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The Mango Tree

It was planted in the center of the garden.

Everything seemed to revolve around it. The flurry of activities in the day and the soothing breezes of the night. It had a knack to being stern yet kind, social yet solitary, cheery yet comforting, pushy yet supportive.

Since it was everyone's favorite place to be, a small mud platform was raised around it. It found a place in the family photographs. Kids scribbled their first letter under the mango tree. It witnessed many unions and partings. It bore mangoes every summer. (Of course, it was a mango tree ! )  

One not-so-fine day, the garden was reduced to half. No longer was the mango tree at the center of  life. It was spared but looked morose. The mud platform had long been demolished. It was past its prime. No fruits were borne. No one cared to water it. But it refused death. It knew its task was not over yet.

It had to provide shade to the gardener who lay underneath it. 

Courtesy : Google


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Concealed by dark clouds
You keep shining.
Bright streaks of light
Dazzle me.
Enchant me.
And keep me waiting..
Waiting for you.

Amidst Soul-lessness

There is smoke somewhere. 
I cannot seem to figure out where. 
The lights are here, the music is here.
Has it been home here ?
Perhaps. Maybe when it did not rain.
Or maybe when it rained and it did not matter.
Maybe when I walked alone, smiling to myself. 
Or maybe when I realized I was okay.
Had it been always like this ?

Not really. 
Things clicked, took effort and blood. 
Did I do it ? Or the beasts did ? Maybe we both together,
Played this game. 
Amidst soulful solitude, it was love. 
Maybe appreciation.
Another journey, another dry spell. 
Will it ever be home again ? 

P.S. : Penned at Candies, Bandra on 11th January 2017 


I cannot remember my mother,
only sometime in the midst of my play
a tune seems to hover over my playthings,
the tune of some song that she used to
hum while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother
but when in the early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers floats in the air,
the scent of the morning service in the
temple comes to me as the scent of my mother.

I cannot remember my mother
only when from bedroom window
I send my eyes into the blue of the distant sky,
I feel that the stillness of my mother's gaze on my face
has spread all over the sky.

~Rabindranath Tagore
Note : This was one of  the earliest poems I read,loved and cherished.