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 !!

Mother

A female dons many hats all her life, but the role of a mother is pivotal. I have telescoped the major milestones of a mother's life into a short poem on the occasion of Mother's Day.
This is an ode to my mother, who made me what I am.

When the scalpel sliced ,

Through the umbilical cord,
And the warm liquid oozed,
She knew not whose blood shed,
She hurt.

When elbows scraped,
And knees grazed,
The skin raw through the bruise,
She knew not whose plasma seeped,
She hurt.

Heavy books and late night toil,
Assignment deadlines met,
Eyes to the blue screen glued,
She knew not whose sweat poured,
She hurt.

Finally striding into the world,
A fine confident specimen,
Apron strings cut loose,
She knew whose tears rolled,
She smiled !