Neha Bansal's Blog, page 5

The three dances (haiku)

 Kathakali 

We are so enthralled

as a man paints his face green 

to become the God. 

*~*

Purulia Chhau 

The beat of Dhumsa,

as masked Durga slays demon,

louder by second.

 *~*

Kalbelia 

Is it a woman 
Or an enchanted she-snake
writhing on music.
*~*

Six of Cups (a minor arcana card in tarot)

I have possessed 

a deck of tarot cards 

for ages. 

The rational me chides 

the more intuitive one 

and calls it a 

mere hocus-pocus, 

the skulduggery of a 

smooth-talking charlatan. 

While the romantic in me

wants to believe in the 

unfathomable energies 

of the universe, 

in de-tangling our own 

minds to reach 

the elusive truth, 

something intangible 

that can be perceived 

but certainly not with 

the available senses five. 

And I, oscillating between 

the two of us, 

was filled with the memories 

of how I made my bestie

gift me this 

promising to read her future. 

How we used it 

to get attention from 

that crush, 

to be appreciated by 

that snooty senior,

to impress that favourite 

teacher who too, perhaps

torn between rationality 

and the charm of unknown

succumbed to its lure.

And, also to earn lots of

funds in the college Fete 

to be able to donate to

the nearby orphanage.

And, as I fiddled with 

the strangely tantalising deck, 

inscrutably six of cups 

turned up, symbolising 

the hiraeth for 

a lost good time, 

A longing for shared happiness 

and  a yearning for joys 

of  childhood and youth.

Mahasivaratri

There is an image 

etched in my heart,

of an eight year old me

carrying a wicker moon 

basket full of bael patra 

and hibiscus flowers, 

accompanying my stout 

and feisty Amma and 

a very frail but 

kind-hearted baba,

while listening to 

the story of how 

Siva drank halahal 

and saved the world 

from a certain death 

and suffered the 

excruciating agony 

silently for the 

mankind, earning the 

name “Neelkanth”,

to the temple with 

an ochre coloured 

shikhar and a 

golden Kalash, 

and a big Peepal 

tree wrapped with 

red mouli of devotion

and a lingam where 

rich and poor, 

men and women 

stood in a queue silently

waiting for their turn 

praying to the God 

to drink the poison 

from their lives

yet again. 

Invaluable gifts (haiku)

I

What do I love more

the Vietnam pearls of my mom

or the carved jewel box. 

II

Perforated sheet

a window to different climes

Dad’s stamp collection.

Hariyali Teej

If my grandmother

could have her way,

she wouldn’t 

let our lady sweeper Dulari 

enter the kitchen 

Or even clean her room.

Admonishment by our father,

veiled criticism by mom,

and outright revolt by us

led us nowhere but to

a blind or rather deaf alley. 

But as the skies filled

with dark pregnant clouds 

promising to slake the thirst

Of the earth and even 

our very parched hearts, 

We could see our Amma

giggling like a small girl, 

sharing ghevar with Dulari, 

getting intricate henna patterns 

drawn on her hand and feet

enjoying the courtyard swing 

on the day of Hariyali Teej.

Mt. Fuji

 

As the Shinkansen 

picked up the speed, 

and the forest of 

buildings 

gave way to 

a myriad flaming 

maple leaves 

which kissed its 

divine feet, 

and cradled hundreds 

of Torii gated shrines,

I saw Fuji Yama 

reflected in its 

five grand lakes, 

as it stood tall, 

crafted with a 

hand divine, 

majestic, calm, pure 

not very far from 

the sea of humanity 

and yet so tranquil,

So inspiring, so eternal, 

and so very cardinal 

So much like 

the Sun 

in a solar system.

My grandpa’s stories

Night after night

A rainbow bridge 

magically appeared 

and took me to a wonderland 

of stories where 

an upright woodcutter

won it all;

axes of all metals

much to the envy 

of his avaricious 

neighbour who gets 

suitably chastised

losing even his iron one.

There were birds

that sang of Krishna

who redeemed Sudama

from poverty,

surprising him as 

His grace turned his 

humble hut into 

an opulent palace. 

There were trees that

bore sweet stories of 

simple Alibaba 

who opens 

the cave portal with 

an arcane “open seasame” 

but takes only enough 

to sustain his needs. 

Lost in these 

I didn’t realise when 

this enchanted realm 

gave way to that 

of dreams, 

settled cozily in 

the warmth of my

Baba’s arms 

as he sat in his

wooden rocking chair.

The parrot called Harial

Yes, it’s an unimaginative name. 

But the choice was between

the ubiquitous Mitthu  

or this very generic one. 

So just to defy everyone’s 

boring wishes like 

a rebellious six year old, 

I named him Harial 

as my sister and I 

nursed him back to health

when we found him 

next to the Neem tree, 

wounded and unable to fly. 

Trying to be vets, 

we applied Soframycin 

hoping it would heal him

as it healed all our boo-boos.

Feeding him with grains 

of rice and green chilly 

to make his bland food tastier.

Hoping to make a pet of him

till he flew away 

perhaps to his awaiting 

parrot or human family.

Hairstylist

I loved it when my son

caressed my hair 

as I requested him 

to style my hair

feigning an inability.

His five year old hands 

would make this 

wondrous mess of 

Medusa like tangles, 

just like I did years ago

when I tied tens of

little fountains of hair

on my dad’s sleeping head

with colourful rubber bands.

A pale lilac cardigan

My mom loved to dress me 

in all shades of colour yellow.

She said it reminded her 

of the happiness as one sees 

the fields of mustard

swaying gently under

the amicable winter sun. 

But I think it was 

an attempt

to make my dark earthy skin 

look brighter and lighter. 

I also remember her

fighting tooth and nail 

trying to foil my attempts 

at buying a pale lilac cardigan 

which she thought, 

brought out the dusk of my skin,

blurting out her objections 

rather bluntly,

exasperated at my adamancy, 

and made faces 

every winter as I chose 

to wear it oftener than 

her favourite turmeric one.

Now it lies in her sandook 

as a priced possession, 

a relic from the past, 

as a memory of our banter.