My Call

Like a bug
Insignificant, oblivious in space and time
Darkness blinding any form of sight
I live in a mirage
With my insides frozen
I hide behind my reflection,
My mind a cacophony of thoughts,
Lips curved into a smile,
So prejudiced of happiness, of calm. .
.
.
Trapped am I in the memories of that night
Of bedsheets and linens and duvets
Of the sights and smells and words
Shrouds and marigolds and mats. .
.
.
The fire burns not the memories,
Photographs and their frames, so pretty of them
But that is how they resurrect
As my stomach churns tight into a knot
A pounding feeling grabs my chest wall
Will anyone reach out to my soul?
Will anyone please, hear my call?

If walls could talk

What if the walls could talk
just like you and me it would gossip
like aunties and good old grannies
it would tell stories of every home.
It would talk of mother cooking love in the kitchen

• there wouldn’t be any secret recipes
  it would tell daddy how much she loves
  and how much more she cares for her home,
  it would tell the kids of every extra morsel she saved for them
  of every night spent awake in their ills
  and of every dream she burried for the sake of their happiness.
  Dear daddy would then stop worrying
  about what good his son watches while he texts his love all night
  and would secretly know of his daughter’s half written poetry,
  he would be well aware of their heartbreaks
  the walls would probably tell the kids
  that he was the real Santa on Christmas eves,
  And guess what, he wouldn’t forget anniversaries.
  For grandma, she’d be a little less lonely
  the voides that grandfather had left her with
  which we were too busy to fill,
  the lavender walls of her room would probably talk in.
  If walls could talk, wouldn’t it be great?
  It would choose its own color
  It would tell us when to paint
  It would bridge what people call
• the communication gap.

Mother’s Day Special

What if the walls could talk
just like you and me it would gossip
like aunties and good old grannies
it would tell stories of every home.
It would talk of mother cooking love in the kitchen

• there wouldn’t be any secret recipes
  it would tell daddy how much she loves
  and how much more she cares for her home,
  it would tell the kids of every extra morsel she saved for them
  of every night spent awake in their ills
  and of every dream she burried for the sake of their happiness.
  Dear daddy would then stop worrying
  about what good his son watches while he texts his love all night
  and would secretly know of his daughter’s half written poetry,
  he would be well aware of their heartbreaks
  the walls would probably tell the kids
  that he was the real Santa on Christmas eves,
  And guess what, he wouldn’t forget anniversaries.
  For grandma, she’d be a little less lonely
  the voides that grandfather had left her with
  which we were too busy to fill,
  the lavender walls of her room would probably talk in.
  If walls could talk, wouldn’t it be great?
  It would choose its own color
  It would tell us when to paint
  It would bridge what people call
• the communication gap.

Recipe

My grandma was a great cook.
in the years of her life being old
and complaining of backaches,
she wasn’t much allowed to cook
but the day she did the whole house
would smell of elaichi, dal-chini and ajwain ,
and voila, the lunch would be her biryani and kheer.
The saffron glazed yellow grains
drenched in desi ghee under a layer of succulent meat ,
and her kheer would taste like Amrit.
Months after she was gone, we decided to cook the same,
we added the elaichi,
we added the dal-chini,
and also added the ajwain.
But it didn’t taste the way it used to,
the kheer didn’t taste like Amrit.
Maybe we missed something?
Maybe we didn’t know the recipe?

Mixed Feelings

Shh… Hush!
I walk on my tiptoes to my room,
In the wee hours of the night
As I open my door to a room
Full of black, I switch on my phone,
As I creep under the blanket,
With a piece of chocolate saved
from yesterday’s tiffin, I switch on
Netflix and prepare to chill.
As the opening credits begin,
I look up, feeling a sense of freedom yet guilty,
Like indulging in a case of guilty pleasure,
A cocktail of mixed feelings,
Like the moonlight teasing the darkness.
Minutes later, the door opened
“Mumma, another story “,
my son climbed onto my bed,
I caressed his hair gathering my book
of bedtime stories –
Yes, I was happy.

When I look at you

I see us waking up on bed
Smiling at our good morning.

I see us making pancakes for breakfast
Kissing as we leave for the day.

I see you running in my arms in the evening
As I wait for you at the dinner table.

I see you caring me to bed
As we caress each others wound.

When I see you
I see our future,

A future I wish was true
A future – our happily ever after.

Musings : #21

Remembering my grandma…