WORDS

A week away from you

Hands itch, words tumble and slip

I push them back, they cool their heels.

 

Distracted mind flings sporadic ideas,

rusty brain still needs a prod,

dormant creative urges still yawning,

I awaken them from a seven day slumber.

Scattered phonemes enjoy the merry go round,

morphemes lure their best mate,

the lexicon gives me a baffled stare,

I tenderly sweep the cobwebs.

The pink and white flowers, the green branches

my diurnal muses; beckon me to scribble, 

white vowels and consonants on the black keyboard

anticipate my old touch.

I raise my head; the sun has set; 

The hour hand rests on the middle digit,

Words at last find their way back home.

THE WHITE TABLE

Memories perch side by side with coloured streaks on my white dining table,

memories of conversations chewed and sipped on angled white chairs.

Teasing reminder of friendly dinners and lunches;

reflections of countless family meals,

reminiscent of meals sometimes nibbled alone over fiction and non-fiction

each memory clings to the lacy grey table cloth,

forming a concealed tower of souvenirs.  

Streaks of my daughter's curved enthusiasm for artwork,

canvases spread on the table capturing diverse moods, 

etchings of a deceased grandpa captured fondly;

or sketch of a friend's turmoil spilled by angry strokes.

Scars of peeping chipped wood  a testimony to 

gaping sentiment of my progeny.

The pen marks on white rexine chairs cruise blue to black,

patterns of different students each year drawing 

Economics diagrams or calculating profit margins.

The white table creates an invisible album,

Each time I flip a page, a bygone flavour of emotions emanate.

WHY

Why we become what we become?

Is it our parents who cast the mold,

or our school outlining our quarter silhouette?

Is it friends who configure our thoughts, 

or teachers who sculpture our impressions?

Is it cousins with whom we kick our heels in holidays,

or co-workers we gossip  at the cafeteria?

Is it the books we read and the places we travel,

or our children who teach us a thing or two?

Is it thousands of unknown faces and their gestures, 

or the endearing companionship of nature?

Sometimes, I wonder what impressions keep slipping 

through five senses and colour our intellect.

Whatever I am, or who I have  become

I owe it to each of you

for assembling me.

On some days I am grumpy and upset;

on other days, I am happy and cheerful.

But what I manifest each day;

is a slice of each of your perceptions,

as I am nothing but a reflection of all of you.

COLOURS

 

The bright red flames tirelessly burning

seeking no respite.

Melting chimneys, spewing grey colour,

mangled with loss and pain.

The twin colours of black and white fungus,

disrobing an eye somewhere and a limb elsewhere

still racing an incessant marathon.

Reluctant eyes stare at sandalwood tinged horizontal sights 

filling public spaces,

Vertical lines; clustered in frustrated indoor stretches

on unrested black and white tiles. 

Tender eyes eagerly awaiting 

to gaze at blue and white uniforms.

Rainbow visible at best in moist cupboards,

Sleek cars solitarily cruise patients in blue-green scrubs

returning with one or two less.

A nation with vibrant hues and festivals 

replaced by numbers dying and numbers positive.

The red virus drenching us all in a kaleidoscope

of agony, isolation, anguish and despair.

MY CHILDHOOD

The comforting big red dot;

the familiar jingling of bangles,

a smile too caring to miss out.

Not a care about the world outside,

I lie on the bed snuggled next to my sister.

Listening to the only male voice 

humming Hemant Kumar's and Rafi's,

ironing our white shirts, blue tunics

and adding a glisten to our black school shoes.

I open my eyes to the wafting smells of filter coffee

and the shrill hiss of the idli cooker,

lingering tastes of early years.

Each formative emotion of mine;

resonating with warmth supplied by them.

The close warmth spreading to our cups of Bournvita,

cooled to room temperature on foggy mornings

in the small town of Orissa.

We sisters, slurp to the sounds of ding ding

reverberating from the ring on Nana's finger

and rush to pack our school bags

to start another new day.

The peals of laughter and the giggles over the table;

devouring lip-smacking love served on our plates 

day in and day out, reminiscent that life is so beautiful.

Lying on the folding cots on the terrace;

against the background score of the giant factory fan

accompanying the songs of the Vivid Bharathi.

Catching up and sharing stories of the day passed,

the close-knit family's time slips into oblivion 

as eyes droop for a cozy night under the summer stars.

Each passing year taking me far and far away

from 

the town, the house, the steps and the terrace

now all tucked in the corner of my aging heart.

Peeping out every time I glance at the mirror,

the grey hairs' squint out of my thin mane

My childhood and my growing years,

where did I leave you?