Saturday, April 30, 2011



from a mother's desk ...

read something similar from the net and drafted this tongue -in-cheek one for my son ....

I will be a naughty old lady a naughty old lady would be I
and that would be my settlement just incase you are wondering, why!
Someday when I would be very old, fragile and petite
I would come to stay with you to my heart’s utter delight.
At the breakfast table spilling milk would be my daily ritual
I would retch on the bread while you will feebly watch as otherwise it is cruel.
I would break a plate or a saucer just when you are too busy on a phone call
I will open my socks in such a way, you would wonder where it might fly and fall!
Pointing at several brilliant pills for my heart, for brain and another for the wheeze
I will ask numerous odd questions like how each one decides exactly where to reach!
I will paint your walls with color myriad whenever I am bored
to your shocked look I would cultivate all the innocent smiles that I have so far stored.
If you ever be angry and dare to scream or shout
I would leave the washroom tap open and sulk and would go out.
Whole day I would be glued to the T.V. without caring if you wish to watch
just for fun I would make faces and drolly squint in front of your guest topnotch.
Coming home you will find cans and half eaten packs scattered everywhere, ample
even then looking at my sleeping face you better smile and say she is such an angel!
Often I would be moody, lips pouting, hands on hips,
stare disobediently with screwed up nose and sniping lips.
I will be a naughty old lady a naughty old lady would be I
and that would be my pay-back just incase you are wondering, why!

Monday, April 18, 2011

A few favorite things ...

written for Jingle poetry potluck
also for Ting's Tuesday thankfulness

The spoilt crayons here and there
The smell of mud and dust from your hair

The bubble bath, those rhymes and everything
That soccer like eyes and the lullaby I used to sing

That little pillow, the mickey mouse and choco chips
The baby cereals and the fruit jam on your lips

The tiny seat of the bicycle and small cars all around
That unnoticed painting on my white wall and your giggling sound

The swings in the park, Noddy’s Toyland, the story of a knight
The scent and shade of your childhood that I clutch so tight

These memories are a few favorite things that let me live
Darling I am made of you; I am made of the love that you give.

Saturday, April 16, 2011


 I would be gone
to let you be free.

And I would be gone
to let you be free;
I would be lost
among endless existence,
in the hustle bustle of a metropolis,
never to cross your way again.

But mind you,
I have planted my love in your backyard;
soon it would have firm and deep roots,
its dense leaves everywhere to be seen.
I have written a poem of life for you,
tucked unsuspecting among the folds
of your rain coated mornings;
a silver dipped moonlit night
and all sorts of trivialities
placed inadvertently,
here and there.
Laughter a few,
the silent painting on the wall,
a paralyzing pause that
 once was winged with desire. 

I will linger on you as a memory;
I have set my soul on your thoughts;
all will keep you awake in the nights,
in your smiling eyes a strange wetness will drift.


I struggle in this land of ruins,
resisting and thrashing out
against the shards of time
to survive.
I don’t see a moon
but some soiled clouds in the sky.
Stars are a few white scars.
Hunger, like a vampire
sinks its teeth on our stomach;
dried tears make a strange path
on the dusty cheeks of the children;
a rag doll, a top, chapped knees
and torn clothes
flaunt their missing childhood.
hiding many different sorrows
of diverse colors, of various shapes
among the folds of my sari,
 I wait for some food and a little place;
what do I care about your political beliefs
and all those rallies and endless promises?
It is none of my concern
if there is going to be a change!
What do I care whether I belong
to a temple or a mosque
or some particular land?
Cobwebs cling to the soundless words
of those freedom fighters,
independence is hung like a shabby old portrait
in a dusty desolate corridor.
What do I care for motherland and nationality?
Let me just live on this Earth
and mind you I am not alone
but there are several nameless
unidentified insignificant me
fighting to survive
to be called a human.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

the bridge

A quietude that speaks incoherent ....

A pause
like a forlorn deserted noon,
a silence
striving to balance tricky over a gorge,
its echo resounding,
weighing heavy on daily chores.

A feel, so profound with a suppressed dream,
a strange stillness reigns,
waiting in deathlike calm,
mute as desert, in a tensed apprehension
for a bizarre rainstorm to surge.

As if a long elapsed hope
might start flapping its wings back and forth;
as if the mind suddenly will get limbs
and start its ballerina - maneuvers;

Even the sky gets weary of an unleashed oomph
of a quietitude that prevails,
saying nonstop
an wild bohemian song.

Secret whispers ...

How can I give you my thoughts?
For they are not mine anymore!
I let them linger on the jumbled lines of my poem,
I let them be with the autumn moon,
I let them float along the aching veins,
I let them befriend the morning mist.
They have merged with the sun kissed horizon,
they are washed ashore along with the lonely night.

when the dreams would be luminous,
when the arid desert
would be surprised by a heavy downpour,
a fragile sapling would take birth like a feeble hope,
on that day I would
avoiding all eyes,
without anyone’s knowledge,
place them on your quivering palm;
and on that day, sinking in your arms
my thoughts would learn to flow.

lover's tibute

posting for MAGPIE TALE 61

The red tell tale smudge of her lips
is still vivid, on her night escapade,
reciting a story.

When she is long gone
I stealthily, treading softly,
take the glass in my trembling palm
kissing those lipstick marks furtively.

My heart is numb
and I lie helpless
in intoxication
tasting you
the kiss.

my death in her hands
or is it my reality
my nectar for life?
Her coquettish beam
launches fire in a lover’s heart.

But still
falsity on her and
those slouching pledges,
the wreck and debris
of forged assure;
a void and
an uncanny emptiness
and then
among the mourning
I see her dead;
sulking and pouting
navigating tragedies
she becomes pale
and then on that fateful day
I see her dead.

in my far away lonely corner
I remember
alluring lotus, magic casement
In which lies
my strength and my joy
and now I am in love with death
in my pensive mood
my tribute,
and my heart
is intoxicated again.

Monday, April 4, 2011



Wrote it for One stop Sunday picture prompt but by that time the linky widget expired! :((

Raindrops ...

written for MAGPIE TALE 60

When the falling rain
tiptoes on earth,
the drizzle cautiously
embraces the breeze and
kisses my window pane; 
when a sudden gust of wind
tosses my stubborn tendrils,
I raise my face
toward the falling rain,
I lose myself. 

You had once worn this rainfall
and left it in my courtyard. 
Its fold and fabric caressed you, 
its creases held you close, 
cuddled you.
The imprint of your love
is still visible on its sleeves.
That’s why I wear it too; 
to feel it all over me and
hear the resonance of your voice
in its melodious rustling.
At times, it feels
a little tight near my chest
when I recall the tug of your hand
groping for me unconsciously in sleep. 
The rainfall you wore
and left on my courtyard 
is still vibrant and warm as life.

Now I wait alone for another rain to come
so that we can wear it together, just one more time!

Saturday, April 2, 2011

hopeless art ...

I thought it will give me solace.
I tried to paint
with earnest honesty,
an indigo blue bird
and her full throated song
with a color a tad darker
than the ocean and
a little more intense
than a rain forest.
It was beautiful
but it didn’t hop;
nor did it sing.

One day,
tired of being lonely,
in a fit of rage,
I tore it apart
and threw it away.

Betrayal ...

No one has kept promises!
So many decades and
seasons went by;
no one has kept words.

My mother
hurrying between
kitchen and study table
promised, if I study well
she would take me to a lake
where lotus flower, butterflies, honey bee
play together. I listened to her.
But the lake was in her imagination.

An old man, a bard, who
would come to our Calcutta house
for alms, said to my eager innocent eyes,
next new moon day
he would sing me the full song.
So many new moon have gone by,
he never came back
he died.

The librarian who smelled like
old books and tea
agreed, when I grow up
he would take me to a city of books and stories
where fairies and gnomes would be my friends!
How much more would I have to grow up?

Elder sister whispered into my ears,
as we watched the falling rain, together,
someday she would gift me
a palm full of rain drops
that will have a rainbow hue.
she got busy and never had the time,
the rain drops remained black and white.

Last year, you promised
You will take me to a path where
Gulmohar trees and red flowers murmur;
and sitting beside the placid lake,
if I smell your chest
I can inhale jasmine fragrance.
But your chest smelled of only flesh and blood.

No one has kept promises!
Decades and seasons went by
No one has kept words.

Image - through - Photobucket