The day after

It was “anant chaturdashi” or ganesh visarjan. When finally lord Ganesh bid us bye. A sweet and sour memory. When he came we danced with joy, when he left we danced…with tears in eyes and urging him with “pudhchya varshi lavkar ya (come early next time)”. The day after seem to be reflected with empty pandals and stands for directing visrajan. Stale flowers strewn, gulal /pink color and fire cracker waste covered the ground. Boards of political leaders wishing “happy ganesh chaturthi” standing lone and apart. It surely brings a lump in throat and emptiness in heart, and in mind still saying “pudhchya varshi lavkar ya”

Ode to the dreams

Thousands of dreams in the eyes, all flying high, no contact with ground, they just fly high
Such a short life and so many dreams, some crash violently, some are compromised.
But dreams still exist, at times blinding the eyes, flying high, loosing contact with life. Hope sinks but dreams still exist, like spring they just bounce back, one drop of life and they just pop back…fresh and still alive, strong and still kicking
To stop dreaming is impossible; to live dream is a dream,
Dreams that start well turn out to be nightmares, burning the whole self with their hopelessness.
But still they are dreams. Hopes though shattered, eyes still see dreams in the minds eye where everything is perfect as wish has in it.
Even if reality pricks are nasty and in deathly black and white, dreams still are all Technicolor, pulsating, full of life.


This poem is dedicated to all dreams. Some hopeless yet hoping to be fulfilled, some fulfilled and later darkened by reality, some still colorful and rosy, some crashed, some in budding state. Yours and mine. Dreams, only where we can live complete, the only thing that keeps us alive.

A small memory

After acsending the foot bridge and seeing that the signs of the childhood lingered still on the old road home,feet went in direction of a small group of vendors selling vegetables. the vegetable in search (snake gourd or padval in marathi) otherwise easily available failed to make appearence on the day. eyes lingered towards a small bakery. Memories floated to times when bread and tooty fruity toasts were brought on sunday evenings usually from that bakery . their smokey blackish white chimmneys still visible while decscending the bridge, visible inspite of skyscrapers around now dimmed their appearence. Almost on impuse feet caught the small rough route. The bakery still had same look and small wood and glass display counters and cupboards filled with ladi pavs, kadak pavs, toasts and loaves. Time seem to have been still, no modernization, With same name plates of people who held some kind of business or resided there...never moved out..as years back when the mind still lingered on dolls and school and homework. Two kadak pavs still cost 4 rs only when a baugette (french kadak pav) at a supermarket had crossed its 30s.

Making a small talk with the bakery person who seemed to be in disbelief to see a girl (or lady shall I say???) clad in jeans taking kadak pav of all things. Clutching the paper wrapper of two pavs, the feet had already found themselves back to same ole route home which was ofcourse drenched by rain water. at home,a pav sliced open to fill tangy amul cheese, another left for mom dearest for afternoon snack with fish curry...the crumby cool bites of kadak pav were neither "chang-chang" chewing gum type which often happens to kadak pavs, nor were they jaw breaking and very crumbly. The cheese pav finished in four rapid bites with a gingerry tea...a snack so long lost evoked the lost memories when thoughts were still in schools and dolls and facts of life had not tampered their innocence.

The ½ plate pani puri

It was long dusk after a hectic day of ganesh chaturthi…but our work list didn’t cease to exist, we had to now go in one of the mandirs to collect some Prasad. Due to rickshaw and bus unavailability and sudden “need” for mamra my sister had developed, my best friend (none other than my mother) and I dragged our weary feet back home, since the “bhatti” where we would get “mudhi or mamra”. We approached the place and my mother asked if I would like to have anything. “maybe pani puri…but only if you are having” she seemed to think for some time.. “ but we have to have food at home” she said as an afterthought. “maybe we can have only one plate” I countered, she seem to agree. And so we stood with a teeny steel plate in front of the pani puriwala and starting gorging in the sweet+spicy parcels of delight. Correctly distributed between us, the 6 pooris werr gone within no time and punched later with batata puri neutralizer, and we trudged back home, just in time for some warm reheated food , our feet gathered speed maybe by the spiky water of pani puri???

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This was one of the poems that are always close to my heart. All of us (and in my case daily) see something mesmerizing or hear something rocking or read something that makes us forget where we are or what we are after. But as usual the ground reality comes ahead of all this and we have to leave our idyllic tryst with something that leaves us totally spellbound just to go back to the daily blinding grind of work. I am hearing an out of the world song and I need to switch off Mp3 since office has come or I am reading something but need to sleep for next day early start to office …somehow it explains what all of us go through day in and day out, of journey flitting through soft paradise of dreams and imagination and hard earth of facts and reality…the process of coming to reality is painful and hurting but what can do…its always “…but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep”
This is the reason this poem is really close to my heart.