Nature – A Haibun



A five year old me standing near the hedge fences on my first day for school: Photo taken by my father



In my bumble bee days I also had wings. I’d stealthily flee from study books and pour my soul on the hedge fences and watch the mother Bulbul incubating three tiny eggs with Kathamrita* eyes in their twiggy nest. The eggs were always three; never four or two, with purple sprinkles on off-white shell. When the teeny tiny hatchlings without eyes opened their mouths they were almost like baby Gopala’s** showing His Ma Yashoda the universe. I’d often fake their mother’s call when she wasn’t around just to see those large hunger-holes quiver for food. Their father, who would always be nearby in the mother’s absence, of course disapproved my curiosity. His angry alarms and flying over me flapping wings rather noisily sent me inside for fear of rousing my grandpa’s wrath. What hunger! What growth! Both parents fed them in such quick successions that I would often worry about their stomach. I took it upon my duty to shoo away the scheming cats whenever I happened to be there. Sometimes there would be nasty ever-hungry red ants in files and rows before it was time the fledglings could fly safely. Sometimes I would see one chick less and grieve over whatever had happened to the poor angel.



Those butterfly, firefly days did not last long. Change like the Bengal Tiger had me in its grip. I lost my wings to Time just as hedge fenced houses made rooms for the bigger housing-complexes with less greenery, lesser sky.



Carefree, bubbly stream

Will not stop till meets the sea

To lose all sweetness



*Kathamrita literally means ‘Word-Nectar’. It’s also a hagiography in five volumes on the life of Sri Ramakrishna, who often likened the eyes of yogis to the incubating mother bird’s eyes. He used to say that mother bird’s mind is in her eggs so it sees or hears nothing. Similarly when yogi’s mind is on God he is so immersed that he neither sees nor hears.


**Gopala is the God in His baby form in Hindu Mythology. It’s said that once while playing, Gopala put a little lump of earth into His mouth. So His mother Yashoda was very angry and wanted him to open His mouth. At first He would not listen but when His mother threatened to spank Him He opened His mouth and Yashoda saw the entire universe whirling there.



Posted for my Midweek Motif ~ Nature: Her Words @ Poets United


Bhagirathi,in Gangotri.jpg



There are no suns, moons or stars in you-

neither the ocean, no sky nor even a firefly

ever made any presence about your being,

yet I hear your silent steps in my heart.


Your lips are the exotic trees with rare blossoms-

that unfurl their petals not in profusion

to drown me in colors or perfume,

yet I feel their soft touch in my core.


You are no flower but a hardened rock-

that rose above brine water of the eyes

of my broken self in a broken world.


You rise as did our Himalayas-

with the warm heart in layers of snow

while I am a pebble of prayer.


Posted for dVerse MTB ~ Neruda and the free sonnet hosted by Bjorn Rudberg


Shared with Poetry Pantry #367 @ Poets United

Of Flowers and Shoots



The flowers of dreamscape

Crossed over to the real world

To be in my tub


Once I saw

Gossamer, scented wings

Of night flowers


Wilting gerbera

Tied up with a silk string

In a bouquet



They glow

The peony headstone spray

In remembrance




Posted for Poetry Pantry #366 @ Poets United

The End: A Cherita*


Words glide down,


to the end of fingertips

to begin their dance-


of sunrise and twilight

void and darkness

and of a blood red dawn.


**Cherita is a poetic form [1-2-3] of three stanzas telling a story. The first one has one line the second, two and the final stanza has three lines. Cherita is a Malay word for story/tale. This form was created by al li



Posted for dVerse Poetics ~ The End hosted by Paul Scribbles


Rooted to Woe



The moist road under my feet sings

while the glossy grass

carefully hold their dots of blooms

against the naughty wind in their playful mood.

This bonny morning

pulls me into

its enormous foyer of exuberance;

where trees enjoy monsoon manna

and give a shake to their roots

to go deeper,

where merry brooks

weave their delight into babbling tune

just as the moist road under my feet sings,

telling me to move on.

But my heart chooses

to be a megalith of grief.


Posted for dVerse Poetics: Flexing your verbs hosted by Kim of