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

homemade potpourri

homemade potpourri

of birthday roses and spices

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

homemade shrikhand with butter caramelized figs

homemade shrikhand with butter caramelized figs

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.

evenings like these

evenings like these

there are evenings,
evenings like these,
when i stand beneath the sky
alone against its limitless expanse
and feel like a flower bud in spring.
opening and unfolding
spreading out my soul in all it's entirety
until, without a noise, the landscapes begin to match.
both the inner and the above.

small memories of winter

small memories of winter

H E M A N T A   R I T U

 mārgaśīrṣa | pauṣa 

it's the first day of winter.
and already evening has come tiptoeing,
wearing new moon for a smile.
we've lit earthen lamps in our balcony
and sit watching their soft flames conversing with the stars.

i tell saanjh how this evening is made special on the ghats of varanasi
with millions of lamps glowing by the riverside
amidst chants and a dense smoke of devotion rising from many hearts.
dev diwali. a festival i'm ethereally drawn to
without ever being physically present
by the ganga to partake in the celebrations.

when her papa returned from work, saanjh lit sparkles sitting in his lap
countless stars came sprinkling out, flooding the night.
as i stood watching, i felt myself turning fluid like a river
amidst the glowing lamps, the new moon,
all the stars in the sky and dancing out of those sparkles
and my own my chanting heart.

later that night i learnt that we were celebrating on the wrong day
the festival was a fortnight ago.

but i couldn't dust off what the night had brought.
so it's magic stayed. real.

. . .

it's a beautiful december morning
the sun’s tenderly holding the earth
while the birds drench the air with their steady singing.

. . .

as if i'm surrounded on all sides
by a garden overrun with beautiful weeds,
the intoxication of poetry buzzes in my mind
making me restless with joy.

writing poetry without words

writing poetry without words

sitting with a little basket of these flowers
weaving them into a garland
to be hung by the window
and filling our nest with their divine perfume.

a new everyday ritual.

petal play

petal play

 

a morning celebration of wilted diwali flowers

. . .

wednesday morning
the second
kārtika

reading tagore by the window

reading tagore by the window

the more time you spend in nature, the more you realize every day that there is no greater or more beautiful thing than to be able to accomplish one’s everyday work with simplicity. everything, from grass on the field to the stars in the sky are doing precisely that; they're not trying to aggressively take over domains that are not their own, that's why nature is full of such deep peace and endless beauty. yet the little bit that each does is not negligible amount at all. the grass expends all its energy to survive as grass. it is not trying in vain to exceed its own strength to become a banyan tree, that's why the world is so beautiful and green. really, it's not because of large schemes and boastful talk, but because human beings fulfill  their small duties on a daily basis that human society has its share of ordered beauty and peace. whether it is poetry or bravery, none of these is complete in itself.

rabindranath tagore

these days

these days

i know what a piece of cotton cloth feels
when it's drowned in a mixture of onion skins,
or lac or turmeric roots or a vessel full of scented pink garden roses.
and left to stay there overnight or more.
what goes on inside that powerful darkness,
the explosion of hushed conversations
between the juices, the colors, the cotton filaments
and the empty spaces between those filaments.
the poetry of their marination, the staining of one soul over the other,
giving rise to a desire to remain overlapped, dyeing.
but equally bursting with an urge to share the sublime experience.

.

i'm a cotton cloth let to dye inside the pages of a book.
the letters, the thoughts in those letters and the man behind those thoughts and letters
are staining me in ways my own words could never reveal.
and as our souls overlap, i'm blissfully torn between
wanting to lock my inner door to everything outside
and a desperation to emerge, briefly, to play my rapturous flute.

.

i stay awake in bed under a warm razai and read.
i sit in the sun warmed balcony with saanjh bringing me
tiny stone gifts at random intervals and read.
i lay on the cool, naked floor surrounded by balloons and read.


. . .

wednesday afternoon
the sixteenth
kārtika

in my love and his light

in my love and his light

i was sitting in my balcony
as the evening sun sang his last song
to the sky and the hills, to himself and to me
in tunes of steel, mauve, crimson and gold.
even the wind seemed to quieten in reverence.
as i kept gazing, his song became mine too.
and so we sang.
with our silent and saying eyes.

then the stars came, one by one
gently reminding us of the dwindling dusk.
it was time for the sun to leave
and the evening to end.
but our gaze deepened
turning our tune to charcoal and longing.
with each note, we willed, and became the night.
unseen and inseparable.

. . .

tuesday evening
the twenty fifth
āśvina

my everyday rāga

 my everyday rāga

i live like the sun and the moon
doing the same things, everyday.

there are no events
no promise of adventure.
every moment, an ordinary devotion.

as i awake and look out my window
a morning star winks at me, before it goes
chasing the night sky into some faraway world.

after a bath and a glass of water,
i open my doors to a new day
and let our home fill up with the echo of hindustani ragas.
in the balcony, as i sweep fallen leaves and dried tulsi florets
the wind teases me, scattering them back all over.
i smile. familiar with the play. and resume sweeping.

the scent of freshly crushed spices in the kitchen
work their intoxication into my cooking.
and most days, my stay in the kitchen
goes beyond making breakfasts and lunches.
there are snacks, happy messes and
mithais made with saanjh by my side.

when the sun is high in the sky
i sit in the balcony letting its warmth heal my knotted shoulders.
there are things to make or mend.
like today, a new razai is beginning to become
a loving birthday gift for our starchild.

at dusk, i light our evening lamp
make dinner and meditate upon the setting sun,
the changing shapes of clouds,
the grazing cows with their tinkling bells,
the coming of the stars and moon.
and my soulmate’s return, who washes away my loneliness
and refills my day with his music.

at bedtime, as the world sleeps to the lullaby of the night
i elope from my tired body to tryst with my thoughts.
sometimes, on my way i meet midnight
other times, i stumble into dawn.

these days

these days

each evening,
the sun writes his last poem on my wall

small memories of autumn

small memories of autumn

Ś A R A D   R I T U

āśvina | kārtika 

 

we’re swaddled in a soft morning.
a friendly breeze is blowing outside,
greeting everyone and everything in its wake.
the pigeons in the opposite balcony
seem contend just being there, flying nowhere.
saanjh is playing with her rainbow blocks.
and all i want to do is lay by her side
and do nothing but be.
watching these clouds sojourn the sky
and absorb their music into my veins.

but, life summons me elsewhere.

.

when autumn peeks from the window of rainless days
we make little picnics in our balcony
of curd rice, books and sunshine
sprinkled with slivers of radiant nothingness.

.


evening’s come.
yet again bringing its lingering poetry,
starsong and breeze fragrant with faraway rain.
inside, saanjh and her papa are drenching each other
with their wildness, music and love.
i stand outside in the fading light
taking in the magic of this ordinary day,
one last time.

.

it's a moody hazy morning
the sun’s bright and crisp over the hills
still, everything is cloaked in mist.
yesterday, rain came unheralded
but the late afternoon sun greeted it with kisses,
making each drop shimmer as it fell.

the world outside seems whimsical and saying.
i wonder what feelings are stirring in there.