Neha Bansal's Blog, page 2

नभ नील काया वाले पंछी

 नभ नील काया वाले पंछी

जब तुम उड़ते आसमान में

क्या तुम्हें लगता है 

कि इस नील गगन के आँचल में

तुम छुपन छुपाई खेल रहे हों

जैसे माँ की गोद में एक

नन्हा बालक इठलाता इतराता

अठखेलियां खाता और 

उसी के रंग में रंग जाता।

Dedication To my Baba, the genie who turned my childhood...

 Dedication 

To my Baba, 

the genie who 

turned my childhood 

into a wonderland. 

and,

To my husband

who always reminds me 

of a large shade-giving tree

on a scorchingly hot day.

AcknowledgmentsExpressing gratitude is at once the simple...

Acknowledgments

Expressing gratitude is at once the simplest and most complex form of human communication. Here, I attempt to acknowledge those who have inspired, encouraged, assisted, and tolerated me throughout this journey.

Firstly, I extend my profound thanks to my esteemed teachers and mentors who believed in me, generously offering their time and invaluable feedback. I am immensely grateful to Rana Nayyar Sir, Mina Surjeet Singh Ma’am, Akshay Kumar Sir, Neel Kamal Puri Ma’am, Manju Jaidka Ma’am, Rumina Sethi Ma’am, and Vandana R Singh Ma’am, who nurtured my appreciation for poetry.

My gratitude extends to another set of educators who steadied my initial steps in writing, offering patient guidance and encouragement. My heartfelt thanks to Sukrita Paul Ma’am, Vikas Jha Sir, Suman Keshari Ma’am, Ganesh Saili Sir, Seema Jain Ma’am, K S Rao Sir, Sanjukta Dasgupta Ma’am, Paramita Satpathy Ma’am, and Ashwani Kumar Sir.

I must also thank my friends who have invested countless hours reading my poems and enduring my relentless requests for feedback. This group includes my newer friends, Misna Chanu and Asha Gandhi, as well as the usual suspects – Deepak Yadav, Payal Sachdeva, Manvika, Gaurav Srivastava, Sumati Yadav, Deepa Sharma, Chhavi Gupta, Kamlesh Bansal, Neha Hansraj, Hemavathy, Arpit Bhatia, Shashwat Rao, and Varuni Tandon.

A special note of thanks to Hawakal publishers, under the stewardship of Kiriti Sengupta and Bitan Chakraborty, for granting me this wonderful opportunity to share my anthology. Your faith in me is deeply cherished.

Lastly, I extend my heartfelt thanks to my PA, Rajesh Kumar, who went above and beyond his office duties to assist in preparing the manuscript, and to the artist Dhruwa Nath Singh, who has been an integral part of my literary journey, giving form to my imaginative musings.

---

PrefaceAfter a creative hiatus that lasted a year and a ...

 Preface

After a creative hiatus that lasted a year and a half, I found myself increasingly seeking strength and comfort in days gone by, often indulging in daydreams as I mentally revisited the homes I lived in, the schools I studied at, and the festivals that brought me joy. In these memory-scapes, I appreciated the small and significant joys—floating paper boats, stargazing, flying kites, enjoying ice lollies, living vicariously through others' love stories, playing make-believe weddings with dolls, visiting temples with grandparents, and relishing family picnics, among many other cherished moments. These reflections highlighted a time when friends, though few, served as steadfast anchors in our lifeboats, unlike today's plethora of social media connections, where interactions often boil down to likes and shares.

Yet, as journalist Doug Larson aptly put it, "nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days." This sentiment echoes in my mind as I sometimes question the value of this constant yearning for the past. Why should we look backward, romanticizing everything as golden and valuable? While it's crucial not to dwell solely in the past, our roots and memories provide a sense of belonging and tradition, offering solace in an increasingly alienating world where physical and technological proximity paradoxically breeds distance and diminishes the depth of our relationships, inflicting a cursory-ness to them and everything that should have been significant.

In this anthology, I delve into the longing and yearning for times past, exploring whether these memories are truly golden or merely tinged with a sepia hue by the relentless march of time. The poems within these pages touch on themes that may resonate broadly, yet some might seem quirky, stemming from my unique whims and experiences. While some narratives are universal, others are culturally specific or even exotic to the uninitiated, offering fresh perspectives and experiences.

Through this collection, I aim to preserve the fleeting memories eroding under the deluge of modern life's incessant content. I invite the reader to indulge in this journey, supporting this endeavor to cherish and immortalize our collective and individual pasts.

Festival of lights

Diwali was a very special day

as we would often see 

a very jovial side of our 

otherwise serious and 

workaholic father, 

as he carried a tray full of 

earthen Diyas

guiding us to create 

beautiful patterns brightening 

our mom’s painstakingly 

made Rangoli of Ganesh ji. 

And, lit up the sparklers 

handling them carefully to us, 

keeping an eye on 

my brother and I.

He would light up 

ground spinning chakris, 

Flower pots, 

garlands of crackers

and launched rockets

that bloomed into fiery flowers

across the firmament

as we stood mesmerised

at this fiesta of lights. 

Superstitions

Before every exam

we would partake

spoons full of 

yogurt mixed with curd

believing it would bring 

us unprecedented luck

carrying our luckiest coin, 

a talisman, a totem object or 

Durga Chalisa in our wallet, 

we step out gingerly

avoiding any black cat, 

single mynah or a barking dog

while our eyes seek 

darshana of a street cleaner

whose long broom can 

not only clean away the dirt 

but also the cobwebs 

from the path to 

Our good luck and fortune.

Superstitions 2

Before every exam

we would partake

spoons full of 

yogurt mixed with curd

believing it would bring 

us unprecedented luck

carrying our luckiest coin, 

a talisman, a totem object or 

Durga Chalisa in our wallet, 

we step out gingerly

avoiding any black cat, 

single mynah or a barking dog

while our eyes seek 

darshana of a street cleaner

whose long broom can 

not only clean away the dirt 

but also the cobwebs 

from the path to 

Our good luck and fortune.

Supernatural

I always looked forward to

to sleep overs 

with cousins and friends 

as it meant no sleeping at all

but a night full of 

spine-chilling horror stories, 

some heard, some read, 

some cooked up on the go, 

mostly apocryphal 

being projected as real 

spooky incidents that 

happened around a relative. 

And, then came the turn of 

seance, often played on 

a home-made Ouija Board, 

as the coin-planchette 

moved wildly owing to 

perhaps individual mischief 

or our collective anxiety, 

leading us to such frenzy 

that we would start believing

in our own hoax,

scared but excited, 

Trying to sleep,  

exhausted after imagining  

entities of all varieties 

lurking in the cupboard 

or under our bed or 

perhaps the dark corridor 

leading to the kitchen 

and bathroom, 

refusing to leave the room 

even for drinking water 

or to attend Nature’s call. 

The first dosa of my life

 

Unlike many girl children, 

I was indulged so very much 

by my doting Baba 

who was my personal genie 

and conjured up things,

as I demanded, 

That purple and black 

beaded hair band, 

tikki chaat with chhole, 

a very gaudy red clutch, 

a pair of toe rings which 

I wore in my fingers, 

Orange-flavoured ice lollies, 

my first ever Barbie doll 

much to the chagrin of 

my Amma and Mom. 

Hordes of bows and arrows 

from the Dussehra mela, 

It just went on and on. 

But that one thing that 

stands out among these 

indulgences, 

was the first ever taste 

of mouth-wateringly delicious 

Masala dosa, 

served with a delectable 

coconut chutney 

and tangy sambar,

unlike anything I had eaten 

in my precocious six years, 

starting a love affair 

of a life time 

with this crispy, 

meltingly divine, 

ghee roasted crepe.  

bicycle

 

Trying to up my

style quotient 

as a nerdy but

impulsive teenager, 

I goaded my parents 

into buying me a 

noir-colored typical boys’

cycle for going to 

my science tuitions

rather than a sensible 

Cross-bar free, narrow 

- tyred feminine bicycle

in perhaps a powdery 

pink or purple.  

I didn’t realise then 

how painful each pedal’s

push would be 

and the sheer hard work 

I would have to do 

to ride this boys bike 

with thick tyres

and yet not let it 

be obvious to everyone.