Summer afternoons of the yore

Summer afternoons then were full of fun,
To the terrace we would run,
Brothers, sisters and cousins,
There, beside the water tank,
Where granny had left her pots and pans,
We would savour the taste
Of her famous pickles,
With a spoon we would dig out
Pickles made of mango, jaggery and vinegar,

Downstairs, mother and aunts
Had their post lunch treat,
Of listening to plays on the radio,
And munching betel leaves,

Granny would then be taking her nap,
And at the neighbourhood drinking water tap,
There would be rows of pitchers and pails,

From the terrace we would see
Our small muffassil town,
Having a siesta under the summer breeze,

The arterial road that went to the bazar,
Had sometimes the company of vagrants,
With turbans on their heads as gears,
They looked like troupe of ballad singers,

And at the grove near the pond
Which looked like shady haunt,
Children would sometimes gather,
Like flock of pigeons, they would hop,
Till the afternoon would near
The evening's door make a stop.

meeting a barista

'Where from you learnt this?'
Asked her,
She poured the liquid into the cup,
Stirred it on the fire for a while and placed it on the small circular mat.
'Very few people know that baristas are well travelled...'
She said.
'I brought fincans from there...'
She added.
It was only nine in the morning of a holiday.
Customers were scarce.
The aroma of coffee was hanging in the air.
'That means Turkey...'
Said working on a hunch.
'Yes! But how do you know?'
'Heard somewhere that they use fincans...'
'Yeah... they do...and they use a brass coffee pot...cezve...'
'Brought one of that too?'
Asked in a jocular fashion.
'Yes...'
She replied,
'You seem to take this job quite seriously...'
Made the remark,
'That is half of the trade...'
She said,

Took two quick sips from the cup.
The smell of beans was invigorating.

'You know something, they use Arabica, and they ground them to extra fine...'
She said,
'Brought them too?'
Asked her,
'Wish I could...'
Her voice became suddenly wistful.
The bell at the door rang.
An elderly couple entered the shop.
Knowing she would soon become busy, thought of wrapping up.

'I don't know Turkey... but this one tastes superb...'
Said and looked at her.
'Flattered...'
She replied.

'Teach me one day, how to make this...'

'I will not...for then, you will not come here!'
She was pretty straight.

I guffawed.

Upon a Levone Sterling

How can I say, what the meadows sing?
What godliness those flowers bring?
And that thin silvery stroke of your paintbrush
With what benediction you create a beauty such?
Those distant hills, they seem so angelic
With what divine glow you make bright the bleak?
The sky seemed so ethereal and blue
From which palette you get that hue?

How can I say, what the meadows sing.

(The picture attached is a work by Levone Sterling)

For Auld lang syne...

Stand there, for a while,
Under the shade of the tree,
Stand there, for a while
For auld lang syne and me;

The world might be busy
Full of snarls and shouts,
But stand there, for a while,
And see the rainbow through clouds;

Stand there, for a while,
When you got a little time,
Stand there, for a while,
For auld lang syne.

Muted

'We can have our meal here...'
Prahlad said as he signalled the driver to stop the car infront of a hut.
The hut looked bigger than the usual ones
found here, only the entrance looked outlandish.
Nikita descended and the first thing that she noticed was the row of pots and pans and other household common utensils being used as pots for growing flowering saplings.They were placed side by side right at the entrance which added to the sombre beauty of the milieu.
'Welcome memsaab!'
A girl in bright red jacket appeared at the flight of steps,
'You can get our special meal today...'
The girl declared, though her voice seemed not very loud,
It still evoked a feeling of warmth and hospitality.
Nikita smiled and went in. She found the dining hall empty, barring two middleaged men  busy eating at the farthest left corner. They were talking while eating.
Nikita inspected the hall and within a few seconds decided to sit by the window
facing the road. She always preferred the window seat, for windows always open one to the world. So she carefully dodged through the tables and chairs till she reached that table by the window which had two chairs facing each other. She put her bag on the floor and sat down. The road was clearly visible and the few cars that went up or came down were also could be easily seen. Nikita looked outside and felt that though she could see the outer world through the glass window, the sound or the noise of the outer world was not coming to her. It seemed she was witnessing a muted world.
'Your order madam?'
The same girl in red jacket came with a notepad in her hand.
'Two plates of rice, two bowls of lentils, mashed potato, and chicken stew...'
Nikita ordered,
'And a plate of salad...'
Prahlad chipped in.
He had already entered the hall.
The girl went away.
Nikita looked at the only occupied table in the hall. The two men were preparing to go. One of them pulled out his wallet and placed some bills under a plate.
Nikita looked at the man. He had salt and pepper beard and his face had the suntanned look.
It suddenly occured to her that the face resembled someone's she knew.
'But how that could be... he could not be here... '
Nikita thought.

The two men were going out.
The man with salt and pepper beard and cropped hair, held his backpack by his left hand. Nikita noticed something written on the man's left arm, a tattoo.
'God! I definitely know this tattoo and ...'
Nikita thought.
The men had already gone out.
Nikita got up.
Prahlad looked up.
'Where are you going?'
'Just a minute dear...'
Nikita pleaded.
'But our food would soon be here...'
'Ok, if you are hungry, carry on, I will be back soon...'
Nikita quipped.

The two men who were on the road just outside the entrance must have heard her.
They both looked back at her.
The salt and pepper bearded man seemed particularly surprised. He stood still. His companion was asking him to take the walk down the road. But he was not moving. He was staring at Nikita.
'Ani? Are you Ani? I mean Aniruddha ? Aniruddha Sanyal?'
Nikita asked.
The man looked at her.
'No... madam... I am not Aniruddha Sanyal...'

'We still got a long way to walk...'
The man's companion appeared a bit impatient.
'O yes!  Let's go...'
Salt and pepper bearded man responded.

'How can I be so wrong?'
Nikita thought.

She was going back to the hall.
Prahlad might be thinking where had she gone.
The girl in red jacket appeared at the corner.
'Memsaab, forgive me for my eavesdropping, but you were right...that man was Aniruddha Sanyal... he had arrived here only few years ago...'

'How many years have passed in between? '
Nikita tried to remember.
Some twenty years might be, since they broke up, she and Aniruddha.

Mother and daughter

Walking up a few miles,
Copperskies whence left a distinct hue
She put her legs on the slope
And thought of lying there for a while,
The bees might be humming somewhere,
And the evening would be soon having a sweep,

She remembered when she was much younger than
Today, she had the habit of lying flat on the yielding earth
And her mother would then also come and sit by her,
She would sing songs, tell her stories, and run her fingers through her hair,

There would  be silence all around,
And those were her moments of bonding with her mom,
She would find smell of spring flowers in her,
And her songs often left a wandering tone
She would close her eyes and listen with attention rapt,
She would think that her songs might be floating
And going to faraway places, down the valley,
To the barn, where horsemen might be still working on,
From there to the small town, dotted with shops and hotels,
From there taking the road by the stream to another place...

'Gotcha!'
She was taken aback by the shout
Followed by giggles,
She turned around to see her daughter,
'Come, sit here by me...
I will sing you a song'
She said.

The final masquerade

When you would come down
In glittering black a flowing gown,
And by your eyes, covered by velvet
When you would beckon me, for a masquerade,
I would tap on the floor by my boots,
There would be, shouts, calls, and hoots,
The music would be quick and fast,
Your eyes would upon mine last,
We would be dancing to the tune,
You would spit fire and I would fume,
That would be our final masquerade,

You would by your long sharp nails make marks red,
And I would whisper in your ears words of hatred,
Then we would spin, swing and dance fast,
Your heart upon mine would thump just,
I would press you against me for a while,
You would pour on my mouth your venomous guile,
We would dance still the same,
Our masquerade, the final game.

Old age

Once met that good ol'man
Sitting on a slab of a rock,
He had crowfeet at his brows,
'How old are you?'
I asked,
He seemed short in hearing,
He said nothing,
Only looked at me with a blank face,
His dress was simple
A pair of trousers
And a flannel shirt,
His face looked impassive at first,

The day light was then dimming
And the horizon had that glow
Which many painters and photographers
Tried for ages to catch in their works,
The man seemed very much part of the scape,
And then he looked at me straight
And cleared his throat,
'I am eighty and you?'
'Half almost of your age...'
I replied,
He smiled,
'Why are you sitting here?'
I asked,
'O ...it is my daily ritual,
I come here every day,
And sit here
And watch the sunset,
And other things...
For i have got all the time in my hand
And all those which i failed to savour
In my youth, i try to understand them,
Like how this world is made
So beautiful by some cosmic force,
And how the world moves
Following a pattern of its own,
Despite wars and carnage
And bloodbath,
Everything in this world
Is perpetually following a course...
And no one, can alter it...
Is it not something magnificient?
Something wonderous?
Something evocative enough to
Cherish specially at this hour?'
The old man did not ask,
He was, i thought, making
Rhetorical queries,
Answers of which
Were not to be sought,
I thought,
And old age crept
In me.

At the back yard of your heart

At the backyard of your heart
Where you sometimes stand still,
And try to be alone with the clouds,
Singing a song perhaps, or simply
Curling threads of your auburn hair,
Give me a place right there,
I would just stand quiet
And be a part of your quietitude,
And if you laugh out loud,
I would just flash a quaint smile,

At the backyard of your heart
Where you sometimes sit back
And try to unwind yourself
Sitting on a rocking chair,
Give me a place right there,
I would just sit quiet
And be a part of your quietitude,
And if you recite a ballad lyrical,
I would do the same with you,

At the backyard of your heart...

Lost in the woods

Once losing myself in the woods
Got for the first time
The shooting rays
Piercing through
Leaves and boughs,
They fell on the ground
And also on my face,
I saw how the trees had spread
Canopy of greenness
All over the sky,
And below the earth
Had the mossy layer
Of algae,
The smell of wilderness
Got into me,
I walked through the shrubs
And bushes,
Following the trail
Made by woodcutters,
And huntsmen,
Every moment seemed
Thrilling and yet so unbecoming
For me,
For i had rarely got the chance
To shed off inhibitions of my urbanity,
And to ponder over the Creator's benediction
And equanimity.

(Posted as napowrimo , thanks to A.Koshy and the group)

Carnival

It was a big big fair
People jostled, shouted,
And balloons red red like balls of fire
Hung lucid in the evening air,

Somewhere near a counter
They sold tickets to the fairyland,
I took one, and entered,
And standing on the stage, centre,

I saw the fairies singing songs,
They all had painted faces,
They were dancing to an alien tune,
And light was flowing from their neon dresses,

The fair was huge and magical
And there saw I how wheels went
Up and then down how they bent,
And pennies saw I how from machines did fall,

'It is carnival! Boy!
Come lets dance with joy!'
I heard my friend from behind
And soon it turned a carnival,
And soon it became a carnival.

(This scribble was posted as napowrimo, to the' Rejected Stuff', thanks to Ampat Koshy)

'They grow on me like leaves...'*

They grow on me like leaves of a tree
They fill me with youth,

They fill up everything,
But when they fall
Like dry leaves
They make me look so bare,

And then they grow again,
They change shapes,
From light green to darkened one,
They change,
Sometimes they take colors of flame,
Sometimes they become hectic,
Sometimes they are so supple,

And they fall,
Dry and dead,

Luckily,
Leaves grow again
Much like
Words.

(* based on the poem 'words' by Kamala Das. The title is taken from the poem)

When it rained in one late spring

When it rained in one late spring
I woke up simply from a dream
And felt somewhere how it had melted down
Scorched up heat of the town,

I saw how in wingless forms
Poesy had left marks in norwester storms,
And in wanderings of water drops
I heard lullabies sleepy soft,

They told me i am not yet spent
They filled me with earth's moist scent
And i heard distinct one time more
The knockings at the heaven's door,

There i thought i saw her
The angel whom i always admired,
She had golden robes around her waist
And by her smile she kept me blessed,

When it rained in one late spring
I woke up simply from a dream
And felt somewhere in my ribs
The coolness of the rainy breeze,

I heard music in trembling leaves,
I saw how in rains they danced with ease,
And in their spriteful freshened glee
I made my soul from my mortal frame, flee.

Upon a revisit,

'You can go there and have a look around'
Pratap Singh said,
He was sitting at the driver's seat of his jeep,
'Okay'
I said,
And as Pratap drove away
Leaving me at the gate of the cottage,
I started walking,
The dying light of the day
Was leaving feathered forms
Over the path,
The greenery around was invigorating,
And the silence was deafening;

Taking a long breath
I looked around,
And remembered my last visit
To the place,

'There was no dearth of fresh air then also
But the cottage was not double storied...'
I wondered,

'These wooden benches...they were not there...
But there was solitude
As vast as ...
The painting of Van Gogh
Depicting a starry night '
Thought I,

Then I sat,
On one of those benches,
Putting an arm over the back rest,

'How beautiful is the moment
When the day
Hangs up its busy feet
And the indolent evening
Wraps one with nothingness...'
I wondered,

Sitting there on the bench
I tried to gather the enbalming kindness
Of Nature as emancipated in varied forms-
The foliage, the sky...
Sitting there I tried to understand
That force, that tumult, that spirit
Which had caused everything to happen,

The more I thought
The more I was filled with a sense of wonderment,
And that sense of wonderment
Seemed to me inexpressible,
Absolutely inexpressible,

'Still sitting here?'
I heard Pratap
Hollering,

'When you have come back?'
I asked,
'Some ten or fifteen minutes ago...come , let's have our dinner...'
Pratap said,

Post dinner, Pratap lit up his customary cheroot,
And as he left miniature cloudy forms,
I sang...
'Starry starry night...'

Pratap nodded, closing his eyes, relishing the song
And I sang releasing myself...
I sang as I wanted to be part of the beautiful night,
I sang because I probably wanted to make the night beautiful,

And Pratap just smoked and listened,
For he wanted to be my listener,

Last time when I came to the place
The cottage was just the same,
It was not double storied though
And Pratap Singh was younger then,
And I too had that youthful hue,

Then, too, we had our post dinner sessions
Of songs and conversations,
And then too, those late evenings
Had that agelessness.