Showing posts with label śiśira. Show all posts
Showing posts with label śiśira. Show all posts
small memories of pre-spring
Small Memories of Pre-spring
tuesday morning
the fourteenth
phalguna
it's dusk,
we're standing in our balcony
waiting for papa’s return.
he's bringing home our very own new scooter.
the breeze moves shyly around our forms
as we watch sparrows snuggle deeper into tree shadows, singing bedtime lullabies
and hear peals of laughter from children playing downstairs.
when papa comes, he honks
and we rush out the door with our pooja thali.
in the parking, we anoint the scooter with a swastik, light a lamp,
and make the moment auspicious.
there's a box of mithai to sweeten the celebration
mayur takes saanjh for a little ride around our block.
high up in the sky, a new moon and a bright star
lighten the darkening sky
and make our evening even more special.
. . .
days that are simple
that make me feel
quietly fulfilling me as i'm. doing what i do.
mopping floors, sunning plants,
making spice tea for my sick girl,
maneuvering our living around a tight budget,
seeping with unwritten poetry,
sewing from old things,
loosing myself in my own darkness,
and letting tears kindle me into light.
. . .
with phālguna, the indian year
is slowly coming to a close.
everyday i rise to the morning birds
incessantly rehearsing their spring song.
and the lone mango tree on the hill
turning red-brown with young leaves.
i sit this afternoon, making notes
for my new customised hindu calendar
even as the wind, moving between our curtains, begins to play a vasanta rāga.
waiting for the moon
waiting for the moon
i sit under the stars, waiting for the moon.
it's late tonight.
with me in my balcony, two new roses await too.
the cool śiśira purvai comes and goes
and far on the hillroad, moving vehicles create haikus with their light.
like flowers blooming on a summer's night
my body is fragrant with contentment
being here, having enough time in my day
and space inside me, for waiting
whenever the moon is late.
. . .
sunday night
the nineteenth
māgha
the night feels mine alone
the night feels mine alone
as darkness falls
somewhere inside me, i rise.
the night feels mine alone.
a february afternoon memory
a february afternoon memory
just back from an abhyanga snan
and drying my hairs in the sun.
a slow, warm breeze comes and touches me
as i lay by the open door, on the naked floor.
the afternoon is thick with silence
except for the call of the february birds.
. . .
wednesday afternoon
the fifteenth
māgha
moonless nights
moonless nights
many moonless nights have passed
since i last let my fingers
leak thoughts on blank pages.
my words have been mute; lingering inside,
quietly carrying the gravity of my days.
sometimes i rain
others, remain gray and heavy.
a sunday memory
a sunday memory
the day was many hued
like a layered pattachitra painting.
with visits to a handloom exhibition, an art gallery, an ancient museum
and snacks at an old bakery that still uses coal and mud stove for baking.
a beautiful palette of art, craft, food and history.
now night’s comes, pristine as white.
i lay in bed, resting my eyes in its placid depths
and inside, scenes and stories from the day
find their place between my folds.
. . .
sunday midnight
the twenty third
pauṣa
in silence
in silence
milk bubbles dance over bright orange shreds of carrots
with one hand i balance saanjh on my hips
and with the other stir the condensing mixture.
we stand there like that for few more minutes,
she, watching on curiously and i, stirring.
we repeat this often in between doing other things
sweeping, changing sheets, sunning achaars,
bathing saanjh and cutting her nails.
after three hours, it's lunch time and gajar ka halwa is ready.
we sit down to eat and saanjh asks for a story.
i create a new one. of a mermaid and a little girl.
the story continues as we take a brief stroll around the house after lunch.
then it's nap time. a little laughter, a little persistence and saanjh's asleep.
i call mayur and remember to attend mails
once done, i sit down by myself after a full morning.
and watch sunlight growing on the balcony floor.
these days, i'm without words.
silence eclipses me like sunlight on the floor.
everything inside remains unspoken, simmering.
sometimes it's relieving to forget words, to lose them
and immerse yourself in doing things silently.
in time, saanjh will wake and there will be stories to tell and things to do
until then, i have a burning lamp and
a bottle of flowers on the windowsill
to sit with, in silence.
. . .
thursday afternoon
the twelfth
pauṣa
a pauṣa afternoon
a pauṣa afternoon
the south winds of pauṣa have returned.
all afternoon, tossing curtains
scattering fallen leaves and
carrying in the scent of roses from the balcony.
i sit by the door sewing potlis from an old sari,
saanjh's blowing bubbles
and just like that these sweet january days
trickle into our hearts.
this in-betweenness
this in-betweenness
this slow gathering of everything into boxes,
everything that made this house our nest.
each moment that grew our love here.
every drift of zephyr that held our sighs and dried our tears.
shafts of sunlight that teased us awake every morning
and moonbeams that sieved through our curtains on fullmoon nights.
our little girl’s tiny feet on this naked floor
all the walking. running. jumping. and knee grazing.
the devout cooing of pigeons outside our window
and the kindred sky with its offering of splendid hues and evening stars.
and all those precious garden visits,
seeking play, peace, oneness and a song for every season.
now the walls are becoming bare,
leaving behind only stains of memory and beauty.
and i’m tender with uncertainty and hope
as we wait for our new home to find us.
. . .
wednesday, evening
the sixteenth
māgha
these days
these days
i sit on a garden step,
and watch a freshly bathed saanjh
blissfully dust sand all over herself.
a swallow tatse a ripe jamaican cherry
and flit over the garden hedge.
we bring home a basketfull of fallen butterfly-wing leaves
to weave along our dried mogra festoon.
in the kitchen,
i prayerfully stir milk to make kulfi (traditional indian frozen dessert)
and find domestic poetry
in the drying of melon seeds and curry leaves.
between doing and sleep,
i meet these kindred words
and preserve them in my mind.
relearn a forgotten lesson of love
and slowly begin to gather
my thoughts and our things;
for far from here,
a new house, a new city and a new chapter await.
. . .
friday, noontide
the eleventh
māgha
crescent moon rajgira laddus
this afternoon while saanjh napped, i stood in the kitchen stirring rajgira (amaranth flour) in a kadai. as the sweet smell of homemade ghee and cardamom wafted across the house, my eyes wandered into the distance, where a herd of cows were grazing on unruly foliage by the side of the road. sunlight shone proudly on everything and the wind moved sedately between laundry airing over terraces. being alone with my thoughts and listening to the afternoon raga playing outside my window while i shaped these laddus in my palm felt like my happy place. making with my hands is always therapeutic, and wonderfully so when i'm making for my loved ones.
. . .
RAJGIRA LADDUS
ingredients
ingredients
200gms rajgira flour
3 tbsp ghee
1 tsp cardamom powder
powdered sugar, to your preference
a handful of coarsely ground almonds
a pinch of saffron and sunthi (dry ginger) powder
making
3 tbsp ghee
1 tsp cardamom powder
powdered sugar, to your preference
a handful of coarsely ground almonds
a pinch of saffron and sunthi (dry ginger) powder
making
heat ghee in a kadai and fry all the ingredients except sugar, on low-medium flame for 10-15 minutes. remove from heat and let it cool to the touch. mix in the powdered sugar and shape into laddus. relish with love.
. . .
saturday, nightfall
the thirteenth
māgha
. . .
saturday, nightfall
the thirteenth
māgha
lesson in subtlety
lesson in subtlety
śiśira, like a distant song
that slowly draws you into its music,
beckons me from my work
to let in and listen.
i hear it's light murmur into our room
a little early, each morning.
in the jubilant wind that flits
between fallen and newborn leaves.
in the richly fragrant mango blooms on the street.
and the altered tune of the chirping birds.
at home, we spend most of our days and evenings
by the window, with curtains pulled aside,
watching outside, reading, bird or sky gazing.
weaving freshly blossomed mogras
and hanging them by the window, to perfume the air.
this season, between the stark winter and the promising spring,
offers its unpretentious magic quietly.
like a benign lesson in subtlety.
. . .
monday noontide
the first
phālguna
ordinary everydays
ordinary everydays
after a seriously difficult week
of being unwell as a family
we woke up to a balmy day
to behold this cold, cold january
leaning into february’s enveloping warmth
and the breeze softly playing
the music of a nearing spring.
my baby is adrift into a healing sleep,
the pigeons are cooing on the opposite walls
and i sit here, unhurried, by the open window
taking in the offerings of this afternoon
and eclipsing into this beautiful book,
an early birthday gift.
often, these ordinary everydays
feel more special than special days.
. . .
friday noontide
the twentyninth
māgha
full moon musings
full moon musings
and śiśira, the indian pre-spring season has arrived.
cold still lingers in the wind, unseen
and feebly buffets the lining of our skin.
laden with memories of this winter past
and dreams of coming
i let myself to just be. languid and wistful.
knowing, the moon, full and restful,
is musing in the sky too.
. . .
monday nightfall
the twentyfifth
māgha