Paradox

 I am hanging 

holding the clapper 

of my own life's bell 

thereby 

with every breath

I ring my own 

death 

knell .

The moment 

your heart 

begins to beat 

or your lungs 

pump air 

It is only fair 

that you 

yourself 

begin 

your  own 

countdown 

On wearing a mask

 Wearing a mask

An unenviable task

Has taught me much

Common sense and such

I  humbly learnt

Garden bad breath

And abominable fart 

Are not so different

It is easy to mistake

One for the other 

Of similar make

Arising from the gut(ter)

Of being able to breathe 

One's own exhaled breath

Back again .

Is like wearing one's own wreath

Parading 

The paradox .

halitosis 

Hail to thee.

The Kitchen

 The kitchen . It was a separate building . It still beats me , as to why was this so ? A small passageway connected it to the rest of the house . This passageway was unroofed , originally . So , during blazing summers , you could be roasted to a crisp by the fiery sun , or drenched to the skin during the relentless monsoons , on your way to and from the kitchen .

Later my grandfather built a roof over it , so it became a hideaway , a passage to culinary delights , and a clean cricket pitch . The cricket pitch ended the day my smashing delivery broke one of my grandmother’s enormous water pitchers .
There were raised platforms , where one could sit and eat , discuss politics or peel and chop cucumbers.
They were strategically placed . One could flee at the sound of my grandfather’s walking stick on the cement .
The kitchen floor was smooth , cool , cement . It was mopped countless times through the day . We sat around the open fire , and ate , laughed , joked and became adults . 

My sister , fresh from her hostel , reed thin , would be plied with mounds of soft, steaming, white rice . The moment my mother turned her back , she quickly distributed her rice amongst us younger siblings . We were three of us . Three fistfuls , and her rice mound would disappear , by the time Maa came back with dal or curry . Surprised , more rice would be piled onto her plate , and we all would be in stitches , rolling on the floor .

My father worked in a far off metropolis . He would come occasionally . So , whatever he said or did , however ridiculous , was considered sacrosanct . Not so in our eyes . We were growing , rebellious teenagers , and looked at everything with curious , unsullied , critical eyes . 

So , when he sliced tomatoes , we would wait with bated breath and true enough , he would either squirt tomato juice onto my grandmother's hitherto unsullied kitchen walls , or send one half tomato rolling down our cricket pitch . 

We would all disappear to burst into giggles , some place else , as we were not allowed to make fun of my father in plain sight . 

Best days were the poori days . When my mother served us with hot mini balloons of delight , crisp , sizzling . To go with heavenly coconut laced chana dal . 

What's that smell ?

 It is late evening . Babblers are still arguing about the best perch in the tree . Some kid runs past , curving full tilt into his garden , hooting all the while . Mothers on phone are checking phones and absently pushing prams on their way home . An old man with his arthritic wife walk slowly ahead .

Somewhere , off the road , in some kitchen , potatoes are being fried , with garlic . To go with crispy paranthas . Both the smells waft out on the road . Seductively intertwined . Snaking into the still summer air , sitting there , heavy with promise . Hastening people’s footsteps . Dieters , who want to avoid the smell , foodies welcoming it . The aroma of nostalgia for some .

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December morning , fog and sweaters . Mom in hospital . Tiffin has been packed . My poor sister made jam sandwiches while it was still dark . 

After hot water bath , I wear my uniform . My sister combs my hair . My mom's sister is at the helm of the affairs . She is strict about my cup of bournvita in the morning . 

But wait . What's that smell? It is fried arhar dal . My favourite . I burst into the kitchen . Maasi is stirring a pot of yellow deliciousness . She sees me . Pinches my cheeks . I redden . Missing mom more than ever . Papa enters the doorway . He sleeps in the hospital , next to Maa . There are lines under his eyes . He too brightens up at the smell of the dal .

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Ruins

He said with rapidly failing breath

"You need to trust , have faith "

In what ,where or whom ? 

I questioned the vacuum 

People had turned to stone 

Stirrings stilled , no moan

Whither to go? What to ask? 

Wherein lies next survival task?

Stony faces of the living 

No speech , little feeling 

They're dead . Screamed

The molten gold summer skies ,

They're gone , mourned 

The howling winds, hovering kites

In a land laid bare, bereft

There is no fear of theft

Providence has given , grain and gain

And it has taken again and again

For thousands of years 

Words will fall on deaf ears

Underneath rubble of despair

Stench of destruction , sealed

Till inquisitive hands prise

Apart and display the prize

To God

Reviled  

Revealed 

Accursed 

Ill fated 

What an year

Mere misery 

The rains are late 

Fast losing the test 

Of our fate

Love and hate 

All bound 

To hound 

Desecrate 

You have for certain

Fled your temples 

Empty stones 

Roads ,ruins 

This is the end 

Goodbye my friend

Plague and war

You may applaud 

Or snigger

You reactions 

Go figure 

Meanwhile 

Black death

Chars the 

Noble earth