Light seeped in
Through a cracked window
Illuminating the room.
Paint brushes and stained cloth
Lay scattered on the
Greying dusty wooden floor.
An artist worked tirelessly
Somewhere in a corner.
Tea and Prose
Light seeped in
Through a cracked window
Illuminating the room.
Paint brushes and stained cloth
Lay scattered on the
Greying dusty wooden floor.
An artist worked tirelessly
Somewhere in a corner.
A sad melody hummed in the air
In the hopeful season of spring
The spirit of gaiety is locked away.
Drowsy eyes
Read the same lines
Over and over.
Yesterday, he called me in my dreams
Strolling in the dark green meadows
I turned around to look at him
Then walked away.
Next thing I know,
He is by my side
Giggling and questioning me with his eyes.
So I stop and ask, “Who are you?”
To which he replied “Your daemon.”
The day was long and cold.
Not a soul to whisper a word or two.
“Oh how long will this go on?”
She sighed and complained
While absently stirring her pot of porridge.
A troubled mind
Became a cause of my misery
A hurtful racist remark
Made me doubt the sanity of humanity.
It doesn’t matter where you are from
We all have faults of our own.
Lend a helping hand when you can
There’s no point kicking someone into a hole.
An old villa facing the ocean on a summer beach stands still.
Three steps take you into the house through a blue colored two-way door, a string of bells hang above it lightly tingling with the ocean breeze.
A white intricate design of rangoli greets you at the doorstep, you step in and walk on the red floored tiles and enter an authentic South Indian home.
In the open hall area hangs an oonjal wooden swing with iron-link chains anchored to the ceiling. The oonjal is decorated with two maroon bolster pillows on the sides.
The swing directly faces the entrance door, when left open, the door acts as a window to the ocean galore.
Tall pillars standing impressively in the middle of the house holding its weight.
The aroma of ghee from kitchen, freshly prepared vadas, and filter coffee drags you further in. Steamed rice cakes continue to cook in the pressure cooker with the whistle going on and off.
Just by the kitchen is an open area with an open ceiling and right in the center of it is a tulsi plant.
Dressed in a sari with a damp towel wrapped around her wet hair, she waters the tulsi plant and does puja.
Two little girls cheerfully run in the open area holding up their orange-colored lehengas and dropping a few buds of mogra flowers from their hair onto the ground while playing.
There is lively banter and cheerfulness in the air. Grandma talks incessantly with the maid while the maid washes clothes just around the corner of the house on a stone slab.
A stairway leads you to several more rooms, a young fifteen-year old girl walks on the corridor holding a book in her hand and reciting poems in her sing-song voice.
Just when we are about to enter one of the rooms, I wake up with a startle to the sounds of loud impatient honking from vehicles across the street. I look out the window and see streets bustling with people and cars, surrounded by tall blocks of boring concrete buildings. I let out a loud sigh thinking of my heartwarming South Indian dream and get back to living the usual fast-paced city life.
When spring comes,
Nights are shorter
Days are longer and warmer.
When spring comes,
It promises life and growth
Along with new hopes.
When spring comes,
Birds chirp, bees buzz
Trees bloom with fresh buds.
The seasons have changed
When spring comes
There’s always merriment
& freshness in the air.
A mighty growl
From the majestic beast
Sent the hyenas
Scurrying into the hills.