Dhaba

The sunlight filtered thru the winter fog-

melted the morning chill, dispelled the fuzz.

Big trucks revved and rolled for the journey long,

as the dhaba warmed with a spicy buzz.

The air swarmed with the scent of parathas

that crackled in a fiery tandoor.

The tables topped with fancy pickled jars,

and somewhere a fridge hummed to sweet curds’ groove.

Bottles of buttermilk cooled the weary

who plunked down on charpais strewn all over.

When folklores churned - some funny, some teary-

they wished if it dusked a wee bit slower.

Across the road the rolling meadows glazed.

And the sweet gales carried the taste and tales.

Aunty

One evening my brother and parents decided to go out to watch a movie at Amber-Oscar, a theatre close to Kripanagar, where we lived.  They insisted I join them as they would be comimg back home late, and there wouldn't be anyone at home till they returned. I said I wanted to play outside with my colony- friends, and would  take care of myself. Worry not. After all, I was bold, wasn't I? I was 10 years old then. They left. But, only after an hour of play, the  mothers of my friends began calling them home to study for their upcoming exams. One by one my friends returned home. No choice. And, I was stranded alone in the middle of our playground with nobody to play with. I held my hands, looked around, and tears started streaming down my cheeks, sobbing.
Just then, aunty who lived on the second floor, came out in her balcony-  probably to take a breather from her little brats moving around in the house. She saw me and shouted , "Hey Rahul, what are you standing there crying like a baby?"
Whatever little pride was left, evaporated. And I started howling. Aunty screamed at one of her brats in the house and told him to bring me up. Tears rolled down faster  sensing some sympathy around.
As soon as I entered her house, she said , "Go wash your hands in the bathroom and sit till the dinner is served ."
Nothing else was asked nor was I allowed to disagree. She ordered one her sons, Tessio, to set a carrom table and to play with me till such time.  Tessio gladly agreed.
"I am making some potato sandwich since I know you dont eat non-veg". Her loud voice echoed from the kitchen to the hall. I bit my lips. Oops! How did she know? I looked at Tessio but he was concentrating on the game as if it was a routine thing his mom did.
After some time Mario entered the scene. " Oye Rahulbhai, kya hua?"
"Kuch nahi hua," snapped aunty from the kitchen, "Now set the table. Dinner is ready."
Mario smiled obediently and left to set the dinner table.
Others joined. We sat, laughing, chatting,  gesturing, and poking fun at each other. Though aunty sat straight-faced , I knew the source of the humour around the table.
Our colony watchman rang the bell. My parents were back home and were looking out for me. I looked at the clock hung on the wall. Almost 10. Late. I hadn't realized the time. I got up to leave, and before I could thank aunty, she waved her hand in dismissal and said , " Go home naughty boy. Whiling away your time doing nothing. Your parents are worried."
I smiled, got up and left.
Now, after all these years, her memory is still fresh in my mind as she watches from a different, higher balcony.

Seashell

Sprung from the depths of the sea-
lay half-buried in the sand.
Shelled with stories and mystery
of the deep, brought to the land.
Often unnoticed remain,
mingled with pebbles ashore.
Adrift in the soft terrain
the relics roll and unfold.
Should I pick up to picture
or let it nestle, linger?

Deluged

Water shed with unbridled fury

over the heavenly land.

Swamped the terrain, left no memory.

Just bold faith now could abate the irate fate-

Drifting amidst the helter-skelter,

some stand gallant and withstand.

Soldiers turn the scales, shield and shelter.

Back To School

Pictures spring up as memories unfold

of braided hair and oiled crew-cuts each morn.

The brown canvas shoes and long socks unroll.

A badge of truth broached on beige uniform.

With a khaki bag strapped, trudge the lazy

to the gates where our pillars of fate stood.

And, if school bells not awake the dozy,

shrills of the short-fused gardener surely would.

But when a white chalk squeaked on wide black board-

a hush screened the class, now filled with riddles.

Silent and shy we sat - in pretense bold

until the teacher defogged the scribbles.

Tho years fly by, the knowledge not age-

mischief remains, laughter still the language.

Knotted

Fate recalls a face remained unnoticed time ago.

Loose threads of memories stitch up the past and mellow.

But I know not when they wove the naughty knots of love

that adorn this rag - now wakes with an embroidered glow.

The Dolphin Dance

In deep waters of her kingdom she whirls,

darts around in pairs, and sometimes alone.

She swings and spins creating much ripples-

lights up the underworld that lives in gloam.

Suddenly she leaps and cuts thru the surface.

Her tail appears as if clothed with wings.

A glistening gray airborne, unmatched in grace.

Then dips, torpedoes with her doll like fins.

Enchanting eyes twinkle to a whistle.

A mischief widens the imprinted smile.

Her turn and a flip presage a sizzle

of a waltz in water - an art sublime.

And if ever fate the pleasures divides-

I shall ask of this beauty for long rides.