midnight train tales never cease to emerge from

no clouds sky the moon in slow motion

old song
every word I hear
sounds so new

deep meditation
the cactus blooms once
in twelve years

the dusk
in an inverted shell...
what matters
is the lost trail
of the sleeping moon 

first snow...
the child learns
a new colour

origami...
grandma folds
and unfolds her childhood

rainbow...
            the sky
gets a new crown

The Mathur household was known for ayurvedic remedies practised by the family. Their house bloomed in a heady mix of herbs, leaves, oils and powders. It was a must-visit place on my list. Insect bites were a common feature in Grandma’s home. I would not be satisfied with her prescription of smearing the holy ash on the swollen skin and insist on having one of those mystic oils from the Mathurs. Even after the family had diversified into other business interests of homemade papads and pickles, I would be the one going there to pick up Grandma’s order. No one else.

The last time I visited the village, I was told that they had shut down the home pharmacy. All that remained of the aromatic sojourns was the stout tree of night flowering jasmine in their compound.

prayer beads the scent of her skin

honesty is not always the best policy. sometimes you need to lie for your own good, sometimes you need to change your color and wear a mask. people may call you a traitor or laugh at you behind your back. but remember that your life is yours and yours alone. someday the one who calls you a coward will sing of your success.


transformation
no death warrant
for the caterpillar

Circa 1977

“Soul searching is best done whilst sitting on a wall overlooking a garbage dump,” says Guru, my new office colleague-cum-friend.
I nod in reply.

It is late evening. We are sitting on a dusty ledge looking down at a mountain of human refuse. The smell wafting up is nauseating and I fight the impulse to throw up.

My pal isn't a 'guru' in the classical sense of the word, meaning spiritual master. But once in a while, he lets loose profound statements that has earned him the nickname.

Guru is an eccentric introvert and I am his only close friend. For some reason, I find his thoughts attractive and like listening to him.

“This is Tamas,” he continues, pointing to the dump below us, “what we human beings are stuffed with. Darkness and filth.”

“Hmm,” I murmur. He has a point, in a strange, unexplainable way.

“And it is our duty to recognise this fact, shake off our delusion, and elevate ourselves from our despicable situation. Bye.” He hops off the ledge and walks off.

The next morning, I learn that Guru has left town and moved to somewhere in Guyana, South America. I feel a pang of regret on hearing that, wishing he had told me his new address. It would have been great to visit him and discuss spirituality.

I don't hear about Guru again until one year later.

smoke-screened…
the lingering stench of
bitter almonds

wrong map my Driver takes the right turn

Notes:
According to Hindu philosophy, 'Tamas' is one of the three qualities that constitute the world. It represents darkness, ignorance and destruction.
In 1978, the cult leader Jim Jones killed almost a thousand of his followers in Jonestown, Guyana. He is supposed to have convinced or forced them to consume potassium cyanide, a poison that smells like bitter almonds.

heated argument -
I'd forgotten
words could burn

hot day
two cuckoos wait
for the fountain to start

flower market
       the fragrance
free in every shop

highway —
a herd of cows overtake
on the dotted line

open window
a sparrow balances
on the grill

spring
swaying branches
show up the nest

night stroll
my shadow reaches
home first

lockdown
even trees sway
without a rustle

family meet
   at the base of an old tree
      a new growth

old age home –
a pill for everything
but loneliness

monsoon night...
the wind chimes tell
another story

spring morning...
sunlight opens the gate
of nimbus clouds

swirling leaves –
the rattle of
an old typewriter

Before I left for University I said goodbye to the stars in my part of the sky. I had named my stars and as a child, I would talk to them every night. 'Goodbye Sam, Myra, Timothy, John, Harry, and little Georgia!' I whispered softly, thrusting my suitcase into my wrist and slowly walking away.

away from home...
in the breeze the fragrance
of mother's cooking

Now as I gaze at the skies above here in the England countryside half a decade later I can no longer recognize the stars of my childhood. I squint hard trying desperately to identify at least one.

And it isn't just the stars I cannot recollect. Even Mother's face is a haze intertwined with vague memories party true and partly imagined. Try as I might I am unable to smell the pilaf which was Mom's forte. Even the breeze has a different fragrance. Slowly, in my utter dejection, I pace the hostel floor. Passing the looking glass I gaze into it. With horror.

The young girl who looks out at me with bewilderment is a stranger I have never set eyes on before.

early dawn---
still trying hard to hold onto
my dreams

--- A collaboration by Praniti Gulyani and Gautam Nadkarni

lockdown blues
just another morning
which day is it?

whiff of air -
the field swells with
ripening rice

heavy rains
streets drown the voyage
of paper boats