"lassi" poems
When I think of home I think
Of waking up by the chilly wind
Of the morning sweeping my
Face, and walk at 5:00 AM in the
Morning to the milk shop with
My Dadaji, and the cold, refreshing
Lassi prepared by my Dadiji that
She did not let me leave the house
Without completely drinking it, and
The stories of my Naniji and the way
She can narrate and bring to life the
Feeling that should have swept away
With the flow of time, and I think of
The random but sweet conversations
I had with students walking to the
Same school as I was in making me
Realize how time flies when we are
Enjoying the moment, and that cricket
Match with my friends where we broke
Neighbours windows and ran away
Only to sneak in from back of the house
To get the ball back, and the sound of
Minute hand from old fashioned clock
Clicking away and transforming those
precious moments into beautiful
memories for me to sit here and
share with you all.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
Sitting around the patchy tree stumps at Sagar’s Cafeteria,
Campus was not solitaria*.
Listening to songs saved on our tiny phones, decade ago,
We devoured the sound of silence and the fields of athenrye
Together.
We lit mary jane and made merry singing along to ***** Gun
in broad daylight without the purview of uni cam puns.
Who cared if it was just a five-minute break from Hemangadutta
Or Sheeba’s hungry call for relief,
we made it seem wakeable in the dewy morns.
Sagar’s had the tastiest samosa, chicken puff
and Tiger biscuits so cheap we could fudge it in the lassi whuff.
Days and months went by hovering around Sagar than classes.
We never saved pennies, we spent bills on choora
from our pocket monies for bura.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 1:38 AM UTC
El testament Coràn
In ta l'an dal quaranta quatro
fevi el gardòn dei Botèrs:
al era il nuostri timp sacro
sabuìt dal soul del dovèr.
Nuvuli negri tal foghèr
thàculi blanci in tal thièl
a eri la pòura e el piathèr
de amà la falth e el martièl
[...]
Lassi in reditàt la me imàdin
ta la cosientha dai siòrs.
I vuòj vuòiti, i àbith ch'a nasin
dei me tamari sudòurs,
Coi todescs no ài vut timour
de tradì la me dovenetha.
Viva il coragiu, el dolòur
e la nothentha dei puarèth!
1k
Early risers begin their morning commute in the cool fresh air
As I jog and listen to the soft silence of Bangalore
Packs of dogs argue and shout at each other at night
During the day they bask in the warmth by an open door
Red brick and greenery adorn the dream school
The walls speak the chatter of foreign female tongues
I’m confident that even when we leave
These girls will leave no song left unsung
Group dinners, all 17 of us packed inside
Laughter, jokes and great food to eat
Paneer, gobi, mango lassi for dessert
Relaxing, sometimes weird, conversations with Jaspreet
Constant noise, horns, chanting and drums
That once were so prominent have now faded away
The longer you are here, the less you notice
Until in the background these sounds will forever stay
I lay back in the auto, the brilliant stars stare into my soul
The cool breeze of Hampi whistles through my ears
Where would I be right now, without India?
Without my wonderful, supportive peers?
And just then my eyes struggle back tears
Because despite my many problems and my many fears
I will remember this trip for years and years
And for that I am so grateful,
Because of that, I will truly treasure these moments.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 11:16 AM UTC
Forlorn puppies hunt through the trash in search of food
Incessant honking pounds my eardrums
Putrid hints of smoke and diesel followed by the overwhelming stench of rotting trash scorches my nostrils
Uncontrollable spice followed by sour lassi irritate my tastebuds
Dirt rests in the barrier between my feet and the floor
Bejeweled saris radiate from neon lights
Quiet mantras echo off the walls of the yoga studio
Aroma of fresh baked dosa weaves up and down streets
The wetness of one pomegranate kernel refreshes my mouth
Slippery canary yellow kheer oozes out of my fingertips
I want to leave but also to stay
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 1:38 AM UTC
He is different
A loner from what I hear
No father
He has accepted my ways
I am different too
Ma calls me “toofan” lovingly
I can never sit still
Books bore me
The kitchen feels like a dungeon
My feet always dance
My fingers are usually splattered with paint or ink
He doesn’t mind
He likes me with my hair down
We meet on the roof on most mornings
Sometimes in the evenings
When no one is around
Drying clothes or chili
Just an excuse
We talk between cups of chai or sweet lassi
I read his hand
He reads my eyes
He writes
Possibly draws
I cannot be sure
He never lets me see
I practice my steps
he watches
I paint
He observes
he clicks pictures
always when I am not aware
to capture something, I think
I can tell him anything
Nothing needed to be hidden in the pages
He understands ever sigh and murmur
Understands every step and colour
But even then
He has not once told me that he loves me
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 5:42 PM UTC