A poetry a Day - English

Saw a little girl by the roadside

Wondering how to cross a puddle deep

Till safe caring arms swooped her from behind

And with a smile helped her leap. 

Oh happy  little child, may you always find

On times when you are on such streets 

Trustworthy arms and gentle care

Till you find confidence in your own feet

(scene witnessed when waiting in the car near the Hyderabad house)

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There are these times where life seems tough

Or seems like you're stuck in a bog 

But to say of those times, "it's a dog's life!"

Is frankly an insult to the dog!

(for K2 - for he truly helped me find a place within I didn't know existed)

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Accusations, sarcastic jibs,

loud voices belittling 

With everyone talking all at once,

Wonder who's listening. 

(After my first experience of Sociodrama in Herb's workshop in Chennai)

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On New Year's Eve - beginning of 2014

A fresh start with all these hopes and dreams,

My mind's abuzz with thoughts.

You tell me it's just a change of date

And I say, "oh it's not!"

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On New Year's Eve - beginning of 2014

2014 has gone by, taking with it

More than I was willing to lose,

And in the losing, I gained the courage

To live life fully,

no hiding, no excuse.

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Everyday-ness.......

Even as ears strain to hear the soul's calling

And the body feels taut with the anxiety of not knowing

Pedicured feet, cleaning my desk, reading old poetry

Can sometimes seem enough to keep one going! 

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Today I wish ...

Today  I wish ...

Today I wish to bind myself to the earth

Though I see the unending free skies stretching overhead.

Today I wish my hair strikes roots in the ground

Though the winds strain to caress it.

Today I wish my feet get swallowed by the wet mud

Though the dew kissed grass offer comforting solidness.

And though the thoughts scamper like restless squirrels on the branches,

Today I wish to be like a tree, grounded, rooted, patient,

Quietly swaying to the rhythms of the seasons

(Poem inspired by the magnificent Mahogany outside my apartment)  

In the Shadows of Silence

On a quiet afternoon, in an even quieter room,

I sat by myself in anger and despair

Triggered by feeling isolated in a strange land

Craving for some conversation but no one to share.

It was then that my eye caught this Waterbird –

Alone in the paddy field, motionless it stood

And as I marvelled its stillness, its focus,

it seemed to telling me that I too should

Stay still a while and go past the tears

To truly hear the crying of the soul

To confront what lies in the shadows within me

And listen to my silenced truths now waiting to be told.

It was then that I met this little child in me

Scared, feeling unloved and even blamed

For the conflicts at home that she felt had to be sorted

And feeling confused why among adults no words were exchanged.

The silence seemed so threatening to her back then

Eroding the sense of security that family brings

She dared not confront the grownups as to why they weren't talking ,

Yet she desperately searched for words for her to cling.

Clear loud words that would tell her she's not to be blamed

And that the love and security she needn't ever doubt

Or even whispered words behind closed doors

That would give clues of conversations, of fights sorted out.

Of course those words never came - loud nor soft

The wounds of that time partly healed, partly festering

It was then that I began to fully grasp for the first time

Why with loved ones, I find silence so unsettling.

So I sat besides this child who still feels abandoned and lost

Breaking the silence to tell her that her grief I shared

And held her with my strength, my love, my wisdom

And talked to her so she knows that i cared.

I spoke of how conversations needn't be only outside

Of how within me there was this rich inner world

That held words of love, support and safety

Both for me the grown woman, and for the little girl.

Slowly the child within me felt understood,

And on the outside - me the woman - hopeful and light

Knowing that there would be many more such conversations

And for now the silence, the aloneness seemed alright.

Wrote this in Bangladesh - one of the times I experienced what it meant to write poetry to just sort out the mess in my head and feel clearer and sorted.

End of a rough day

My little one was feeling low, she said she didn't know why

First she was sulking, and then began to cry.

I wrapped her in a soft quilt, hugged her for a while

Read her funny Silverstein poems, till she began to smile.

I tucked her in her bed, snuggled and held her close

Then hummed her a lullaby, kissed her little nose

Now my little one is sleeping, so peaceful and carefree

I wish someone could along and do these things for me!

(wrote this after putting Nia to bed one night when she was 9 I think. Its amazong how real sequence of events can lend itself to poetry)

Amazonian Woman

Amazonian woman you call me
as you see me walk across the room
a tall towering body
holding itself magnificently!
Would you then laugh at my face
if i were to reveal to you
just how small i feel inside?
How i feel ashamed even today
When i look at this same magnificent body
naked in the bathroom mirror – all steamed up
yet clear enough to throw back the reflection i cant bear to look at?
And would you believe me
if i said that those rare times when I share my dreams
with friends, with strangers
that even as the words haltingly pass my lips
my ears catch the unsaid mocking voices saying – oh really?


You probably would dismiss me with a wave of your hand
Roll your eyes and say “enough of this self-doubt”.
But will you ever understand how much
just how much i yearn
to see, to feel, to embrace this Amazonian woman that you see me as?


You probably would classify this as PMS.
But as you label it to fit into your understanding,
Will you understand that each morning i do wake up
Filled with a hope of making things different
for me,
even as i feel my life energy slowly bleed away.

You’d probably say I am being melodramatic

But do you also see
how i struggle –
to hold my head high, though the neck is all twisted with knots of tiredness,
to keep the shoulders straight though the back seems bent with all the trying
to extend my arms in greeting though the feet seem to sink in quicksand
Ah – after all an Amazonian woman I am!


(one of my really early pieces - written sometime in 2013.)

Learning to forgive

LEARNING TO FORGIVE

Yes, I am learning to forgive you.

And No, that does Not mean

That things are normal as they seem,

Or that what you did was fine.

It wasn't.

Breaking a child's trust is a terrible crime.

And yet,

I am learning to forgive you.

As I am beginning to see a new frame,

that says forgiving is not the same

As justice for me,

or an excuse for you.

Or even reconciliation, for that needs two.

Yes two - you and me.

And yet deep inside I know,

The remorse I wished to see,

you never did show.

Yet, I am learning to forgive you,

For the burning charcoal I held for years,

While it got more fuelled with my tears,

It did nothing to heal the pain,

The hurt, the scars, the shame.

All it did was burn my hand,

As I struggled to take a stand.

Sometimes confronting,

sometimes silent I fought,

Yet each time, denial is all I got.

And so,

I am learning to forgive.

For it is slowly beginning to dawn,

That if I truly need to move on,

I need to be more mindful to what I do,

To myself by holding onto

this anger for you.

So, I choose to drop this charcoal.

It does not belong to me.

And by forgiving you,

I honour my own divinity.

Stories from Hampi

Stories from Hampi

If only these rocks could speak

What stories would they choose to tell?

Of the many events they bore silent witness to
Events that even history has dispelled

Would they choose to talk of brothers

Vali and Sughriva locked in a fight for life
Or of the devoted Laxmana following Rama
As he crossed these lands in search of his wife

Or perhaps the tale would be of sisters

Who for insulting these very lands,
Were cursed to become the Akka – Tangi Betta
Frozen in eternal rest, they now stand!

Maybe the folklore of the chieftains Hukka and Bukka

Is what the rocks might want to share
Who made this very land their kingdom
On sighting the hound being chased by the hare.

Or maybe history would take precedence over myths

Stories of Krishnadevaraya, the King
His bravery, his religious tolerance , love for poetry
Songs in his praise the rocks would sing!

Would they, then,  swell up with pride

As they begin to share the many forms
Of prosperity that radiated in this kingdom
In its bazaars, its streets, its religious icons

And then would they start to mourn

The fall of this prosperous, mighty empire
Ruthlessly plundered by the Sultanate’s men
Then left to burn for months in the fire.

Ah! Those tales of religious intolerance,

Of greed, that these rocks could tell -
Even in today’s times, several centuries later
Those stories would still ring a bell

But the rocks know that history repeats

That man from his mistakes learns less and less
So these rocks withhold their stories, their wisdom
And continue to stand in mute witness.

Grandma's funeral

Grandma's  funeral 

The old grandma has passed on

Over three generations, she lived a quiet life 

Following the decorum of her different roles - 

Mostly a weathered mother, a widowed wife

The last few months were very hard

No one knowing really what to do 

As Parkinson’s crept over the frail body

Freezing her limbs first, then her voice too.

Her two grown sons in a different city 

Wallowing in their failures, blaming each other 

Let the daughter step up as the caregiver 

Who patiently tended to her ailing mother

It was not an easy task for the daughter

But she had promised her father a long time back

So for days, for weeks and months, in silence 

She showed a sense of duty, which her brothers lacked. 

The end came that morning -  slow yet peaceful

The daughter was with her mother - right by her side.

Then said “let my brothers now decide the funeral proceedings

For by the old traditions we must abide.”

The brothers arrived at the sister’s home

Leading the rites as the priest instructed them to do

While the daughter, her duty done, sat right behind 

With her own little granddaughter asking a question or two

about the newness of the rituals she saw around,

of the men doing everything that needed to be done.

The granduncles missing when her great grandmom was alive 

But in death - taking the place of the dutiful sons.

And when it was time for the final journey 

The body was carried out by four able-shouldered men

The little one asked her grandma why her father - the grandson, 

Was called upon to be one of them 

"The path that leads to the heavens is dark

The grandsons are required to show the light 

for their grandmother to find her way.

Now hush li’l one; do be quiet” 

 But the child, still intrigued, refused to be hushed

said "Paati don't you see

You don't have any grandsons now

And in the future there never will be!"

And with tiny arms anxious to comfort

She hugged her grieving grandma tight. 

And said "Paati don't you worry, for when you need it 

I, your granddaughter, will show you the light"

And as I saw both of them sitting together in silence

Bound by love and grief, it was clear to me

That it was also a moment to silently celebrate 

the winds of new traditions blowing over this family.