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?

 

 

 

Embarrasment

IT was  Thea's usual outing with her husband and his subordinates. Her husband was leading a team of young engineers who were all full of enthusiasm. It was at one of these outings, Sree a young engineer was trying to regale everyone around with his stories of how he had impressed a girl who came to play tennis. He taught her tennis and she fell for him. And he was planning to bring her next time for the party. The evening was a fun filled night listening to all these stories over some beers and Malaysian food. 

Couple of months passed by and Thea was busy in her usual routine. One day her husband suggested that the boys are again planning a gathering and had invited them. They were all meeting at a particular restaurant the next day. Thea liked meeting people and enjoyed dressing up for parties. After work, Thea and her husband went to the specific restaurant. 

All the familiar faces were there seated around the table. Suddenly, Thea's eyes fell on Sree, whose hands were entwined with the hands of a pretty girl. Sree introduced her to all. Thea who had a strong memory, suddenly remembered the old story of Sree's tennis lessons and how he had impressed a girl. So she immediately blurted out," Oh, Sree, so we all get to see the girl whom you taught tennis". Sree, totally caught unawares was pinching Thea's foot, below the table, signaling her to stop that specific  conversation. But Thea did not get the cue. Others sitting around understood. That poor girl was staring at Sree in dismay. Sree was pinching Thea's feet again and again. It then stuck Thea that this girl was a different girl. 

Sree, on account of Thea was left embarrassed for some part of  the evening. Others came to rescue and changed the topic. Thea never knew whether Sree had to face further questioning from the girl later when they went back home. But Thea had a hearty laugh on her drive back home with her husband.

JUDGEMENT

Doordarshan had just entered Indian households. The round symbol with two patterns around it assembled all members of Ria's house every evening. Ria, who had just stepped into college was enamoured by the newscasters reading news in English. She would watch those men and women crisply clad in starched sarees and suits reading the daily news.

She had decided that this would be a good career choice for her. Like every other teenager in those days, she had no idea what her aspirations were. But the newsreader's job appealed to her. She had always enjoyed limelight and this seemed very respectable to her. She applied for a journalism course, the institute was based in Delhi. She had to write an all India entrance test for that. She convinced her father to let her appear for the qualifying exam. Rhea hailed from a small town, where there was no centre for the exam. The nearest centre was Calcutta. Her father agreed and booked tickets for her, her sibling and her Mom. She wrote the exam. At the centre, the invigilator was a guy from the institute of journalism in Delhi. Thirty-four years have passed and she faintly remembers the person's comment after the exam. He seemed pleased with her performance. 

Rhea and her family had stayed with one of their relatives in Kolkata, then known as Calcutta. That evening they had all gone shopping in Gariahat market and next day they travelled back to their hometown. Couple of month flew by. Rhea and her sibling soon had summer holidays. Her Dad did not have enough leave. In addition, they had a cousin who stayed with them. Rhea's mom wanted to visit her folks. Rhea and her sister were excited to meet and spend time with her cousins. They had a lovely summer vacation for a month and returned back just before college reopened.

Back home, one day, Rhea went to look for some old newspapers. She needed them to arrange her cupboard. While picking couple of old newspapers, she found a huge envelope addressed to her. The envelope was open. She was baffled and peeped in it. Inside was a letter confirming her seat in the Institute of journalism in Delhi. She jumped with joy, then suddenly her eyes fell on the date. She was shocked. The letter came a month ago and the interview date was also over. She rushed to share the information with her Mom and sibling, who were happy but also equally surprised. They all assumed that the letter must have got misplaced in the old newspapers pile. Evening, when her father and her cousin got back from work, she enquired. They both confirmed that they had received it. Her father said that he was not interested to send her away from home. 

Rhea was crestfallen and that deep seated anger stayed with her for many years. Her anger had compounded as her father did not even care to share the good news with her. However, of late, as years passed, her anger subsided and now she does not feel an inch of resentment at all. She now realises that whatever happened back then, happened for good. 

The world of journalism has evolved a lot and is more realistic in nature. The crew has to travel and film in the most dangerous of locations, cover sometimes the most horrific of stories. Besides, it involves working at all odd hours and is taxing emotionally and physically. Rhea is not cut out to handle so much stress in life. In addition, she also has sleep issues. And she is a person who is more comfortable having her family around at all times. She is an extrovert and is emotionally dependent on her folks. This along with her over sympathetic nature, as she cannot see even the slightest of suffering. 

Now in hindsight, she feels maybe her father who raised her was a better judge of her personality then, than herself. She may not gather the guts to thank him personally, but definitely is grateful in her life as she is now surrounded by her near and dear ones especially in pandemic times, where family ties matter the most.