Painting by Debasish Saha

Mango Pickle

Writing a poem stirs memories of
of my mother’s mango pickle.
Ah! how its irresistible aroma in the folds of memory
still tickles my taste buds and whets my appetite
I still remember how discreetly
she would cull the right kind of mangoes
green, raw and hard, not the pulpy ones
as I do pick words, with the right rhythm and nuances
having the right essence for the desired flavor!
How she would cut them into smaller pieces
quite as I take small chunks of everyday things
and try to endow them with some delectable essence.
And how before mixing all the spicy ingredients together
she would make sure to sun dry and season the diced mango chunks
I too try to dehydrate my prejudices and slants
so as to impart my verses such properties that they can last.

Symphony of Love

The wounded bird of hope

its wings fluttered frantically

the tremendous burden of sorrow

it bore on its bosom
oodles of dreams floated in its starry-eyes,
like a fetus in amniotic fluid,

unaware of the tempestuous winds

raging fiercely in the world outside
the thick blanket of snow enveloped

the bare tree branches, the barren ground

Soon the storms subsided the snowstorms ceased
nature slowly changed its course

the rising sun with its resplendent rays
Dispelled darkness and chill

strewing in abundance radiance and warmth
melting the frosty layers of frozen snow
bringing to life small blades of grass

the tiny tender saplings sprouted from the earth’s bosom
their delicate shiny leaves opened their arms

to embrace the shining sun
the chirpy birds atop the green tree-tops
sang symphonies of love, harmony and hope
like a soothing lullaby

for the craving ears of humanity.