26/11 – Remembering Mumbai

26/11 That was a day you didn’t have to work, a beautiful November day

Image Courtesy post dot jargon dot com

Image Courtesy post dot jargon dot com

Get in here with me you teased as I set down the coffee tray.

That was a day our son’s music teacher cancelled and our son was enthralled

You had to work, urgent business you said, I was secretly happy when the car stalled.


26/11 That was a day when I ran behind the tuk tuk to give you the phone you left behind

Children played in the streets, families chattered, I watched from the balcony, resigned.

That was a day Renu Aunty decided to show up with her awfully boring stories

Our son broke Sharma ji’s window panes adding to our list of worries.


That was a day I put our son to bed and readied quite the treat

I had dinner alone and angry, you called from the cab- another client to meet.

That was the day the delicious taste of parathas lingered long after my anger subsided

Before the perpetual taste of grief oppressed my palate and even simple pleasures receded.


26/11 That was the day when you didn’t come home my darling

Our son didn’t understand why you weren’t there in the morning.

That was the day we were thrown at the mercy of this world

Some say I got justice that I deserved- but my senses… they are still blurred…

A fool’s rhyme

This is something I wrote for my advanced poetry class in college. My assignment – ” The last poem before your life is snuffed (yes – they wanted it to rhyme)”

Lachrymose clouds holding back, letting the sun gently flirt,

My sandaled feet gently burdening the dirt;

My flickering orange sweeps back the dark tresses of the night,

I ponder chewing on my cedar enslaving graphite;

This shall not sing of my first school dance or climbing my first fence,

It shall not speak of my father walking away trailing my innocence;

It will not hail me for pulling through pain and despair

It does not chastise me for losing my sanity or being unfair;

It’s neither an ode to my laurels nor a dirge for those lost,

Not a chronicle of superlatives or curses tossed.

My swan song sweet earth – Let it be not sublime;

My swan song, gentle Charon – let it be, but a fool’s rhyme.