My Poetry

Froggy Season


Where I live, when the frogs come out at night, to sing their deep choruses to the moon, we know it is time to celebrate, for they signal the onset of monsoon. The monsoon is a very dicey season in these parts, though. The rains are not a surety at all. In fact, this year past, our city has not seen a drop of rain — we have had a dry monsoon season. We have heard no frogs at all for months! They are, right now, a distant memory; the sound of them lost behind the foggy veil of too much time gone by.

one drop, two drops, three —
the bull frog leads the bass
in the chorus after the rain.

Note: Haiku prompt by Heeding Haiku with Chevrefeuille on Mindlovemisery's Menagerie.
My Poetry

A Sentinel of History


How still a monument can stand; the silent, stone-cold witness of centuries past. Its walls might have ears, but there is no tongue. History, as we know it, is shaped by the version we read. What living man or woman can know the truth? Read with a pinch of salt and connect the dots. That is the only way to look at millennia and a world of things that have happened and people who have lived. Who is to say what history would look like a hundred years from now? Will I feature in it as a villain or a hero? Or will I simply be a person without a voice — a blur in the face of history.

mark of a dynasty
lost in the truth of time —
the Qutb Minar

My Poetry

Moonlit Dinner

white and black moon with black skies and body of water photography during night time

Seaside dinners near moonlit waters are utterly charming. I shudder in delight when I think of the dappled moon playing with the inky sea, drawing me into the non-anfractuous expanse that merges with the shadows stretching into the night. The dancing foam that flirts with the shoreline is a mesmerising sight too.

Only a few months ago, my husband and I sat sipping wine and gazing into the sound of the sea. We tasted ten blissful years of togetherness upon our tongue, and exchanged customary sighs of pleasure. The faint, rhythmic base from the bar filtered through the air, but failed to mar the beauty all around us.

twilight deepens
into stars and silence —
must one get tipsy on wine alone?

My Poetry

Spring Storms?


Spring is not a season one experiences in the south of India. We just experience varying degrees of heat. As a result, we do not wholly understand the nuances of spring, the emotions that the season appears to evoke in those who live it. We only borrow emotions, explore the season through the sayings and writings of others. I would not have thought much about it, except when asked about ‘spring storms’, I realised I had no idea what they were. Does one have storms during the spring? I have always pictured it to be a rather mellow season — pretty, dainty, with young colours and grey-blue skies. Younger generations have no idea that spring is a season that symbolises rebirth and awakening — the hope after a hard, cold and bleak winter; the colour after a blanket of white. I realise now, as I write, that I too could be wrong, and merely assuming many things from what I have read.

spring storms —
all I know, the latter springs from the sea
swirling into chaos