SAME or NOT

The world is getting smaller on rectangular screens at least

 I click or read the news. 

everyone around on this planet reads the same

every second mobile user either owns a Samsung or Apple phone

binge watch similar web series on Prime or Netflix

drink either Pepsi or Coke

world is shrinking in tastes and fashion.

Shrinking or small, my mind blurs

one race cannot tolerate the other

one country cannot accept other's borders

one religious sect hellbent to wipe out the other

cracks deepen be it a Samsung or Apple user

Coke or Pepsi drinker

Netflix or Prime watcher.

Why are we all so different then in reality?

History books filled with wars stretched our school days

when will we all learn that we all watch the same YouTube,

connect on the same Insta or Facebook.

When will I click the news and not see or read about a single war

when we all accept that we are all the same?

WEEKEND

I draw the bedroom curtains, 

eyes spot his fast-paced walk in the garden

a warm weekend sight for me and my flowers.

My tea bubbles, enthused be shared unlike weekdays

the wrinkled sofas in the living room 

an audience to the spousal chatter

he drooped on his mobile, me in my own world

the unspoken silence in sync with our shared support

the house and me both habituated to sprinkled two days of spice

the housewife waits for the next weekend.

GLUED

Sweat clinging from folded hands

not hers and his, but her own

head bowed, she offers Namaste.
Cheeks damp with tears she ignores
her hands do not unclasp
respect to every person who is present
last rites of her father
people came just to see him
he, unaware of the warmth around.

She can never be their lost brother or cousin
all she can do is offer her respects.
Her interlaced hands express it
her loss more than the others
but she stands still
hands folded, fingers woven
her only way to acknowledge
the affection in the room.

MAIDS OF HONOUR

Steps in the house with a bunch of marigolds, roses or hibiscuses
puts near Mum's altar, picks the chalk, the bucket and the mug
heads for space outside the front door
washes and draws rangoli pattern
an Indian morning ritual.
A gappy smile for Padma, the neighbour's maid
both exchange their daily chitchat
hands draw beautiful rangoli designs on the floor.

9 am, Sarojini's second or third house by then,
a grin for the family members when eyes meet,
the gap of her lost front tooth an accustomed view
as the scorching sun outside in the south Indian city.
Similar chores repeated flat after flat
vessels in the sink, the rooms, the bathrooms, the kitchen slab,
the thrash binned and more.

Up and down, just as the lift of the building.
her feet get some rest when shouted for tea and breakfast
breakfast skipped, packed for her fatherless boys
hot sugary tea, her energy booster, back in the loop once more.

Round and round from one room to another,
from one house to another
as a Ferris wheel she spins till sun sets.
but. another house still left
her shack, chores need to be finished,
boys need to be fed; her treadmill does not stop.

Her daily milestone of ten thousand or twenty thousand steps or more
no smart watch to track, no one to pat and no one to share or compare with.

A relief in every Indian housewife's face,
the minute the maid rings the calling bell.
Housewife's smile warmer for the maid
than for the husband when he comes back.
The husband may earn
the lift may carry people and their bags
but she relieves the fatigue of every housewife.

In addition, the building gossip, the maids share
who bought a new car, which flat's
tenant has left or who is the whiny neighbour
and more, the topics and names change
an unpaid entertainment at all times.

Sarojini or Padma, to name a few
backbone of every Indian household,
their backbones do get tired too
but none remembers
as their motor never stops to spin.

Rajgangpur

 

City, too big a word to express it
town, preferred for the place where I grew
saw it first in arms of my dad, arrived as a two-year-old
have no memories of what I saw then
a small town tucked in Odisha, then called Orissa
a state in east India.

Memory fondly reveals the narrow road between two big ponds,
on the way to school, our rickshaw travel providing the mixed view
of lotuses and the washermen with piles of clothes.
The burial ground adjacent to the school
no one thought of its unusual location,
every time a body arrived
students seated near the window enjoyed the distraction.

The fenced roundabout on the way back home
with its two theatres, bunch of street side eateries
the taste of beetroot cutlets, my taste buds still remember
sight of the fried crispy samosas and queues at the till
the tyre shop near it and men with their tea glasses.

The railway crossing after the roundabout and the two roads jutting out
one leading to my house and the next to the big church in the huge green compound
the tubewell on the way and the tucked little ration shop stocked with sugar, rice and wheat.

Our roadside house and the medley of hawker's voices on cycles
few selling carpets, some cotton candy and roasted nuts
the veranda outside our house, where we played with friends
the well at our backyard, which my sister would always walk to jump if scolded
and be back, when I sneakily told, at my dad's behest about frogs in the well.
An anecdote as the town itself.


The other end of the city where my college lay, the packed bus stand nearby
a new road more travelled once I became an adult in my mind, the pond and the rickshaw stuffed to the back of the mind.
Eyes feast the new sights
the cloth shops, the tailors, the cosmetic store enroute to college
the Friday crowds to the mosque on the parallel road
the spicy puffed rice vendor near the college gate
where girls jostled to buy.

The single-track crossing, the cement wagons pushed by elephants
replaced by engines after.
The dusty trucks laden with cement bags
workers and cement both in one colour
a sore view,
livelihood for majority in the town.

A new part of town now,
our new house above the mill
with its white windows
where we moved in,
the vegetable market behind the house
the tiny post office facing it and muddy roads at the back
the lanes where I drove the first scooter
visits to the Shiva temple adjacent to it
and the decorated hall nearby where I got married.

The quaint little town circled
the same station again, where I bid adieu to my parents
the station now expanded, lights of which do not fuse
witnessed that ten years ago on a reunion visit.
Left Rajgangpur thirty-three years ago,
the name acquired as was a princely state during the British raj.

A town whose lanes and buildings
hold my gossip and my secrets,
whose roads and bricks saw me cry and laugh
saw me grow from a toddler to a woman
a place which has understood me and fulfilled me
more than any city I have lived till now.

IMMERSED

The pleasure of being on the beach, the calm serene sea

some kids nearby roll in sand, 

the joyous giggles of the teenage group

the tomatoes and peppers on skewers on the pit

the football coated with impressions of various pairs of sandy feet

families catch up over conversations

stretched on a mat senses soak the flavours of joy on the sands.

What is it with the sea, the sand, the fishes below and birds above?

The wide expanse, the hum of the sea, the unheard gossip of colourful fish in it

just draws me, the teens, the kids and their parents and the sweaty boys and their sandy feet

the very thought excites us all, we may not know one another

but we all understand the language of the waves

respond to the call of the sea gulls

the tickle of the tiny translucent fish in water

the aroma of happiness in the air

the sea's changing moods caught by us sometime or the other

sometimes it seems so close, the tide's reaching for the land

just when we thought it's near us, it slips far back

TIES

 I enjoy my company, but I do of chums too.

Busy in my own zone, mind scratches, reminds me to call friends, chat and text.

I dust my mind's chatter in the garbage bin along with the vegetable peels. 

I like to meet people and converse but to a point.

The tireless ring of the phone or incessant flow of the messages is a hinderance

Watch videos, pictures of friends and post likes may cheer them, but it saps me.

Talkative by nature; I call once in a while.

As I write the poem, I remember my dad's frequent bargain

of five rupees, if I sealed my lips for ten minutes as a child.

How suffocative was it for me, to be quiet back then

when to socialise was the only skill, I thought I had.

I treasure my friends too, but prioritize my time more

It's a long road, where some old ones slip by. some new ones get added.

Each friend is important; I am sum of their impressions and influences

Just because I call or meet less, does not weaken our bond.  

SETTLE

Lost, in the search for his beloved in O Henry's character of "The shadowed room"

the folded waters of the sea before me, the unruffled stack of white plastic chairs tug my attention

cheeks and fingers cool with the gulf air remind of rumbles in my stomach,

hot pumpkin soup in the flask ready to silence internal growls

my yellow pen moves fast to jot my scattered thoughts

jumpy that the receding waves of the dusk may swallow

less tensed though, than the global economies of the tariffs flung

 

the story's character unequipped to trace her in London's streets

I, unprepared to pattern my sporadic ideas

the world puzzled at the new double digits to be coughed at ports

noises in the belly impatient to wait further

the beloved dies, the hero never knows, tired flops on the bed

my ideas settle on the white plain paper, my temporary bookmark

phone calls and negotiations commence between nations

my stomach silent, pacified with the taste of the soup

each do find their own solace.

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.

A WET HOLIDAY IN NINETIES

Deep in dreams, my wet strands awaken me
bedsheet moist, husband's wet back tapped
water around us, power outage, stoic ceiling fan stares
in-laws in the second room startled
daybreak lost in confusion
soaked sun towels itself

Cyclone hits a small town in southern India
dried sun captures the devastation
cracks on roads, uprooted tusks of trees fallen
electric poles and wires dangle, dead crows in drains
thatched huts roofless and bare

Nightmare jolts us all, no potable water
the rich and poor for once on the same page
rationed water bought in containers boiled,
colour of water muddy and red

Schools and offices closed; railway tracks submerged
telephone on a long-hushed silence
a walk around the town, lives reversed in minutes
old newspapers and magazines the breezy substitute

Candles and matchboxes in strong demand,
a week of pitch darkness
candlelight dinners in trickling sweat the new routine
musical score of tiny insects and mosquitoes
the undesired entertainment
each night a new game of treasure hunt
for recognized items
streetlights enjoy the night out
stars and sky the new celebrities in town
television just another rectangle

Government's efforts slowly bear fruit, tracks restored
chaos ends, we travel back, order restored
consolation, cyclone spared human lives.

© Now      

MEMORABLE HOMEWORK

Icing for the groggy eyes and foggy brain

few minutes left for the familial 5.45 alarm 

long yawns caress the bed side bottle

the ring straightens me, ten steps sauntered

splashed water awakes me, hubby's peck starts my day.

inner growls silenced in meditation next

yoga poses gear to follow

shower, pray and write, each glued at their spot

breaks in between charge my battery

cook then read, the mind and body enriched with the flow

rhythm of it as spicy as the cooked curry 

or as soft as rolled chapatis

therapeutic Wordle or Sudoku post lunch itineraries in queue.

Household chores peep in between, each escort the subsequent

persistent repetition flavours day's design 

teen foam over cup of tea stimulated in tuitions after

workout of tolerance at times with zoned out adolescents

exhausted mind itches for physical movement

Setting sun watches my laps or gym exercise

 a valuable contentment

a joy so intimate none can decode

half supine, laze on the couch well earned

web series enjoy the Indian aromas on our plates

all dimensions used, bed beckons the filled persona

each activity a treasure trove

the devil far from the workshop

the mind and body vaccinated to ward it off

the ring of next day in store

THE BOOKSHELVES

 Did Elanor succumb to Ralph's temptations, or James felt heartbroken at Elanor's secret?

My drooping eyes bid them goodnight, eager to chat with them the next day

Lonely or moody, angry or happy, characters snuggled in bookshelf  

takeout time, engross me in their musky world, 

my dislike for Ralph 

heightened respect for James chews each word. 

 Relations with unknown travellers, some brief, some stretch

last month on Bosporus River, the pervious on German border 

my days or months soak in Naipaul's wet British weather

or chill in Desai's Darjeeling with the old judge.

The lure of the printed pages, the authors stares

as I pass amidst chores

stacks of spirituality, suspense, memoirs fantasy, fiction 

in comfort of my living room, a bit of me arrested in some page

in novels read.

The comfort of their presence in shelves or in my hand

pleasure of their company, they do not judge me, nor leave my side. 

My house lifeless in their absence, 

shelves increase to nudge old ones and shift for new arrivals

old ones revisited to jog memory

some wink at the other, author in two places

favourites do emerge, yet none left out

conversation of lifetime

both committed hands held in matrimony forever.

EVENING OF LIFE

Three steps walked with bent back, then straight with a sigh

fourth visit to the loo, the clock's eyes meet mine

only two hours since he woke up
frequency taught in physics lessons
now in practice, husband's ramp walks back to the sofa.

Frantic search for eyeglasses of mine
spouse's hearty laugh greets my smirk
his fingers touch perched eyeglasses on my head.

Each day a new theatrical performance,
actors and audience one and the same
opening morning shot
act of balance without rainbow bruised knees and elbows

Memory games tried with personalised variations
of, if pills were eaten or the same pill eaten twice
of anniversary messages with muddled names of spouses

Mathematics a weekly affair to round dwindling savings
or to count the scarce ring of doorbell or phone
each intrusion heartily awaited amidst
catnaps and melody of open mouth snores

The bathroom mirror does its daily homework
numbering hairs left on scalp
kids of the block do Maths practice
of our residual teeth
Indoor game of hide and seek for keys, mobile and pen
tireless activities for the timeless

Visit to doctor, a frequent outing
walking stick, dentures and hearing device
the new besties in tow
old outings preserved in mobile galleries
a finger count of number of faces alive

Silence and ennui, the permanent roomies
share the opera of groans and grunts
each time one sits or stands
physical exercise of a cracked dimension

Both on couches, pleated skins
sixty-five years of glued life
a marriage anniversary, a marvel in itself
each feed the other bit of the sweet
the bespectacled pair stares fondly

She serves his favourite potato fry
he orders her apple pie a shared ritual
the room full of chuckles, table laid with dishes
thirty-two years over, her eyes moist

shrivelled anniversaries of times ahead.

   

DOMAIN

This is how the painter's strokes of each flower and bud

tempt my attempt to coat her vision

Nature's umpteen riot of buds and bulbs

crawl across the man-made wall.

The towering barrier braced to bifurcate nature

spectacle armoured to blanket the cooped side

Both sides of greenery refreshing as morning coffee

manufactured bricks pile to leave their hardened print 

caress of enchanting flora on the tender Earth obscured.

A battle for one scarce resource 

mankind teased to enjoy the palette of nature

apprehensive crevices or fences may swallow the rush of beauty.