clean

petrichor of the rain-bathed

happy terracotta tiles

which after months 

of baked agony

find a succour in 

the cool waters that 

so generously fell 

from the heavenly azure. 

The house smelled of 

cardamom, ginger and

cinnamon infused milky tea

that the grownups liked

to sip as they sat idly 

Knitting, poring over magazines and 

solving cryptic clues of the 

Sunday crosswords. 

My brother and I 

having filled our bellies 

with gram flour and 

spinach fritters and 

having licked off all 

traces of ketchup,

raced to float 

our little origami boat

that carried our dreams 

on the tiny rivulets

that flowed unabashed 

unstopped by the dry

prickly grass of our lawns. 

Now, I sit impatient 

as my car snail-paces

amidst a sea of traffic 

on a pot-holed 

tar-coal road, 

cursing the rains 

whose murky waters worsened the already 

nerve-racking odyssey 

I undertake each day

across my polluted city.

-Neha Bansal 

The womb

 As the first grains of rice

cooked in the free range cow's milk, 

aromatic with the saffron from Pampore

were put in the baby's tender mouth,

Everyone joined in to congratulate

the beaming parents. 

The men patted the broad shoulders

of the exultant father, 

who gave away sweets to everyone.

And, the women hugged the mother, 

as she sat with little Ganesha, 

a veritable Parvati, 

resplendent in a coral colored saree 

on which golden peacocks danced 

in their full Kanjeevaram glory. 

The euphoric grandmother sat amidst 

the older ladies with hoary and dyed heads 

singing folk ditties to bless 

the little piece of their hearts. 

The mausis and Buas vied to outperform each 

other in Bollywood and classical dance. 

The guests having their bellies filled

with savoury and sweet delicacies

lazed and talked about

how beautiful the mother looked 

and how healthy the baby.

They complimented each other's sartorial sense 

and whispered about many people's lack of it.

They talked about the mouth melting moong dal halwa

but hinted at the absence of gulab jamun, a favorite of many. 

But, no one paid any attention 

to the thin woman with red eyes and stoic face 

who wore cheap imitation jewelry, a wilted gajra 

 sat in a corner trying to cover her leaky blouse 

with the anchal of her polyester saree.

- Neha Bansal

(Published in "Mosaic of poetic musings : contemporary women poets from India" edited by Seema Jain and published by Authors press)

Death in Nicobar : An article written by me in Dec 2016

 ( Copied from the blog : thenicobardiaries.blogspot.com )

Kakana village 

4th November 2016 was a sad day. The sky wept and cicadas sang a sad requiem for the death of village Kakana’s 1st captain, Sh. Gabriel, a very noble soul and a very enterprising leader amongst his fellow villagers. Having spent time in Nicobar, we have been witness to the fun and frolic during festive times, a very merry and dulcet Christmas season, the energy filled canoe races which are a sight to behold against the myriad blue-green hues, the alacrity to participate in song and dance events in even the other communities’ religious festivals, the slow pace of life which celebrates the rhythm of Nature, but it is the poise and grace with which the Nicobarese deal with their grief that struck me so deeply. Unlike the noisy cacophony which we often find in certain parts of our country, these people internalize it and stand in silence, praying for the man’s last journey, paying floral tributes one by one without trying to assume unnecessary importance silently and in the most disciplined manner. Being close to Nature they understand the rhythm of life and understand the human seasons too which makes them seemingly stoic to the death. But they also remember their dead every day as their loved ones have become the part of the nature around them, every year on All Souls’ Day (2nd November) they decorate the graveyard with ixoras, mussaendas and light candles and incense sticks on the graves. At tsunami memorial too, floral wreaths are laid down and candles and incense are lit in the memory of those who perished in the gigantic sweep of the cruel tsunami of 2004 on 1st november every year.

decorating the graves. photo courtesy : greatheart nicobari

another view of the ritual on All Souls' Day on 2nd Nov