Roots

 A poem dedicated to students ...classmates, seniors, juniors...from my alma mater, Patna Science College. Some, I have known from my college days and are best of my friends and some  I came to know recently but it feels that I have always known them.

They keep my roots alive.

Joss sticks with  dim embers,
Their ether softly wafting.
Rhythmic rubbing of sandalwood ,
Their essence slowly lofting.

Red roses  with bruised petals,
Their scent making one giddy.
Basketful of star jasmines,
Nothing short of heady.

Aromas escaping the kitchen,
Pungent mustard flaring nostrils afar.
Spices assaulting the senses,
From tangy pickle's open jar.

Caramel and golden grain ,
Their union just heavenly.
Sweetness hovering above,
As they sizzle gingerly.

The memorised morning mantras,
Booming notes of  conch shells.
The evening chant with lighted lamps,
The delicate ringing of brass bells.

Scarlet hibiscus kiss the feet,
Bright vermllion in parted hair,
Unmistakable tinkle of glass bangles,
Six yards worn with easy flair.

All gush back to me like a blast.
The smell, sights and sounds,
A vibrant kaleidoscope from the past,
As I come across a bunch of unknown,
But oh! so familiar faces!!

The little girl

 As a break from the routine, I had partcipated in a cultural program held on the occasion of International Nurses Day.

One of my juniors, made a small video while we were getting ready for the function. I had posted that video ,to which someone had remarked "do you have daughter who looks like you".
Of course, that statement was made in jest but there was an element of truth in it !☺️

She loves to watch the stars,

As they twinkle on dark nights,

And hear the waves crash,

As the silver orb shines bright. 

She loves to chase the butterfly,

Which flits from flower to flower,

And feel their gossamer wings,

In the early morning hour. 

She loves to taste the raindrops,

Cascading off her hair,

And float regal paperboats,

In waterlogged thoroughfare. 

She loves to borrow from the canary,

And spread some sunshine,

The crimson and the claret,

She steals from summer wine. 

She loves the caress of grass,

While bouncing in her bare feet,

And watch the rainbow dance,

On dewdrops, in their leafy seat. 

She loves the strain of music,

Floating in the air,

Of some longlost song,

With friends she would share. 

She loves her orange tongue,

Which she sticks out at the mirror,

The taste of ice popsicle,

Fresh and tingling, it lingers. 

She loves to pirouette and twirl,

The beats never tire ,

The wind blows her tresses,

Keeping adrift all desires. 

She remains frozen in time,

Pristine and free,

Chaos and churning, keep distance!

The little girl lives in me !!

Memory Lane

As we age, the urge to reconnect with the past becomes stronger. Some images are still clearly etched, while most are not. Eyes go misty and a lump forms in the throat as we reminisce of the days gone by with our friends and family. A photograph ,a card, a notebook, a box of knick knacks, a dress buried in the wardrobe, an equipment lying in disuse ...any of these can be a trigger to take a trip down the Memory Lane. I am currently visiting my hometown Patna...need I say more ?!☺️

Memory Lane

I didn't find it on Google Maps ,
The broad street , or was it narrow?
Was it straight or meandering?
Lined with homes with open doors,
Winds zinged through uncurtained windows.
Dusty images of people long ago ,

 Smiling eyes, questioning eyes, quarrelling eyes ,

Basking in lemony winter sun,
All enveloped in warm cotton wool. Laughing voices ,shrieking voices, carefree voices ,
Sailing across cool terraces,
All muted in layers  of felt .
A patch of green, a thatch of blue,
A batch of fragrant white,
All colours watered and pale.
I wipe my glasses ,
I strain my ears,
Trying to catch a glimpse,
Trying to snatch a note,
Of my receding past,
When I turn the corner
of my Memory Lane!!