Neha Bansal's Blog, page 4

Good old Doordarshan

 

The present generation 

deluged with the sheer plentitude

 of mind-numbing options,

would perhaps never 

know the excitement of 

waiting with bated breaths 

for the entertainment that 

came in small doses. 

When the antenna correction duty 

was as exciting as a warrior 

going to the war to 

set all the wrongs right. 

When the spate of advertising films 

irritated but tantalised us 

as we crooned the jingles

throughout the day.

When Ramayana united 

the motley neighbourhood 

and our house filled with 

Dahi Bhalla, jackfruit curry, 

Rajma chawal and idli dosa 

carrying the subtle gratitude 

of the TV watchers 

who thronged our homes 

to watch the epics on 

our new colour TV. 

When Rooh-afzah and nimbu pudina 

was drunk in copious quantities 

as the audience argued over 

the correct course of action 

for the helpless Pandavas. 

When films were a rare treat 

and we wrote little postcards 

requesting for our favourites,

hoping fervently that

our prayers would be heard.

But the most beautiful memory was 

to be wanting to watch it 

together with everyone 

day after day, 

Week after week, 

unlike today, when we scroll 

endlessly on our individual devices, 

trying to find a companionship 

among the strangers 

in the virtual world.

Rock garden, Chandigarh

Returning after thirteen years

along with my super-excited

ten year old, 

I see the rows of same dolls, 

made up of broken bangles.

I also see the same waterfalls, 

Throw coins in the same old well, 

tread on the same cobbled paths

bend to pass through 

the same arched gates and 

sit gingerly on the same swings, 

admiring the same old rocks 

decorated with people’s trash

painstakingly by Nekchand,

and the same old colourful tiles, 

in our very own park Güell, 

The only thing that has changed

is my breathing 

that has become laboured 

as I trail far behind

trying to catch up with 

my nimble-footed son, 

chasing his favourite imaginary monster 

in this phantasmagoric land.

One earth one family

In the early mornings

I would find our backyard 

full of peafowls surrounding 

my frail Baba as he would 

feed them copious amounts of Bajra. 

He would then ensure the 

squirrels too got their 

fair share of over ripe guavas 

as they sauntered up 

and down the tree quickly 

picking their prize

under his watchful gaze. 

I would also see him sitting

on his haunches making 

Alpana like patterns out of

wheat flour so that the ants

too can fill their little tummies. 

And only after feeding 

banana to monkeys, 

Greens to the cows and 

bread to street dogs, 

He would sit for his breakfast, 

beckoning me and my brother

as he fed us with morsels 

of ghee smeared millet chapatis 

and patiently answered 

our questions and explained to us 

the importance of our 

non-human family.

Sibling squabbles

My elder sister 

like all the elder siblings

of the world 

loved to tell me

how I was rescued 

as a baby from a

filthy _talao_ in a 

nondescript town 

of northern India. 

She would laugh

satanically as she 

would remind me 

how everything from

grandparental love 

to the polka dots 

dress was handed down 

to me after her. 

In my dreams, 

I would often see 

her as this witch 

forecasting that from 

my stomach a giant

orange tree would 

grow as I swallowed 

the seeds accidentally. 

As I grew a little older, 

we literally fought

tooth and nails about

the domestic duties 

assigned by our mom. 

She would cajole me

to exchange the post-dinner 

mango shake making duty 

with her floor mopping ones. 

She will coax me into

bets so that the loser

would attend to desert 

Cooler filling duties 

while the winner would 

sleep right next to it.

We called each other 

with the choicest names 

of ogresses from the epics

and even the most banal

ones common among 

unimaginative siblings. 

In short, convinced fully

that she was indeed the

very bane of my life

how I prayed that she

gets married soon. 

Why then, did I cry 

like a baby, clutching

her left-over clothes, 

the day after her wedding.

Moong dal halwa

No heavenly manna 

Or a nectar induced

sweetmeat from a 

royal kitchen could rival

the moong dal halwa 

made by my Amma, 

which she cooked painstakingly for hours

as the daal paste separated

from the desi ghee 

and the sugar syrup 

soaked in the fragrance

of cardamoms fused in, 

moving those frail but 

hardworking arms 

turning the gigantic

spatula in a colossal wok 

on the make shift Chulha

in our weedy backyard. 

Shivcharan : our gardener

 

He just didn’t have 

green fingers

but those of a 

thousand colours

as he commanded 

coral ixoras to grow 

in enviable clusters, 

coaxed the voluminous

Purple Wreath to cling

to the arched trellis 

which in full bloom 

appeared nothing less

than a portal to the 

floral fairyland. 

He demonstrated magic

as Nasturtium leaves

turned water droplets 

Into crystal beads 

and bent the mulberry

laden trees at his will. 

As the pomegranate tree 

presented him with 

the reddest ruby like arils, 

he cajoled the headiest 

redolence out of 

the orange-hearted Parijat. 

The Gulmohur whispered 

coquettishly under his gaze 

while Amaltas showered 

the golden flowers on 

the very path he tread. 

The garden hailed 

him as the king and 

yet this widowed 

childless man 

slept in our garage. 

And as his hands diligently 

polished the terracotta pots, 

he found time to fashion 

the flat stones for our 

game of hopscotch.

Superstitions

My eyes are searching

frantically for one more

yellow beaked Myna,

as the pair of them 

would bring me happiness

as opposed to the 

lonely miserable one 

considered harbinger 

Of sorrow. 

The eyes also look for

that red van of India Post

carrying my wishes afar

and the lips would refuse 

to utter a syllable till

the sighting of a black car. 

Also did you know that

A single eye lash often 

sticking to the cheek 

if blown away gently 

while meditating on our

deepest desires, 

can build a rainbow 

to teleport us to 

the very haven of fulfilment.

Clothesline

 

It’s surprising 

that even something 

as mundane as 

a clothesline 

can stir memories 

of a far away home

where mom would 

dunk the washed clothes

in a metal tub filled

with Neem-infused water

before sun-drying them

on clothesline, secured 

with colourful pegs, 

saving us from 

infections and 

summer rashes.

Naankhatai

 

The best of Hindustani

and Parsi gastronomies combine

to create this cookie so 

crumbly and meltingly divine

like the confluence of 

indigenous and exotic flavours 

baked in perfect harmony

on the quaint little coal ovens

being carried on carts

emanating an aroma 

that would thaw any heart

that froze in Delhi’s winters.

Sanchi Stupa

That day it drizzled 

so perfectly 

that it washed away the dirt 

both with in and without. 

the grass gleamed greener, 

so did the happy leaves

and shone brightly 

the weathered sandstone

of this ‘cosmic mountain’.

An absolute peace 

engulfed me 

as I circumambulated 

the balustrades ramp, 

admiring the handiwork 

on the four Toran gates

by those ancient artisans

who with little more than 

chisels and blades

created poetry in stone. 

Perhaps Ashoka’s remorse,

Sunga and Satvahana 

ceaseless ambitions also 

found some succour here.