Do You Remember Me?

“Do you remember me?”
I whispered slowly.
My fingers brushed the wall lightly
Leaving lines in the dust covering it.

A chance visit to my hometown
After many, many years
Led me to my old ancestral house,
Now crumbling due to disrepairs.

“Do you remember me?”
I repeated the question in my mind
“I do. But do you remember me?”
A low and trembling voice replied.

“This was the room where you slept,
And I watched over you as you dreamt.
On this floor, you played with your friends
Using chairs and sheets to make tents.

Do you remember your fifth birthday?
I was decked with colorful streamers.
You were over the moon that day
To get a bicycle from a well-wisher.

I remember how your laughter
Echoed right into my beating heart.
And, my walls would never tire
Of holding memories in photographs.

Yes, I remember,” the voice said,
And, just as sudden, it became silent.
In that moment, I felt an instant regret,
As if I’d just lost a deeply beloved friend.

My Grandmother and the Tigress

There should be one in every house.
A storyteller.
There was one in mine.
My grandmother.

Many a lazy afternoon
Passed listening to her tales.
And, that sowed the seeds, too
Of seeing the extraordinary in the mundane.

Like the one with the tigress.
This happened a long, long time ago.
She lived in her village with her parents,
Where the womenfolk would gather firewood.

One day, they crossed the Son river
And were searching for firewood in the forest.
In the breeze, the leaves of the trees quivered
As they tied bundles to carry on their heads.

My grandmother was the first to finish her task,
And seeing that the others were still at it,
She sat down in the shade of a mahua tree to rest
Where the lullaby of the trees lulled her into sleep.

Meanwhile, the other women left the forest.
They thought she was in the line behind them.
They reached the village and went to their houses,
And that’s when her parents realized she was missing.

Her mother inquired with the other women,
But they were unable to say where she could’ve gone.
And, that was when the village folks panicked.
Soon, a search and rescue mission was on.

It was late in the evening, almost twilight.
The villagers combed the forest with sticks and lanterns.
And, that’s when she woke up rubbing her sleepy eyes
As she heard her mother’s voice calling out to her.

Discovering that she was alone in the dark forest,
She started crying and shouted for her mother.
Soon, they were able to locate her
Much to the relief of her mother and the villagers.

Then, they took her back to the village,
And that was the end of her adventure.
But, you see, the spot where she slept
Was on the trail the tigress took on her way to the river.

The Interpreter of Paradoxes

The sign read “Do Not Disturb” at all times.
And, it was evident in the behavior, too –
The grumpy face, dark-circled eyes, and undisclosed life.
They thought she was busy with countless things to do.

All of them but one.
Her behavior too left them all flummoxed.
She understood the “Do Not Disturb” sign at once,
For she could interpret the paradox.

She began by doing the little things –
Just sitting nearby,
Lending a hand when it was needed,
Wishing, “Hope you had a good day!” with a smile;

Exuding tiny bits of warmth
Like the rosy glow of the Sun at dawn.
Slowly, the “aloof” one began to respond,
With nods first, and then, small talk.

Yes, she had been through a lot in life.
She’d seen her trust being betrayed in the past.
That was the reason for the “Do Not Disturb” sign,
And the “I’m busier than everyone” facade.

But that had all changed in the past few days.
Everyone around her was pleasantly surprised
To see her face light up with happiness,
Because one of them interpreted the “Do Not Disturb” sign.

The Nosey Affair

My nose, my nemesis.
It’s a well-known fact –
The mirror never lies.
It reveals all without tact.

And yet, the more I stare
At my reflection in it,
My nose becomes larger
Like an overgrown pumpkin.

Pumpkins belong in markets,
But this one’s stuck on me
Right in the center of my face
Where a nose should’ve been!

There are so many times
I feel like going into hiding,
For when I see people smile,
I think my nose is the reason.

And so, my mother found me
In tears on one evening.
I had been invited to a party
And didn’t want to attend it.

My mother heard me patiently
As I bawled about my nose.
Then, my teary face, she wiped,
And, these words, she spoke.

“The Moon is not perfect
Though it seems to be so.
It has an uneven surface
With craters all over.

And yet, it shines every night
Unhindered by its flaws,
Defying darkness with its light,
And never seeks applause.

Look beyond perceptions,
At the beauty, you radiate.
You just need acceptance
Firstly, from your own self.

Your nose doesn’t define you.
You are not its size or shape.
You, my dear, are the Moon
That can light up every way.

So, wipe off these tears
And wear that lovely dress.
Throw out all your fears
And put your mind to rest.”

So, I heeded her advice
And went off to the party.
All was perfect that night,
As I finally saw myself clearly.

It’s been years since then.
I don’t feel bothered anymore
By the seeming imperfection
Of the way I look and my nose.

My Favorite Book

Many books fill my cupboard –
Each one, a portal to another world –
Books of stories and fairy tales
And books of verse to brighten the day.

But the one whose pages I adore,
The book I love forevermore
Was a gift by my grandmother –
A cookbook that she’d put together.

This book is my true blue friend –
My soul and tummy medicine.
Its pages are full of ingredients
And the methods of cooking them.

It doesn’t matter how my day has been,
If I’m over the moon or feeling sullen,
The food I make is fingerlickin’,
For there’s a recipe for every occasion.

This is a book I treasure the most.
The more I read, the more I explore.
It leads me down a neverending road
Of baking, frying, steaming, and more.

And what leaves me truly astonished
Is that there’s nothing like errors in it –
For an error is actually an opportunity
For me to cook up a yummy new dish.

Once Upon A Wall

The hunt is on,
And in the grasslands,
Stands a solitary mammoth.

The hunters close in
Silently and downwind
With coordinated movements.

At the leader’s signal,
They launch the attack
With their pikes and spears.

The hunt is a success,
And there’s enough food
For the entire settlement.

Later, they illustrate
The entire event
On the walls of their cave.

Maybe, to celebrate,
Or maybe as a guide
For future generations.

Walls – they may be built
Of lifeless stones,
Or bricks and cement.

Yet, they are alive
And are full of tales.
Yes, they, too, have a voice!

Like the walls of my home
That are due a renovation –
Of paint, a new coat.

As I unhang the photographs
And the paintings.
I feel myself going back

In time, to the memories
That I somehow left behind
And reminisce all the stories.

These are no longer objects
Of mere decorations,
But of my family, little snippets –

Of the times we cherished,
Of days spent together,
Of the people we miss.

This is the inheritance
That I’d leave behind
For my future generations.

Each one with a narrative
Very much like the drawings
On the cave walls in the ice age.

The Yes Day

Yes, there are so many days
When the world celebrates.
Be it a festival or a relationship,
There’s a day dedicated to it.

Yes, I, too, want to create
A day that we all can celebrate.
A day on which we all agree
To say a “yes” to everything.

Yes, a “yes” day is needed
For all the people to see –
A “yes” brings opportunities.
It welcomes all possibilities.

Yes, I accept myself –
My strengths and weaknesses,
My past and my present,
And every fleeting moment.

Yes, I accept all I have,
And, also, all that I lack –
My blessings and my wishes
And everything that’s unfulfilled.

Yes, I accept all my days
Of happiness and sadness –
Days when I won and also lost
And the ones that bore a cost.

Yes, I accept the people I met –
Those that stayed; those that left.
With some, I laughed and shared;
Some left me broken and in tears.

Yes, today I celebrate
Everything that gave me shape –
They made me what I am today;
To them, a “thanks” is what I say.

Yes, a “yes” day would be great
If everyone celebrated it every day.
The world would be a happy place
As peace, in every home, would grace.

Golden Moments

Gold is the color of these moments.
Of the days spent in idyllic pleasure.
Leisurely, we’d set paper boats afloat
Down the streams in green meadows.
Evenings passed in carefree play, and
Nights were when grandma told tales.
Mom and dad would tuck me in bed.
On to the land of dreams, I’d then sail.
Memories of friends in photographs,
Each posing with smiles and laughs.
Nothing compares to those times.
Those were the best days of my life
Saved as remembrances in my mind.

PS: This is an acrostic poem. Join the first letter of each line and see what you get!

The End

It’s the end of the journey.
The flame clings to the last drop of oil
Carried by the last bit of wick.

While it lasted, it saw everything –
The white of lies, the grey of ambiguity,
The red of love, and the black of malice.

Now, its tiny yellow and orange shape
Casts a dim shadow on the wall
With no escape from its fate.

It struggles against the gusts of winds
Hoping for one more opportunity
To flicker, to dance wildly, to just breathe.

Slowly and slowly, it loses strength.
And its will also fades away
With each passing moment.

Then, with a final sigh, it gets snuffed
Released from all that it suffered
Curling into a wisp of smoke.

The last trace of the flame is gone
And with it, all the colors
Mingle into the vast azure calm.

Ashen Grief

Somewhere deep within my heart,
The garden we nurtured is ablaze.
The love we had was ripped apart
When you left me and went away.

The memories of us being together,
Each one, like a petal of a red rose.
All that we shared with each other,
Like creepers, entwined with hope.

And now, a raging wildfire blazes
Destroying each petal and leaf.
Everything I cherished, it erases,
Till all that’s left is ashen grief.

Days turn into months and years,
But the layers of grey still remain.
At times, a budlike illusion appears,
But it’s just a mirage evoking pain.

The Little Girl and Mount Everest

There once was a little girl
Just like every other little girl in the world.
She loved dresses, dolls, and parties
Just like every other little girl in the cities.

But alas! One day, tragedy befell,
And, in an accident, she lost one leg.
Then, followed days of tears and regret.
“She has no future,” all the people said.

“Even with the use of a prosthetic leg
She’d be a burden and always dependent.”
But, something stirred in this little girl,
Who refused to accept all these words.

With determination, she made a pledge
To conquer the peak of Mount Everest.
A step at a time helped her gain strength,
And, with discipline, she trained herself.

The sands of time saw her evolve
Into a warrior girl with steely resolve.
And it was with this never-give-up mindset
That she scaled the mighty Mount Everest.

The Garden

In the garden of my mind,
There grow flowers of every kind.
They bloom in all shades and hues
Mirroring my emotions and moods.

The Cockscomb, with its brilliant red
Screams of passion and excitement.
But as it stretches out in excess,
It brings anger and is dangerous.

And the dainty yellow Billy Buttons
Spread joy, warmth, and optimism.
But every so often, their color leads
To feelings of worry and anxiety.

A patch of Himalayan blue poppies
Gives root to loyalty and peace,
But at times, as they overgrow,
Loneliness and cold take their hold.

And the purple Lily of the Nile
Births ideas of the creative type.
Whereas the bright orange Lion’s Tail,
Spawns enthusiasm and friendliness.

There’re also the pink Anemones
They show playfulness and innocence.
And the White Egret Orchid is so elegant
As it exudes purity and truthfulness.

As a companion to all of these,
Abound leaves in shades of green.
Signaling growth and harmony,
They’re also the harbinger of envy.

The Black Bat Flower also survives.
In a secluded corner, it thrives.
Shrouded with powers and mysteries,
It can heighten sadness and fears.

In another spot is Miss Willmott’s Ghost
With its pale grey blossoms
Flourishing with authority and dignity,
Along with those, boredom, it breeds.

You’d say my garden is a pretty one
With every color under the Sun.
But I, and only I have come to know –
That which I heed to is that which will grow.