HIS PRESENCE

His mustard-coloured diary
wrinkled pages, some old receipts
mums dry-clean expenditure
his disliked spending
milk, groceries, vegetables, holidays
a glance now shows price rise

his post breakfast schedule
to jot down monthly expenses
or match to past months
or many a time to previous years amounts
an easy pastime post-retirement
then, a sermon on inflation and
his well-managedlife on savings
pension not applicable
in his private job

the cupboard's corner now imitates the dairy's outline.

The pharmacy's big blue Nivea moisturiser
a bottle permanent on his side table in his last years
his dry skin constantly hungry for the lotion
every drop a temporary relief to his flaky skin
he would agree to no other lotion
my dad a long contributor to Nivea's sales
a gene both daughters have
the same dark blue bottle,

a permanent fixture in our cosmetic space.

Spicy pickles and chutneys,
his all-time must at every meal
bottles replenished by my mum's
tasty mango and gooseberry pickles
his taste buds relished them

a morsel for me from his hand
a time I looked forward to
at mealtimes

those jars and bottles long for his touch
just like the glow on mum's face
and me for that one warm morsel.

Few objects pale to define him
he left us three years before

I see him all around
in objects touched and untouched
as it was also, he, who taught me
what an object is.

FAMILIARITY

The flying dust in the air, the screeching horns, the blaring loudspeakers

birthdays of local leaders on massive billboards at every turn

bikes and motorcycles' daredevil stunts to cut across 

auto drivers' incredible manoeuvres through blocked traffic

street hawkers' wares on commuters faces

exhaust from buses and other vehicles, the unwanted face pack

scene in every Indian metropolis or city,

yet every time I travel back to India

these accustomed visuals and muddled commotions

exude a chaotic warmth, silent senses locate a charger in the cacophony.

Night sleep adjusts to the rhythm of the ceiling fan,

a sound tucked in memory of growing years

the barks of stray dogs heighten the nocturnal harmony

The late-night TV sounds of neighbours

the slamming of lift doors, careless footstep sounds on some floors

each note, a lullaby chord, impressions tugging me to deep sleep.

Tunes of different calling bells arouse me from slumber

sounds of the caws of the morning crows, 

sometimes squeaks of different birds

I fail to identify, break my dreams.

The cooker whistles in someone's house 

sounds of slurping filter coffee in my house

eyes open to some neighbour in yogic posture on a terrace

another doing deep breathing exercises. 

Stare down from the balcony

to see morning walker's matching strides

vendors selling fresh flowers, vegetables 

sights so colourful and various, my eyes 

unable to focus on one.

Each scene so well acquainted to eyes, yet so arresting

the joy of familiarity, the pleasure of the known,

sights, smells and sounds each a part of my being, 

I am so comfortable with.

WORDS

 I open groggy eyes and see words dance  

some small, some big, some easy, some difficult

and some repetitive, 

they converse with me 

accompany me to the bathroom, to the kitchen

stare at my sips of lukewarm water,

encircle my husband in my routine morning hug

stretch my yoga poses,

puff with me in my breathing exercises

get wet under the shower

some more new words towelled and dried

join me dressed to slurp my masala chai.

They are in every nook and corner,

on the sofa I sit, on the rug, on the duvet

they slip at times; I catch them

they spill at times on pages, I treasure them

but they do not fail me.

Some pain me, I discard them

few new ones send friend requests,

many give a fleeting glance

couple opt to stay put.

How many requests to accept, 

will the old ones feel forgotten, I wonder?

Words of four languages I know, scratch me

vocabulary of some, obese some less visited, skimpy

many a time they sit next to each other

I laugh, friends now, aha.

At times, conduct assessments of my grey streaked memory

come on, they prod, say it, the same word in all four languages.

I try, give in at times, give up at times.

They soothe me, not on all occasions

at times, I crave for pin drop silence

enough, I tell them, just go

obstinate, they do not leave me.

Tired, we all cuddle up each night

drift off to sleep under the same blanket 

old ones shift to house the new

all ready for another new day of togetherness.

RECTANGLE OF LIFE

Verification of cards at every public place
shops, restaurants, ATM's, kiosks, airports
the list endless, humans in a race to amass them
proof of survival collapsed into obese wallets
with multiplied card slots
currency notes pushed to pillion rider's seat.

In the past, cards meant playing cards or greeting cards
playing cards' dog ears exchanged hands during summer or winter breaks
some corner shelf now stacks mildew creased old birthday and new year cards
UNO cards of my daughter's childhood, a shared pass time of ours even now in winter break.

Now cards have many aliases
Credit card, debit card, health care card.
insurance card, national identification card, loyalty cards
some labels unheard of then, now household names
some laminated, some electronic
each updated model an upgraded verification.

Frantic at the loss or theft of a credit or debit card
cards are treasured, they are our daily oxygen,
these small rectangles rule our lives,
who are we without them?
Lost travellers in this modern path of life.

So similar are we to the rectangles we carry
an expiry date printed on each card
we likewise have one each etched the day we are born.

Every traveller one day reaches the expiry date,
a dug-out rectangle on the ground tucks the body
the only rectangle that slips by whole life
rests him or her at the end.
Some cloaked in a coffin
some just buried in the ground
some burnt on a pyre, similar shapes
all preserved cards just waste papers.

DREAMS

I dust the scattered ones on the duvet, some slip on the floor

swept and lost in winter day's cold grind

few insist on continuation, sequence missed

ruin the grip.

How did they enter our lives,

who taught us to dream?

When do soap operas get created in our sleep, 

 few with multiple casts as in movie Tenet like

past ancestors and present gen Z collide at times,

backgrounds and characters intermingle in sleep.

A toss or a turn ruins the continuum.

Trickles of daylight evaporate the residual few

the steam of one rest on my plain white cup of chai

I sip my masala chai and caress it with my fingernail

dream flattened on the cup, traces recede in the amygdala 

to rehearse another scene for heavy eyelids.

The day rolls brim with duties and activities, night cruises along

yawns stretch, stillness of the night engulfs body and mind. 

Lights switched off, I settle under the blanket, accustomed snore of my husband

he in his dreams probably, my eyes close in a deep slumber

dreams costumed and ready enact their part.

A TRIP BACKWARDS

 Growing up emotions cuddled in the orange warm blanket 

now forgotten tossed aside in the wooden bunk bed

yellow stained albums of school picnic some unrecognisable faces

black and white pictures carefully preserved then, now unwanted space

hazy numbers on old bundled and forgotten salary slips

paper files of old cheque books and passbooks 

announcements of new family additions via postcards

additions, on way to retirement soon 

romantic cards and long worded letters arranged date wise

files as antique as the thirty-six years of marital togetherness. 

Tedious chore to clear bunk bed and old suitcases 

separate obstinate pictures from damp albums

garbage bags queue to fill musky discoloured files 

a week's effort cleans the room

old suitcases and bags given in charity. 

an age-old-procrastinated task finally accomplished.

Each photo bounces different thoughts

childhood, youth, marriage, children 

nostalgia reveals contours of life's stages

many aged family members just remain as pictures

loss a vacuum unoccupied.

mundane task ahead to compress memories in gigabytes

click or swipe in future to see life backwards.

The orange blanket sits alone in the bunkbed

its comfort hugs me in my imagination as I write.

NO EXPIRY DATE

 DEATH OF THE WEST

I

watch millions of rupees wasted in just a name change

colonized names of Indian cities scrubbed hard by politicians 

Bombay to Mumbai, Madras to Chennai, the endless list

I

stare as citizens relish western fries, burgers and colas 

willingly immerse head to toe

 in Ray bans and Gucci's to Nikes and Reebok's

free models for all western brands

chained for forever

I

gape at my youth's race for western universities and jobs

the amenities of green card or other Western passports

my blue passport easily bartered

 

I  

soak tears of their parents' eternal wait 

and the struggle of grandparents' inability to 

comprehend grandchildren's western accents

I fumble 

at shops full of 

cakes and cards of Halloween and Valentines' day

I

am awestruck at an Indian Prime minister of country that ruled us

and another in nail-biting contest in another western democracy

Who am I?

A country of teeming millions, 

an endless market for western commodities 

a mute witness to the myriad hats of west

each time a new garb or a new mask to camouflage.