Poem on Love and Loss - Ode to Mother

 This poem is dedicated to my mother and is an expression of how it felt to visit home without her being there.

Both Sides of the Cupboard

The cupboard still smells of her.

Naphthalene and dried neem,

a faint line of Pond’s Cold Cream,

and the soap she cut into slivers

so nothing went to waste.

Some things are neat and folded like her sarees 

Starched cotton in straight rows.

Important papers in old envelopes,

no labels, but she knew which was which.

Like she was readying the house

for a journey she wouldn’t name.

And some things are chaotic...like life.

Unfinished projects breathing in the dark.

Half a sweater on the needles,

one sleeve done, the other waiting.

Old books dog-eared, journals from aeons ago,

news cuttings about events, occasions,

the win many years ago.

Almond shells in a jar for no reason,

a soft toy with one eye gone,

plastic flowers that she never liked to throw.

The mess, that the untrained eyes see

actually feelings, emotions, occasions curated and stored over years

is closer to home than clean ever was.

She has a lovely terrace.

Full of adeniums — fat-bellied, stubborn,

flowers blooming when the calendar says no.

Flowers that arrive uninvited,

as if they answer to her and not the year.

Pink and white and wrong-month red.

They lean toward her window now,

petals unsure of the quiet.

They bow when the wind moves

like she did when she bent to remove a dry leaf.

This is what remains of anyone 

Not the shape, but the residue.

A scent held in wood. A way of saving string.

The terrace that kept her hours

long after her hands left the watering can.

We’re all just keeping time for each other.

Then the time keeps itself.

Things thin out. They don’t end.

They change rooms.

I shut the door soft.

And keep the smell in, for now

Some things you keep.

Some things you learn to carry.

The cupboard still smells of her.

The adeniums still count in her time.

So the house still has a mother —

neat and chaotic,

held for a while,

then set down, gently.

 

Art and the Need for Writing in this Day of Doom Scrolling and Artificial Intelligence

 Write. That’s the keyword.

This article, while written by and for silver streakers, also holds value for youth (I think). Our generation is tentative in assuming truths. 

With phones in our hands and the constant hum of TV in the background, the never-ending stream of WhatsApp messages, how we have forgotten the art and joy of writing! 

Every person who loves reading wants to become a writer/ author, sometime. I know I do. But then the time never comes. And then one is subjected to copycat AI-generated writings daily, which becomes the norm. Finally, one forgets to hold a thought not shaped by others.

Are we letting our digits (as in fingers) go ineffectual by not using them to hold a pen or tap on words? Because “not” writing is easy?  And the most important reason of all, the doubts – can I write at this age, and who will read my writing?

I dug a little into famous or beloved writers across ages. Remember the beautiful classic Black Beauty? Who hasn’t fallen in love with horses after that book? Anna Sewell was 57 when the book was published. She had a story to tell from her heart (her only book), and she wrote it.

Why Do I Need to Write

It is proven by multiple studies that writing improves cognitive function, memory, and attention span. And those are the areas the silver streakers are struggling with: attention span diluted by endless scrolling, memory fogged by lack of activity and declining cognitive function brought on by loneliness or illness.

Even though the keyboard is everyone’s best friend, handwriting takes writing to another dimension as it activates a broader network of brain cells. However, when one starts to write by hand, the shaky, barely legible words make one give up the exercise before it even starts!

If there was a choice to remain agile in mind, imagination, and memory with just a little effort, wouldn’t one want to do that? Reduced neural plasticity is a term I came across frequently while researching how our lack of writing affects us. It’s a simple translation. Like your joints and muscles, which become stiff due to lack of use, the nerves, the cells that carry messages to and from the brain, become stiff or lose plasticity with age and lack of use. So, writing comes with the added benefit of improving neural plasticity or keeping our brains agile.

How Do I Start?

So, one can’t become a full-fledged writer overnight. But one can write a few lines, maybe a shloka, a verse, a favourite poem. Or the day’s events, the old-fashioned art of journalling. Thoughts flow when one stops looking at the screen. Random thoughts, Thoughts, ideas, cumulated over years of experience, life. Just imagine how many stories there would be to tell of life.

It is even more important to pen them down before AI takes over and makes our minds really numb. Just as we can’t find a place without google maps, very soon we can’t pen a thought unless it is suggested and framed by AI. All of us see it happening. And it will lead to faster and surer deterioration of our mental faculties.

So why not just pick up a pen, block out the noise, scribble a few words, daily? Small steps. Atomic habits. And then have the final laugh. For the older generation needs to remain mentally fit and fine. The youth need guidance and the use of our wisdom, even though they don’t realise it and snicker at our stumbling speech and thoughts.

Age and Writing

Age is just a number. How many times have we heard this? Well, it is true. It is a big number of cumulative experiences, wisdom, and knowledge. So, when one is made to feel lesser or when the kids get impatient, condescending or laugh behind their hands when you forget something, one just needs to remember that age knows better. So WRITE down those big numbers of experiences and people and places and show them! After all, who would know Shakespeare or understand that age if he (or someone) hadn't written!

PS – Ruskin Bond published his autobiography “Lone Fox Dancing” at the age of 83, in 2017. Now at 91 years, he still writes daily.

Sanghamitra

Hei Phaguna Tume Song with Lyrics - Akhshaya Mohanty non - album song

 If you are looking for a classic old odia song that shows longing and yearning for a lost love, "Hei Phaguna tume", would be right on top of the list. While "Phaguna" means spring, the song is an allusion to a loved one departing, leaving behind many memories. 

The lyrics of the song Hei Phaguna Tume goes like this.

Hei Phaguna Tume

Gala pare pare

Aneka Jatana ethi (2)

Luha re lekhuchi....

Hear the song "hei phaguna tume" here.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xup4-sdx0A