A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****.
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.

Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.

This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.

You left nothing, only the Stevens book
That read:  There is not nothing, no, no never…

Nothing and a yellow bicycle:
Two tires on a rickety frame.

When I do pick up a poem,
It’s to hear the gravel cadence of you,

Softer, informed by everything that spins:
A world, a bicycle, a chestnut tumbling

Downhill the city’s painted a roadside path,
My collarbone’s begun to mend.

The house gets drafty late afternoons
So I learn to cook:

Turmeric, cayenne. Hing & coriander.  
cardamom. Cumin & mustard seeds.

Hing’s a pungent flower called asafetida
And corriander’s just cilantro.

Icy fingers spindle wheels on window panes.
I leave the teakettle to boil.

Spokes of trees shiver in the silverish dusk
Taking lessons from everything bare,

I let in the cold to hear
No stones turned in the drive.

you smell like a witch's storage,
a pantry of spice;
rosemary, basil,
turmeric, corriander.
the smell,
it's spice.

Eating a Passion

Eat do not, like there is no tomorrow.
If persist we, it will only bring us sorrow.
Learn to balance , so that we enjoy the 'morrow.

Dhanshak our weakness, evidently is;
But eat let us, a small portion please.
Or we may, because of it, som eday cease.

Fresh fruits, nuts healthy definitely are.
Chutney of mint, coconut n corriander from a jar;
Or even salads some, with lime sqeezed, are at par.

Butter milk, curds enjoy we can, along with lime juice.
Have you ever tried, to carrots n oranges fuse?
Boiled  peas, beans yummy are; why them, refuse?

Vegetables for Bawajis should be a must.
Every day eat we cannot puddings , pies or its crust.
Or we soon, certainly n surely will burst.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

JOIN HANDS

Earlier I had appealed to everyone, instead of giving flowers, give a flower *** with a sappling, a bamboo or money plant.

Teach school children to sow fenugreek methi or corriander dhanya, they will learn a lot from this.

Just imagine every city's road with five rows of trees.. one in the centre n two on both sides of the foot paths.
Politicians, industrialists, military big bosses should all take up this MOST IMPORTANT ISSUE.

School n college kids, scouts, girl guides, NCC students should all take up this mission on war footing

Armin Dutia Motashaw

INFECTIOUS

In a *** small, I planted some
" Methi seeds"

Watered them I did, those little brown beads.

Eagerly awaited I; to see results, I was keen

Soon they sprouted n I saw stalks green;

With happiness, pounding was my heart.

For, of this process, I was actually a part.

Prompted me this, to do gardening more.

Wished I to increase n better my score;

So planted I some corriander n ginger  too.

Added a "curry patta" plant; now I had work to do.

Infectious this became, people followed me.

My neighbors also did plant; now green we see;

Pray I, may this infection spread out wide.

May this Earth soon look like a bride.

Armin Dutia Motashaw