Tuesday, January 27, 2015

The treacherous resident

One house,
Four chambers,
What fills them,
One knows not.
A shadow,
Perhaps a wise thought.
Part venom, part blood,
Snakes through corridors.
Room enough
For both
Devil and divinity.
What dwells in there,
Defines us.
Some allow Raama,
Others prefer Raavana.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

Sentiments on Sita

Your tender feet treading thorns and thickets,
Your royal blood tasting wilderness,
Your charisma consigned to his shadows,
Your being submerged with his.
And still,
You were not celebrated but exiled,
Not honored but abducted,
Not worshipped but bedevilled,
Not welcomed but stained and sullied,
Not protected but shunned.
The mettle to question,
The audacity to query again,
The temerity to oppugn yet again.
Defiled and maculated,
Your exquisiteness consigned to rings of fire.
Unvanquished, every time.
Not burned but emboldened.
Not defeated but defiant.
Not yielding but valiant,
Your beautiful life sacrificed,
At the altar of piety and honor.
Your rebel spirit sanctified
By Mother Earth herself.
You, who were doubted and impugned.
You, came to be venerated and worshipped.
Courtesy: Ermilia: Picture it and write

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Suspirations of spring

Fifth day of spring. Yellow turbans of mustard swaying in the fields. Yellow from the wardrobes to yellow on the platter. The warmth is engulfing and enveloping. Hymns float. Devotions, festivities and fervor abound. The spell of winter is broken. The ambers of the hearth have melted the heart of the skies. And so we celebrate. Fasting and feasting. Praying and playing. Singing and dancing. We hail the onset of warmer days with vasant raag and kites. The yellow rebellion defeats the winters and the joys reach out to the blues yonder. Thousand winters die. Heart full of spring lives.


The "To-let" scribbled messily on the facade drew attention. The building was mired in shadows, even in bright day light. The place had definitely seen better days. The weed-grown yard of the derelict, perhaps it missed the hands that had tended rose-beds. The red skin scraped off by the claws of green moss. The gaping hollows in place of doors and windows. The soul and skeleton bared. The classic, and if I am not mistaken, British flavor of the frontage. Abandoned. Forsaken. I am told the place is jinxed. Misfortune has befallen various owners. The "To-let" slapped in sheer mockery.

Linking with Alphabe-Thursday : J

Gone, but not forgotten

Dear Gammy,

Today I made the sweet yellow rice. Well, yes! I attempted them again.
And the Basant of 2012 flashed before my eyes.
It seemed like yesterday.
When mum was not home, and I tried my hand at what was supposed to be sweet yellow rice but ended up a disaster.
You were the only one who dared to taste that catastrophe. Even I gave up.
And just because you showed confidence in that mushy mess, I take leaps today.
I so wish you were here.
But your boat is already ashore.
You maybe gone, Gammy, but never forgotten.

Courtesy: Friday Fictioneers
Linking with : Friday Fictioneers

Wednesday, January 21, 2015

The Jinx of the Golden Glint

You flew to distant lands,
I, to assisted living.
You blossomed,
My garden wilted.
Silent. Dusty.
Sunsets, delayed.
Sunrises, lengthened.
Earth, stopped.
Festivals, eco-friendly.
Get-togethers, boastful.
Frames, blank.
Lives, vacuous.
We, plucked out unceremoniously,
Like overgrown weeds.
You, swallowed by the dollar-jinx.

Monday, January 19, 2015

Ritual in repeat : Monday's measly minutes #8

Dear Monday,
You arrive. Crisp and crunchy.
Stay for exactly 24 hours.
And then leave. Unceremoniously.
Only to arrive again a week later.
Repeat yourself like a ritual.
Your clockwork is precise.
And you manage to overwhelm in every single visit.
Nothing deters you. Neither the infamous Monday jeers.
Nor the extra dullop of fondness for weekends.
Duty bound workday.
Frigid and frozen.
Keeping us on our toes.
Deriving sadist pleasure by grilling us.
Throwing a new surprise every time and thrashing all our preparations.
You are needed, yet not so needed.
Like a mysterious puzzle waiting to be unraveled.
Could we do a little bonding over a cup of coffee?
Or would that be like asking for too much.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

I did not ditto him

He cried. I dittoed.
Stumbled and bumbled. Dittoed.
Studied and worked. Dittoed.
Tended to his ménage. Dittoed.
He was at prayers. Dittoed.
He folded his hands; I raised mine in supplication.
So I am at pyre today.
Burning. For not having dittoed.

Monday, January 5, 2015

And the night was theirs

The sky was splashed with variegations. From subtle pink to deep orange. The deft strokes of paint brush painting the sky in motley of colors. And midst the palette, a mollified golden ball sinking below the horizon. The pink blending in dusky purple. The purple in plum velvet night adorned with million and zillion sparkling Swarovskis. The caresses of eventide and shivering silhouettes of wheat plants. The shadows of flocks returning home, the birds flying back to their nests, lending moments of privacy to the horizon ablaze with passion. The twilight made resplendent by the yearning, anticipation and consummation.
Gunjika cherished the moment. It helped her suppress her own ache. Her husband was out there somewhere in these shadows. Manning and securing the horizons. So as to lend a perfect backdrop to the love stories of the beating hearts oblivious to all the bombing and shelling.
Before leaving, her husband had brought her to the porch. And when the twilight was consumed by her philia, he had whispered his love to her. Gunjika replayed the scene every nightfall. Repressing her anxiety and fear for his safety.
She looked at her phone again. Blank black screen. No call today. Anxious, scared, petrified, she got and walked out to the swing. Playing hide and seek with the horizon to calm her frayed nerves. Suspended for a minuscule minute against raisin colored twilight, and then falling back like waves.
She felt an accelerated push to the swing. She wanted to look back but she was already defying the gravity. Touching the skies. And then as she started falling back, she could not resist her laughter. He was here. She knew he was here. Her soldier husband home after many days, safe and sound.
The sunset slowly opened the music of night. And the night was theirs.

Courtesy: Ermilia Blog : Picture it and write

Friday, January 2, 2015


The curtain swooshed in the winter winds. Baring the wall bedecked with souvenirs from their journey together. Framed black and white saga of golden days. Those summers were spent now. Inside the four walls, beneath the same roof, they were separated by a flight of stairs. Winter burned them day and night. His lie. Her mistrust. His passion for money, hers for living. Both guilty. Both proud. Both hurt. Rain rattled against the window, against their hearts. They stood at either ends of stairway. After an infinity, he rushed down the steps just as she climbed up. The winter died.

Courtesy: Friday Fictioneers

Linking with Friday Fictioneers