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.

 

The Kunduli Girl

I was walking home from school
Running along, skipping along
Playing hide and seek
In the deep jungle trails
Loving their many secrets
Chasing the dappled shadows

The bag on my shoulders
My meagre notes and books
Forgotten in my wonder world
A smile on my lips
As I went hush hush after a squirrel
...Stepping on a twig

Was the noise very loud?
What did I hear?
Was that more twigs breaking?
Foolishly, still unconcerned
As I spy the squirrel again,
But not for long...

They creep up
Trample the mossy bed
Chase away the sun's rays
And give a howl of laughter
So I know they are near
With no place to go, No place to hide

Have you seen hyenas
Hunting sniffing playing with their prey
I am the prey
The bloody boots finally leave
With my smile... hunger satiated
Over my trodden bag, broken body

That was not the end
My halting story uttered
Hunted, haunted, deserted
My tale twisted, my virginity plundered
Many times over
I was a pariah, thrown to a hostel away from home

That was still not the end
Woken up at midnight for interrogation
Proven guilty by the learned
Police, doctors, human rights
Women commission, judges
For speaking up means guilty

This girl; How could she be raped
By the very custodians of safety
It has never happened before
She must be lying
The young girl tells big tales
Luscious images of a vivid mind, maybe

A rope to end it all
Distressed, depressed,
Disowned in many ways
An object of shame, pity, distrust
isolation, disgrace
And a hundred days of plunder

But that was again not the end.
The body dragged to the streets
Politician across parties
Fighting for their scrap of glory
Death too doesn't give dignity
While the jungle keeps it's secret, still

The only end is not to be born.

PS
There are some tales which are so sad they need to be told and retold. Everyday we feel we have seen the worst... when actually the worst is around the corner. I would honestly have liked to name this poem "the death of humans".

Of Many Colours

Of Many Colours

I wore blue today.

Royal Blue

That is how I feel when I step out under the winter sky

Bluebells on the hedges, blue bougainvilleas with their fluttering dry paper leaves

Ice cold blue with blue bangles

You had better keep your distance from me

So they don’t offend you, my blue veins that stand out

Getting up in the morning, taking my bath at dawn

Washing those left over dishes

And drying those cold clothes

I wore blue today

To feel the glitter in my blue eyes, for I am tired of feeling grey

Is pink my colour?

It gives the colour to my cheeks

When my husband brings me a gift

But more often when my in laws point out my mistakes

I can hide under my pink lips, bangles and ribbons

The blushes turn to anger soon

Again that is pink and can be kept under wraps

Like my pink dupatta which hid my embarrassment

From the repulsive maulings

Of a revered teacher or a co-passenger or a kin

So I wear a brighter pink

To hide behind my anger, desire, pleasure and... sometimes loathing

  

The warm feel of the soft grass

The distant trees forming the skyline of a deserted road

The verdant reflection in the nearby pool

The creepers on the wall reaching out to the sun on the roof

Their tender tendrils seeking a toehold

Warm, new, ever growing

Soaking up the dust mites, carbon

Green is my colour

Born in the tussle between Mother Earth and Sun and its siblings

Green won in tentative steps

Over a billions of years

So how can I wreck it in a few planned moves of destruction over a hundred years?

Bright and Sunny yellow

Nothing keeps it down

Flitting from flowers to flowers on the wings of a butterfly

Or gracing the newly weds in the woven marigold

Cheery and Chirpy but always graceful

Yellow knows

Life is a myth

Nothing lasts and nothing is yours

Like the yellow sun bleaches all it falls on

Time washes away all memories

Except perhaps the fabricated ones, all man made

Yellow is my colour: which holds an eternity in every moment

---

This poem is inspired by the bright colourful sarees worn by Indian women and relates them to her various moods. I would appreciate your comments and suggestions.

An ode for Self and my 40s Friends (nee Teens!)

(With due apologies to the real poets out there!)

When hormones and BPs make a call

Does friendship go for a stroll? 

Kitty parties, kids and kitchen

Maids, puppies, homework and men

Tie it up with anniversaries and weddings

Bdays, golf parties, work parties and promotions

Parents, arthritis, doctors checkups

Boss, deadlines, budget and the alumni curse

Aunts uncles getting old
As we struggle to make time for them

Those childhood memories get slowly lost

GTs, selfies, whatsapp, games though manage to rule the frame

We still manage to survive the day

With a smile, attitude and reserve at play

Where Everyday is a new day and and Every pic has a new Wrinkle

Those are not worry lines but smile lines 

No anti wrinkle cream is erasing the experience

No doc making us live forever

When finally the mood swings stop and Life settles

Remember we will be too old to play

So let's enjoy the egos and squabbles

And let those thyroid, BP and hormones have their day

Let them just add one more crinkled line of strength

to the bond called friendship; here’s to the day

Let's live it up!

Valentine's Day Poem - With A Difference!

There was a time when I got the Best Valentine cards,
Guys wanted to be close to me like mad.
I got the best of best friends too
Who vied to pay attention to me and woo.
I am 40 now and not getting young,
Crying for all the love and attention and a bit of song
My husband forgets the V'day
My son so young and gay
does only stuff that his girlfriends say!
20 years older and 40 pounds heavier
Oh how weary and dull life seems now
If I was a bit thin or a lot cool
I could still conquer the world
For don’t I know it all!
All of you out there, the young uns
So full of love and life and laughter
Please resist those chocolates
As you might be me twenty years on!