Tuesday, July 17, 2018


You were born.
And your birth made him so happy
that he cried.
He held you in his hands
with reverence.
And he spent every second
of his short break
looking after you with love.
But you were too small, too infantile,
to register the word father.
Then he left. For his duty.
Service to family over,
it was time to serve the nation.
He had served his family with love.
He served his nation with sacrifice.
When they brought him home,
wrapped in tricolour,
the sad commotion surprised
the wide eyed toddler in you.
When they laid him in lobby,
you crawled up to his motionless body,
gently shaking his shoulder,
as if he would wake up from his eternal slumber.
When they laid him in coffin with state honours,
you patted the wooden box, repeatedly,
to hear the dull thud
your small hands made against rough wood.
Recognition, zero. Outright organic innocence.
That stirred the souls of the entire nation.
You may not recall this when you grow up,
but we do hope that you become his shadow.
Conscientiously dutiful

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Yesterday night, he slept

Late again.
But her colleagues knew the reason.
So they did not seek explanations.
A middle aged woman,
experienced both in life and workplace,
stood at crossroads.
This was the least the office could do.
The patriarch of her family
had been admitted in semi-coma condition last month.
Only last week the doctors had sent them home.
“The hospital has done what it could do”.
It was prayer and serving and support now.
Prayers and life support machine.
His heart beating, eyes blinking
blood flowing in the veins,
if it is called living.
Yesterday we exchanged a word with her.
“We are waiting, someday now he will ask of us,
He will wish for his favourite food,
He will recognize us”.
Yesterday night he slept.
And never woke up.
Today she was on leave.
Will be for a few days.
We observed a two minute silence dutifully
and proceeded with the day.
But my thoughts keep drifting
to that kid in her
who was waiting for her father to get well soon.

Friday, July 13, 2018

The hawker

Between 7:30 to 8:00,
when the dusk blends in night,
I wait for his distinct shrill call,
loud and ringing,
Occasionally, I run out ,
to stop him,
preferably at the turn of the lane,
right beneath the streetlight,
so that I can select the right veggies in emergencies.
I see his hands, rough and soiled,
his old face withered,
his body leaning on his cart,
his legs damaged,
bent by the burdens and travails,
and I suppress a shiver.
As I pay him for my purchase,
I see a faint glint in his eyes.
The exchange over,
He moves away in the dusty dark lane.
As I bolt the gate, I can see his bent silhouette
dragging the cart by his body weight,
his call for vegetables fading.

Sunday, March 4, 2018

Haiku: sweet & tart

You are like sweet tarts.
Buttery, crumbly goodness.
Scrumptious. Addictive.

Linking with: RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #190 Tart&Sweet


I think of you
spring fills my heart.
Long drives;
savoring vanilla
in the glorious eventide;
ambling hand in hand on rustling leafage,
oblivious to the surrounding cacophony,
thoroughly consumed in togetherness;
hushed whispers in the
nights slowly growing longer;
susurous rustles of your laughter;
cuddling in homely coziness.
I think of you
and you remind me of
the soothing breezy petrichor,
raw and intoxicating.
I see in you an infinite spring.
And maybe that is what you are made up of.
Spring, in heart and soul and mind.
And maybe that is what you are.
Vernal and verdant.

Linking with 

100 Word Challenge: Spring