Sounds Of Rain

Uninvited, a gust of wind barges into my room,
sending my chimes tinkling in Raga Malhar*.


*According to the legend, Raga Malhar is so powerful that it begins to rain when sung.

To Ma

Ma, when I grow up,
I shall have a perfect husband,
and two little girls. Just like you.
And on a warm summer night,
when my youngest will fuss
about her dinner, I too
will find us a spot under the stars
and distract her with the stray dogs.
And as she chooses their names,
and weaves stories around them,
I’ll feed her daal-rice with my hands.

When I Began School

When I returned from school, and my parents were away at work,
I read the books that daddy bought for me, and found ways
to feed my lunch to the sparrows when grandma wasn't looking.
At night, ma read me a story while she fed me dinner,
then disappeared into the kitchen. If I was lucky,
I could hear her hum as she wrapped up her day.

When I was little

When I was little, and daddy's lap was mine,
he read me stories from illustrated books,
and together, we explored the trees, the birds and the stars.
At night, my mamma’s lap was a warm pillow
to rest my head on, while she sang to me
of little buds preparing to sleep.

Unseasonal

1.Diagnosis

The monsoons retreat, and my home is flooded
with visitors come with fruits and scripted conversations;
there is nothing wrong with my father, they say.


2.Treatment

A lackadaisical winter sun bears witness
to electron beams scorching cancerous cells,
and anything else in their path.


3.Uncertainty

I walk in sync with birdsong, side stepping a dead leaf.
Once upon a summer, I’d have quarreled with my sister
to crunch it, but now, my father is a dry leaf:
trembling, golden-brown, clinging, waiting.


4.Death

I know not when spring breezed in,
but there are plenty of flowers to choose from
to adorn the frozen memory that is his photograph.

To dad

It is already summer, daddy,
but the sunbird hasn't found its way
to our hibiscus; I think it knows you are gone.

Relapse

Do you remember the Peepal tree, daddy,

that had made its home on our roof?

Its roots would widen
the cracks in the concrete, 

you'd said, even trigger collapse of the wall.
And because you were
too 

tired 

to climb

all
those stairs,

you’d sent me instead,

armed with somewhat rusted shears,
to snip at unyielding,
latex-oozing branches.

Daddy, it has come back.

Wedding

Amid swirls of chaos and colour,
the bride is snipped off from her family photo,
and pasted into that of the groom.

Fog

It was myopia with my glasses on;
each step revealed to me
a tree

a lamp post

or a stolen fairy castle

Raindrops

Raindrops whisper
to puddles, to leaves,
and to the rusted garden shed;
if I listen carefully, daddy,
I’ll find out the secret message
the sky sends the earth.