Rituals

Morning 

There had been beautiful autumn mornings

When waking up from dreamy childhood slumber hearing my father’s radio

Blaring ‘pratyahiki’ had been a routine thing,

Then going out to the backyard 

Right there where mother stood under that shiuli tree

Collecting tiny starlets of white flowers,

I got drenched in dew 

And the mist of autumn would drape me. 

Evening

Evenings at our little abode at that riverside town

Had curious visitors – The traveling cake seller with a huge black tin box on his head

Had been like the pied piper,

Mythical, alluring, 

Then there was the jhalmuri wallah, 

His practiced-hand could conjure up lip-smacking puffed rice bowl, 

After that man from South 

Selling dosa.

My mother’s lighting up of diya

Always brought that mixture of varied fragrance – of incense sticks, camphor. 

Now after so many years, 

Getting into the folds of my semi-urban existence, 

I still hanker after those little things in the evenings. 

Afternoons 

Drawing pencils 

Paper planes, comic strips, chocolate Ice-creams, 

And …. that beautiful girl in a red tunic.