Neha Bansal's Blog, page 3

Power cut

Certainly everything about 

the past was not hunky-dory 

Our biggest pet peeve 

those days 

were those long nights

of forced vigil, 

when the power cuts 

so rampant, 

robbed us of our perfect 

restful sleep.

We would walk up and down

the terrace 

on those hot sticky nights

when the mosquitos buzzing 

in our ears 

further salted our wounds 

and the only relief came 

from the constant motion

and we walked up and down 

like automated zombies, 

singing songs, playing 

midnight Antakshari in 

voices hoarse, devoid of sleep.

Wishing fervently and 

disturbing the gods for this 

small inconvenience, 

and tying the corner of clothes 

in whimsical superstitions.

Hoping, walking, fighting irritation, 

singing, hoping, walking, singing!

Now exhausted, collapsing 

in cane chairs or charpai, 

trying to fan ourselves with 

Palm leaf hand pankhis. 

Dolls

Under the purple haze 

of a briefly blooming 

Jacaranda tree, 

Before my famous feminist 

consciousness awoke in me 

and I started seeing everything 

from this perspective, 

we married off our dolls, 

staging the mandap 

with fires of marigold petals

and as our picture perfect Barbie 

lovingly named as Mrignayani,

in a lehanga made up of 

my mom’s saree fall, 

matching with a little bodice 

Fashioned out of a golden ribbon, 

tied the knot with a very 

desi Ken, named Siddharth, 

in patched up kurta dhoti 

Sewn lovingly by Amma on 

her Usha sewing machine 

and as the guests began 

to feast on bhelpuri 

faintly resembling the biryani, 

it was the halwa made in a 

toy wok, 

A mix of water and 

glucose biscuits

whose spoon fulls were

shyly offered by the 

blushing bride to the 

smug groom. 

And then, the moms began to sing 

the auspicious bidai geet

and cried copious tears 

as the bride sat in the 

groom’s car bidding farewell 

To one and all. 

Picnic

Picnic in our childhood

invariably meant going 

to our kuldevi’s temple 

on an Ashtami coinciding 

with the weekend. 

Carrying ‘sawa mani’ prasad

in the form of besan burfi, 

a gesture of gratitude 

for the fulfilment 

of an old or a new wish, 

along with a large tiffin 

filled with aalu gobhi, 

Palak pooris and my favourite 

gatta curry made 

me drool as we could barely 

keep our minds off the 

pickled peppers and Bikaner Sev,

while the elders performed 

the Aarti to the Devi. 

Later as we sat after sipping 

hot cardamom tea from 

the big thermos, 

it was the distribution of 

Prasad to the entire village 

as we walked in the loose

sand of the dunes, 

avoiding thorns, 

eyeing the gentle camels 

resting under the Khejri trees,

that the true appreciation of 

our roots and heritage hit home. 

Letter box

Those days when the 

STD calls were prohibitively

expensive and emails were 

not even heard of,

 Each time my father 

got transferred 

from one city to another, 

it broke our hearts so, 

as we learnt to adjust 

painfully in the new school 

under the scrutiny of 

curious teachers 

and suffering the non-chalance 

of fellow students,

aching for the old friends, 

waiting every afternoon 

as we returned home 

to open the mailbox ,

hoping desperately 

that we would find an 

envelope with our names 

written in familiar handwriting.

Science Vs Humanities

My best friend and I 

hated physics 

which we were coaxed 

to study like all the 

bright kids who cared 

about their careers. 

Subtle and not so covert

suggestions, nudges, 

guidance and opinions 

of everyone ranging from

the next door didi, 

Papa’s younger colleague, 

to the nosy auntie who 

even predicted a marriage 

with the betel leaf seller 

if we failed to study science,

convinced us to go against 

our aptitudes, our own desires, 

but filled us with a listlessness, 

a despair and 

even a nameless terror 

as the board exams 

approached.

Chanting hanuman chalisa,

we barely scraped by,

vowing to ourselves 

that we will have nothing 

to with this subject whatsoever.

But as we sat in our 

first Literature and history classes, 

and reading the odes of Keats 

and about the perfection of 

the right angles of Harappa roads, 

it felt like the perfect homecoming. 

Much later, preparing for 

the UPSC exam, 

we met this young man 

whose optional of physics 

made us roll our eyes 

and double over in laughter, 

Not realising then 

that this young engineer 

with physics optional 

will not only make it 

to the hallowed grounds 

but also the become my husband

and my aunt was proved wrong. 

Holika Dahan

Sitting around the bonfire

made up of cow dung, 

dry logs, spools of 

cotton threads, turmeric 

and Akshat rice, 

we listen to the story of 

Holika, the cold blooded 

ogress of an aunt, 

with absolutely no qualms 

in trying to burn her 

tiny nephew in the fire

of their unbridled egos.

We heave a sigh of relief

as the adrenaline rush 

subsides and the heart

stops pounding in our 

narrow chests 

as little Prahalad is saved 

yet again by the grace 

of the almighty as always, 

promising inwardly 

to be better kids, 

to eat our greens everyday,

to read more books,

to be more obedient,

to do our homework diligently, 

to not throw paper planes in class 

and to pray every day

So that lord Vishnu 

would extend his divine 

grace to ordinary kids like us.

A love song

Rainforest green and earth brown 

That’s how I first saw you

your goofy laughter,

our scintillating conversations

like cascading waterfalls

booming and joyous 

made me oblivious of 

other dimensions 

that made you fully human. 

I didn’t see how the 

temperature could drop suddenly 

to turn a forest into a desert, 

didn’t anticipate the 

Moon-like waxing and waning

that made me grope for straws 

on those dark nights. 

Didn’t know then the fights 

could be like simmering volcanoes, 

erupting, destroying, settling 

and yet solidifying. 

But I also didn’t realise that 

on cold wintry times, 

after all the fury and hailstorm 

you would be the bonfire 

to comfort me with your warm silences. 

So, after almost two decades, 

I know that you are the Sun

of my Solar system 

and also that constant lamp

that lights up my path 

on those moonless nights

making me no longer afraid.

Janmashtami

 

In the temples lit 

with the fairy lights

and hundreds of 

earthen lamps, 

we trudge along 

the long serpentine

queues, 

drunk in the love 

of the little Kanha

who after being 

born in the prison 

and a long perilous 

journey across 

the surging Yamuna, 

now sleeps in peace, 

dreaming of the 

new ways he would 

surprise Ma Yashoda. 

While the devotees 

after a full day of fast, 

now repast on the 

Prasad of Dhaniya panjiri 

and Makhan Mishri, 

wanting to see the 

the expanse of the universe 

in the grains of sand 

in the puckered mouth 

of baby Krishna. 

Buying saree in Kolkotta

Crisscrossing the lanes of 

the joyous city

sampling phuchkas by dozens, 

marvelling at the bindi Patta 

being sold for less than a rupee, 

Sporting the shankha and pola, 

eyeliner on my upper eyelids, 

I went to look for a perfect

Tangail cotton saree 

that would transform me

in to a Durga - 

alluring, beautiful

and truly valiant 

to slay the demons, 

always full of mischief

lurking deep within me. 

Gobichettipalayam

If the heaven 

were to be painted 

in monochromes alone, 

It would definitely 

be in the hues of 

Gobichettipalyam’s green

as the shamrock green of 

the young manjal plants

stand defiant to the 

emerald hue of paddy, 

which give way rather

deferentially to the 

cadmium green of 

those coconut fronds

which long to merge 

with the pine greens 

Of the not so distant Nilgiris.