Homa

The smoke,
   A light grey,
               curls up from the flickering flames.
My eyes tear,
        sting, hurt.
To think it's an after effect of a few lighted logs.
The chanting oscillates in a strange pattern,
           between opposite sides of the fire.
Two pujaris chant, and fast, in Sanskrit.
                                      The sounds of which reach my ears,
 But the meaning of which does not reach my brain.
                     When those two pujaris end with a Swaha hay!
The other two pick up,
                  to form a strange sort of,
Shloka rap song.
                             And so it goes on and on.
My grandfather throwing half-fried sweets into the flames,
             My grandmother, adorned in purple, sitting faithfully beside.
The flames reflecting off her large-framed glasses.
                            Photographers at the side -
My dad. So formal in his blue shirt,
                                       weilding one camera.
While my bhaiyya, in a white kurta,
              wearing an orangey scarf, that makes all the difference,
holds the other camera.

And so,
        I sit here.
           My eyes stinging,
                My forehead sweaty,
                     But my heart growing,
As I watch the homa.

Humour Has It...

We all have our guilty pleasures,

Things we’re not supposed to do or have, but we do or have anyway, and that makes these things our secret treasures,

And I’d honestly be kiddin’,

If I said I didn't go after things that are actually forbidden,

OK, maybe forbidden is a word too daunting,

But let’s just say, I don’t look at it my parent’s way,

And I keep doing and having the stuff I’m wanting.

Like when I’m supposed to be studying and attacking my texts,

I’m online looking up Castle, seeing which episode is next,

And when I’m supposed to avoid our huge candy stock,

I might just slip myself an extra choc.

But there’s one pleasure that’s different, and it’s a book –

And when my parents decide to check whether I’m studying, and come to take a look,

And they see me reading, and to cool their anger and my conscience which is wriggling,

I read out a few poems, and soon enough we’re all giggling.

Because this book, which is called Candy is Dandy, and has an introduction by Anthony Burgess,

Gives you all kinds of strange urges,

To manipulate even the simplest of words,

Creating the weirdest spellings that ever occord.

The poems in this book can turn your bad mood off,

Read just a little, and you’ll start to loff.

Let me tell you, it’s quite a miracle,

You start reading and you’re laughing and you seem hysterical.

The poet has written about topics various,

And has managed to make each poem hilarious.

They’re about animals, pianos, money,

Yet each one is special, each one is funny.

He has long poems, but I think the real talent-definers,

Are the couplets, and the four liners.

He’s my favorite poet, and I wish to write,

Just like him, with a humorous light.

And maybe one day I will,

But there’s a lot of work still,

And until that day, I’ll just enjoy my stash

Of brilliant poems by Ogden Nash.

At the Wedding Reception

I watch the bride and bridegroom, the bride who shines in a lovely blue-green sari and the groom who looks well groomed in a brown kurta, and I smile,

They are receiving people, standing on the podium with the background decorated with flowers, meeting and greeting people, one after another, one after another.

The process goes somewhat like this: Say hello and shake hands, accept a hug, smile widely when the people congratulate, and then pose for a picture,

A picture in which there could be anywhere from just four to nearly twenty people squeezed together, 

and the groom gives a smile and so does the bride, but hers seems smaller, like she’s tired,

Which she is. She is tired, and so is the groom, for who doesn’t get exhausted when getting congratulated by dozens of people for your marriage?

But it’s the moments in between each group of people that I wait for.

For it’s then that they bond, getting just a little closer I feel. She holds him by the arm, and they laugh, or she tells him something, even when they are in the midst of a photo, from the corner of her mouth, and he listens, giving her his fully undivided attention, and it’s sweet, so sweet.

I see their expressions change, as it goes from a smile, to a slightly more serious look and back to a laugh. They welcome person after person.

The groom seems a bit confused, and I don’t blame him, for there are so many, so many, so many,

Relatives, and they’re of his bride, his girl, and it’s hard to keep up, and yet they smile winningly,

There are so many people around, girls who look like they’ve walked off fashion magazine covers, and men who look like they’ve come from the Wall Street, and others who are just there, from ordinary newspaper pictures which try to capture life in the city.

I turn back to the bride and groom, and they are tired and holding each other’s hands, ready to be by the other’s side during tiring times like these, 

And when its our turn, I congratulate them once, twice and again.

My dad assures the groom that our family tree is hard to learn and he laughs and we lean in for a photo and I congratulate once more, just once more, because it’s all so lovely and sweet, this love marriage that is happening, and I resolve to tell my best friend everything for we are both romantics,

And I ease off the podium as the next wave of people come by…..

Bravery

(This is an old one...)

Knights in shining armour,
Very brave, they sure are ...
The knights that ride upon the horses,
Silver like the stars...

I wish I were as brave as them,
But there's no way, I can see.
I have too many fears,
To show my bravery.

I get shadowed by my fears,
Like clouds covering the moon.
And when the clouds clear up,
The sun rises quite too soon.

But one night when the moonlight streams,
The moon's whole, showing every part.
There are no clouds, and no fears,
Bravery's song is heard in my heart.
 

While You Were Sleeping...

The sky outside is a blue so deep,
And it's as silent as could be.
All the world is fast asleep,
All except for me.

I don't bother seeing the clock,
For so long, I've been awake.
It's as though my sleep's been blocked,
Let me rest, for goodness' sake!

Instead I want to walk around,
Or maybe take a book and read.
But I'll wake others with my sound,
And disturb the sleep they need.

I'll relax, I decide,
Maybe try to sleep once more.
It's probably the tenth time I tried,
But maybe this time I'll snore!

My limbs have gone completely still,
My eyes are sealed shut.
My brain starts to tire, like I know it will,
The train of thought soon gets cut.

I wake up in the Land of Dreams,
Embarrassingly, in my pajamas.
Then the world tumbles - or so it seems,
And I feel a sense of trauma.

Then to consciousness I leap,
I'm jolted awake.
'Priya, Priya, I can't sleep.'
My brother gives me a shake.

I feel angry, I feel annoyed,
It's still dark outside.
'Try again' I tell the boy,
'Even though, you've already tried.'

And so he lumbers back to bed,
To try to sleep once more.
Thoughts start to fill my head,
When I hear a snore.

It lets him sleep, but mine it takes,
That stupid, little nag.
It's what keeps me wide awake,
Thanks a lot, JetLag!

Her

Her name allows me to create a hundred other nicknames for her though her name is beautiful. It's long though. But I like it.
Some of the nicknames have stories behind them, seeming random otherwise, and some of them are direct derivations of her name.
I hadn't ever heard of a name like hers till I met her. And I'm glad I did.

***

She's beautiful. Her black hair is short, her skin is clean and clear, and her eyes are deep, they're expressive. I like her eyes the best.
She used to have long hair, but to think of it is now is like trying to remember moments of a past life. But when she first cut her hair, it freaked me out. For a week. Two weeks, even. And then I finally got used to it.

***

She's into music. She sings well and knows how to play the keyboard. We had plans for a band, the name was set - it was so dark and dramatic, and there was even that song we'd sung for assembly, which flopped because of me.
We were songwriters too, we'd made a whole song on the word floccinaucinihilipilification which means worthless and has an overwhelmingly large number of is. We sang that song in computer class. Talk about joblessness.

***

Art wasn't really my thing. And I don't think it was hers either. Our third best friend was great at art, on the other hand. But we tried, oh we tried. There was this time we had to make a life-sized portrait of ourselves, though I don't recall if that's what it was exactly. And she? She drew a girl whose dress was made of magazine cuttings of the elements - there was fire and water and the sky and plants all in one dress. It was pretty fantastic.

 ***

You don't know the meaning of teased, until you get teased by her. She reduced me to tears, she and our other friend, or at least got me to write angry poems about them.
Because I was the 'polka-dot' and that made me lame and bad-weird, while she was the 'stripe', daring and the cool weird. It was like some sort of personality test with patterns.
She's saved my number as 'pichki polka dot.'
She tells me this, and she laughs.

***

When I told her what I considered my deepest secrets, it took 5 minutes outside our classroom. She listened to me, and I don't know how she felt or how she would react, but she accepted everything about me.
She told me more about herself during the breaks. We'd roam the hallways and the playground and she would tell me. Sometimes it's over email, sometimes it's on chat, or on the phone. But if there's something to tell, it will be told.

***

Football was our thing. So was running. We had a bunch of activities that we were into together. Me and her. I remember days out on the football field, the sun blazing on our necks, a lazy breeze was the only relief. We had two continuous periods of games on Fridays, and honestly, it was the best. We'd run around for no reason, imitate others, and even score self goals.

***

As a person, I think she knows me better than most. She knows me completely, all sides of me, unlike some others, which I appreciate. We've been out of contact for so long, and I really want to apologize. She tells me that she spoke about me to a group of fifth graders, and they were simply blinking. I hear this on the other end of the phone, and grin.
She's crazy. She's hyper. She's smart and talented and bindaas. She gets drunk on Coke. She's like my partner in crime.
Every fact is another reason to laugh at her, or roll my eyes at her, or agree with her, and love her.  

Up in the clouds...

An old man woke up not knowing anything at all. He woke up on a stately white bed and was stunned to see a large number of young people standing around him. They all looked very similar - their hair was the exact same shade of red-brown, they were all wearing light blue robes and there was a sense of sorrow emanating from all of them.
When the old man got up, they all bowed and chorused, 'Father.'
'Who are you?' he asked suspiciously.
'We are your children,' they said in unison and bowed again.
'And who am I?'
'Our Father,' This was the simple reply from all.
The man felt a twinge of annoyance.
'Hasn't anyone told you not to speak all together?'
'You have, Father.' They stated together and bowed once more.
'What is it with all this bowing? And why are you all so sad? You are acting as if something horrible has happened.' He said.
A girl with particularly sad eyes was about to reply, when the old man said, 'I'm afraid I will not be able to remember your names, my children. Will it be all right if I refer to you as numbers?'
A tall blue eyed boy replied, 'You always have Father, even before.'
'What do you mean by 'before'?' The old man frowned.
And suddenly, another young man burst into the room.
'Ah! You are awake!' This man also wore sky blue robes and held a file. He leaned over to kiss the old man's forehead, 'Finally, Father!'
The old man smiled without realizing, open to the happiness that this new person was showing.
'I believe you do not remember anything?'
'No, I do not.'
'I'm Angelo.' The young man said. He was very handsome, but looked quite different from the man's other children. His hair was almost white and his eyes were the deepest blue.
'And who am I, Angelo? Please do not tell me I am your Father.'
Angelo laughed, 'I have your report, Father.'
He took out a paper from the file. 'Your name is Dr. Maze Fields. You are 81 years old and have 20 children. You taught agriculture at the College of Crops.'
'The Philosophy of Agriculture.' Maze automatically corrected.
'Yes, that,' Angelo smiled.
'Angelo, you mentioned my 20 children. Where is their mother?' Maze asked. He looked towards his other children and noticed their sense of despair growing.
'She had not made it here,' Angelo said.
The old man's heart sank, 'Oh... Angelo, I do not remember anything. Please help me.'
'Of course, Father. I think you should rest for now.'
And so Maze sank into a sleep without dreams.

***

Over the days, Maze got more and more used to the new place. Angelo told him about his old life, but did not mention his wife or anything else bad. His other children however, remained just as miserable. They refused to tell him anything but maintained that some horrible incident had indeed occurred.
Maze learned that he had woken up in a hospital and as he went to the cafeteria, he saw others just like him, helped by others like Angelo.
'Everyone has someone help them until they recover.' Angelo explained.
'But not all of them have someone of their own blood taking care of them, do they?' Maze asked.
Angelo frowned. 'Of their own blood?'
'Of course. You are my son.'
Angelo simply smiled in response.
Maze learned to love this white-haired man and his caring, happy nature. However, Angelo had other work to do as well in the hospital, and often the old man was left alone with his other 19 children.
'Tell me what you like to do, number 3.' Maze asked his son. The boy just shook his head.
Maze was exasperated, 'Why can you not be like my favorite son?'
The others shook their heads, 'It is quite impossible.'
What was impossible about being happy and cheerful like Angelo, Maze could not understand.
'And why is it impossible?'
'It just is, Father. We cannot be like Adam, I'm afraid.'
'Adam?'
'Of course, your favorite son. Your first child.'
Just then Angelo entered the room.
'You!' Maze was pointing at Angelo. He looked livid. 'You lied to me!'
Angelo looked surprised, 'How so?'
'You are not my son.' The old man cried, 'And yet you told me you were.'
'I never said anything, sir. It is protocol here to refer to patients as father or brother depending on their age.' Angelo informed him.
'Protocol..? I do not understand.Where is Adam?'
One of his children spoke, number 9, Maze thought, 'With our mother. They are not here with us today.'
The old man felt like weeping, 'My wife, and my favorite child...'
'I do wonder how they made it out of an accident that was fatal to so many others.' Angelo muttered.
'Wha-what? Fatal? I do not understand what you are saying' Maze asked, stricken.
Angelo sighed, 'I was wondering when the questions would start. Because of your amnesia we could not show you our video, I'm afraid. But I figured you would have known by now.'
'What are you talking about Angelo?!' Maze cried.
'Sir, have you seen your report?'
'No.'
Angelo showed it to him carefully. And as realization dawned on him, Maze's mouth fell open.
There was a pause. Everyone waited.
'Well then, I must get going. Please do close his mouth soon to avoid any flies entering,' Angelo requested the children.
Maze closed his mouth. 'There are flies in heaven too?'
'Well, of course. They're very important to the ecosystem, sir.' Having said that, Angelo disappeared with a pop.