New Year 2026: In the Hills

I was the lake in Naukuchiatal
as the clock rang in
the first morning bell.

I was the bright lights shining
that illuminated
the smiles of strangers
and yet not strangers.

Divided by stories, united by them.

I was the winter sky,
upon the hills and meandering roads,
playing hide and seek with the half moon,

and that surprised brown mouse
that looked up at the car lights
and ran into the jungle after a brief pause.

I was the lazy sun, the foggy morning,
in a small cottage in Jungliagaon.

I was the black bird, the yellow bird,
the bluebird, on the rose bush.

I was the rose that was white
and probably a pink.

I was the pine forest, the pine trees,
the pine cones scattered on the uneven path.

I was the river Gola that snaked
through the deep valleys.

I was the sun that shone bright
through the pine trees,
making it sap a lovely scented gum.

I was the happiness, the smiles
on a paraglide.
I was the wind that made the
lakes shimmer and dance,

a bit like a Polki necklace.

I was the moon, a bit bigger than yesterday.

I was the love across the hills.

 01.01.2026

Where are my roots? where is my aasmaan!

I have often wondered
about my roots
if I have them
at all
or am I a hyacinth
that will always be afloat

I’ve lived in more houses
than the next one
and yet
none have felt like home

and when I reflect
my earliest drawings have been of houses
from those first huts we drew
all of us
a rectangle, a triangle
and a bush and a tree
and three triangles and half that were mountains
the ticks for birds
a sun and a moon
a cloud and some stars
depending on day or night
and a meandering river, always

which have now graduated
to Pinterest boards
saved reels and posts
of houses in Bali
in Sri Lanka

we bought our first house
a flat on the top floor
where I have plants
and skies
with chaotic beginnings
and rough day to day
it feels many times
like a convalescent home
a pit stop on a highway

the air feels toxic
especially around this time
and no
nothing feels like home
yet

I still dream of my jungles
the winding roads
the clean air that filled my lungs

where do I find my home
where do I find my roots

maybe this longing
is the only place
I’ve ever lived fully

maybe this ache
is my address

Happy Women’s Day 2025 !

To the incredible women-

who rise, not because of a day,

but despite the weight of history,

despite the quiet exclusions,

the unspoken rules,

the ceilings made of glass and stone.

To the men who see -

who do not treat women as tokens,

who do not turn them into goddesses,

but as equals, as humans,

who recognize their privilege,

of being a man in a man’s world, 

and use it not as power,

but as responsibility.

who stand beside women,

who listen,

who learn,

who choose to act.

This day is not for flowers or praise,

not for fleeting gestures,

but for reflection, for reckoning.

For asking—how far have we come?

And how much further must we go?

Women are here,

not because the world made space for them,

but because they carved it out,

fought for it,

claimed it.

Silently,

loudly,

relentlessly.

But “here” is still far behind 

And to get “there” is a long walk

So today, and every day after,

more power to the women.

Ajaa, Travel Well.

 

My Ajaa (Nana Ji/maternal grandfather) passed away today morning, at the age of 97.

I believed he would live to a hundred. I spoke to him just a few days back , the day he was returning to Keonjhar from Bhubaneswar, when he told me he survived a scare. I told him he isn't dying anytime soon. He had been brought in to Bhubaneswar after he coughed up some blood. All his tests and endoscopy came back clean. He probably wanted it this way, to pass away amidst his beloved family , in his beautiful home.

Even at 97, he told me he will get his eyes operated when I come to get him. He had lost his eyesight the last couple of years to cataract. Till I moved out of Keonjhar in 2010, he would only go to the doctor with me. He trusted me for some reason, much to the annoyance of my uncles. Even for a few year after, he would wait till I went back home annually for his tests and check ups. As my visits became more irregular and further apart , he then shifted that dependence to my brothers and Papa. Today morning, when he started to feel unwell, he called Papa at 5 in the morning. Papa went, he was brought downstairs, and he passed away in his presence. I know he still wanted to live. I will remember him as that- someone who loved life and lived it to the fullest.

As I write this his pyre burns in Puri, at Swargadwar, where he had wished his last rites to be carried out. I sit here , watching through pictures , his body turn to ashes, remembering him and his stories.

The memories flash by like in a fast forward movie. Even in my earliest memories of him, I remember his as a bright eyed, sharp witted , caring person, without a malicious bone. My relationship with him was that of pure love. I was, after all, his eldest grand child.

The foolish me was embarrassed of him when I was about 7-8 years old. All other friend's and families' nanajis were cool and mine was weirdly bearded and wore dhoti and kurta. I wondered then, why he couldn't be like others.

Only later, in fact, much later, I grew to respect him and his choices, when I understood his Gandhian values. His knowledge, his values and his crisp ironed white cotton dhoti and kurtas carried a much deeper meaning and became a part of me. Everywhere I went, later in my life, in my home town, I would be told, "Vini, your grandfather was my teacher". These were other teachers, engineers, doctors, people on the street, anyone and everyone, who went to school through 50s till 80s. This was said with pride and brought in realisation in me that he chose to be a teacher and he taught well. He was loved as a teacher and adored as an individual.

He was definitely my teacher in my earliest memories. When I was not even one (that's what he told me), he would give me puzzles, word and math puzzles, that i loved to solve. Every year , when we came back home for holidays, my best memories were of sitting outside my nanaji's house when he would" show off" how bright his granddaughter was . I enjoyed that attention and of course I came back inspired to learn more. I still do a puzzle on a stressful day, a habit that he helped form.

I have always wondered about my own self and today, as reminiscence about our memories, I realise how much like him I am. A ghummakkad (one who couldn't stay at one place for a long time) who loved travel, a genuine love for people around him, a connectedness with a much larger world, I get these from him I think. No-one else in our family has these so inherent as he did. Not that I can ever match his levels. He would ask about everyone . He was updated on all changes around the lives of people he knew, not just family, but friends, sometimes, strangers he had met and made them his own. He had this thing about him, that endeared him to people. And I don't think he was aware of that. It was just him, genuinely interested in people and their lives. He probably celebrated everyone's success with equal pride and was heartbroken if he heard something sad. He continued to have that quality till his last breath.

He was also a kanjoos (miser). And as I grew older I did realise he was just mindful and would avoid unnecessary expenses. He couldn't have brought up all his children, each of whom are leaders in their own spaces, and shouldered a large joint family without being one. I wish I had a bit of that trait though. I'm too loose with my purse for my own good. I have many of these stories that I will laugh about when I think of him. Being that kanjoos, very vocally, unabashedly, was just one of them.

Till about a few years back, maybe just 7-8 years when he developed a heart issue and was forced to become homebound, he travelled on his own. In public transport. In buses. My aai (naniji/ grandmother) used to be eternally annoyed, as he would many times just sit in a bus and go away on some "work" without telling her. He would , thanks to mobile phones, call her in the later years. Before that, she would just wonder many days if he would be back for lunch or had gone away to do some work. The "work" by the way, could be as varied as meeting someone, getting some paperwork done, help someone in need, a news he heard about someone and he needed to go visit the family at that instant. No planning or thinking. He just needed to go. I think , he just didn't like being stationary, either physically or mentally. I know for sure, he is chatting up the whole heaven, reaching out to all his friends and acquaintances who went before him. He's probably also giving a puzzle to the gods to solve and chuckling when they fail.

He , single handedly started the Shahid Smriti Diwas at Nandapur Village in Champua, which has become an annual event where thousands throng to pay respect to the Kargil Shahid Gautam Pradhan. But this is one of so many things he did. He loved getting people together. If it wasn't a large public event, it probably was a family get together that he loved to plan.

So many things , so many memories with you Ajaa.

Ajaa, You were a part of my life's many "firsts". So many of them. You were the first to see my board results, my first day to college, to meet Ravi, to see me as a bride and you cried at every one of those occasions. You were so proud of me. And continued to be till today. You kept a watch on my travel, my well being, much more than I did. I will miss those calls.

Ajaa, You lived a full life. You gave us so many lessons without us realising those were life lessons. I will carry a lot of pride in being your eldest grand daughter. And your void I will fill with stories and travels, the two things you loved the most.

Ajaa, travel well.

a slow series, fire and love

 On a late winter , almost spring, afternoon

while the sun filtered through the balcony

I was watching this really slow series

You know the kind that makes you ache

that makes you think of all things love

where every line is a poetry

I heard the gas lighter to off in the kitchen

and for no reason

I thought of those kerosene stoves we had

when I was very young

the kinds that had cotton wicks

took a lot of effort

then I thought it was nothing compared to the wood fired open chulhas

in my grandmother's home

that needed so much effort

but you had no option

but to keep going

through winter and rains

in hot summers

that is all you had

The flashes passed through of where we have arrived,

though electric heaters

the kerosene pressure stoves, not the ones with the wick

you know what I mean?

the gas stoves

to the microwave, that doesn't even need fire anymore

Ah, I had missed 10 secs of the episode 

rewinding, (not that it's tape and rewinds anymore, but you know what I mean)

wondering

what was it 

in the really slow episode

That made me think

about love

about fire

about loves that were not love

about fire that don't have fire

At the Masai market in Nairobi, the painter was selling his hand painted canvas with gusto and pride. And subconsciously I realised everyone was buying very similar kind of paintings while I was looking through stuff near his stall . I’m sure you’ve seen those. Women carrying water pots, carrying firewood, carrying children, walking livestock, working in the farms, you get the drift. 

I went over to look closely. What struck me was the paintings of men. Dancing, smoking, sitting around a fire, playing.. (and not a single one doing work)

I asked him if he had one where women were dancing, chilling, and NOT working. He was struck. We looked through more than 5000 paintings because I was possessed. We found none. NONE. He promised to paint me one. And the next day, I had the one that hangs on the left. I also bought the one where men were playing the drums. As a reminder, that sometimes when men make the noise, the women need to dance to their own music. Happy Women’s Day!!

Sangam Or Not

 I have been sent images of the Sangam. 

It lies somewhere in between Leh and Kargil. 

It is such a powerful image. These two rivers came together accidentally or naturally, depending on how you look at it. Before they met, they had their own identities. After they meet, they continue to have their own identities for a while. And them they become indistinguishable from each other. In fact, Zanskar loses its name. It strangely ceases to exist altogether. 

Surprising, isn't it? Why did one have to lose its name? Will the new river continue to be Indus? Isn't Indus changed to Indusanskar or something? Just because Indus existed before, is that the legacy that needs to continue? 

Indus could be a bully too, I think? The river we get our name from. Or a polygamous amorous river. It takes in Sutlej, Chenab, Ravi, Jhelum, and quite a few more. How does Indus get to keep its name? 

If I wanted to draw Indus with my amateurish/immature hand, how would I draw it? 

Oh Indus! 

Kolatkar, Boatride and Other Memories.

We were reorganising our bookshelves over the weekend. I have lost, given away many books over the years, always expecting them to return to me in some form, at some point of time. But wait, this isn't about that.  While, I can "buy" some book again, some books are just too close to be lost. 

Kolatkar's “Boat ride and other poems” was one such book. I have gone back to that book in times of despair and angst. A friend if you will . When I couldn't find it, I felt a deep sense of loss. I looked all Saturday and Sunday. On Monday, I was close to giving up. I was wondering who took that book. All shelves and corners had been cleaned and looked at. I knew for sure, of all books I had, that one I would never lend. But this is not about that angst either. 

It had been on mind so much that I dreamt of it. Have you ever wondered about your dreams? I do. I'm very intrigued by my dreams. They say it's a manifestation of your subconscious, so I always wonder what triggers those dreams. And what memories it elicits. They also say you actually don't see colours in your dream and when you remember the dreams , it is actually a juxtaposition of those with your own senses, of sounds, smells and colours. 

So, I had this dream. I went on boat. From the Gateway of India. Through Elephanta. At the turn strangely, I was at Chilika. And stranger still I got off at my door step at home. My home , which is on a valley, no sea, no lake. I was still looking for my book. I asked everyone on the way. Strangers, friends, some who I haven't spoken to in years. I spoke to them about the book and if they had seen it. The blue waves on the cover , the odd size of the book and the poems themselves. 

By the way, dreams are rarely this linear. I was going back and forth. And this isn't about that too. 

It's about the library I arrived at. My first library. I had my own before I could walk, but this was a proper library, where you could borrow books from. I opened the old cupboard, and there it was, the shiny bright blue book, sitting atop the oldest books. That's when I woke up. With a feeling I must find the book. Or order it. 

And I have been thinking of that library since. 

It was a library started by my uncle, my father's older brother. It was the darkest mustiest room in the entire household. The almirahs were wooden, with these little intricately designed locks. All the keys went into this big bunch. He had named it after my grandmother. "Kumudini Library".I’m not sure who borrowed books from there. It probably had about two thousand books, of all kinds.  It was a memory that had been forgotten. And the dream brought back that from some deep corner. The memories of my first formal library when I was about three I think. The smells of the musty books. The feel of the yellowed pages. I ran my fingers over the books, not recognising many letters or words, but with a deep sense of belonging. To that smell, to that feeling being a part of the rows of books. 

So weird. There is another memory that has been found too. But more on that later. I wanted to record this before I forget. 

And yes, the actual book has been found. It was sitting with Babu's 10th prep books, which he has tied in a box and kept away. The poems were probably figuring out the probability of me finding them , in the Math books or finding Chemistry in Babu's box.Probably feeling more at home than in my little book shelf. We will never know.  

Responding to COVID-19: Charity starts at home.

My men friends (and women friends too), Just because I'm feeling it, I'm going to write a longish message. 

After all the time Ravi and i have been together, mostly fighting , the question I always ask what is that spark that keeps us together? 

And the answer is , I can always depend on him when we need him. Even when I'm fighting with him or he is with me, we both know, we are in this together. That we respect each other and deeply acknowledge the value the other brings to our lives. 

We are in 21st day of the lockdown.(And believe me, this is the longest we have stayed together in the same city- let alone the same house) . We have had crisis after crisis, both at work and home. Finally our washing machine too died a few days earlier to add to our already crazy lives.

But, I've a zillion things to be thankful for. I have babu who I can depend on and not counting Caesar who is our love bug. 

And I was wondering about everyone else and how they are doing. 

Ravi has been sharing housework, helping with doing the dishes, cleaning, mopping, washing clothes, watering the plants- even though we both have strict timelines at work. And more important than anything, we discuss what the other needs- what help is needed for the day and who will do what. Sometimes , we mess up or slacken off or slip up- but that is ok, because we know it is a tough time and we have to manage it together. 

I also realise, how easy it can be to take things for granted. Mothers who have worked at home, thanklessly. Wives who do their "jobs" like robots through the day. But no- that is not their "job".

Let's first acknowledge that. Houseworks is everyone's work. Do not fall for the age old stereotypes, because this generation has to act- and change consciously to break these. You've heard it enough- time to practice.

It can be difficult for men- who have been pampered and taught that their role is a "man's" role. No, it isn't. 

So go ahead, and break the stereotypes. It will be difficult at first. You will get stares from moms, some bit of tana like "Joru ka Ghulam" etc, but deal with it. Most of all, I think you will also need to deal with your own feelings when you start doing work that you have never before. But hey- It's basic life skills. The pain comes with the territory. Right now YOUR household doesn't have a maid. YOUR household is also going through crisis. Do your bit. 

And Women, Ask for help. Don't keep silent and continue doing all the jobs alone. You too are feeling the isolation. Stay-At-Home women, your spaces are now continually intruded by people and you've lost your freedom. So, ASK for help. Assign tasks. NO- it is not your job. It is not your household only. It is of everyone who stays in the house. And no- this is not a holiday. It is a crisis and everyone in the house needs to respond like it's one. 

Break the stereotypes ! We will get through this- together. And only together. And those who are already doing it- Thank you for being real men.

I am woman

I am
woman

When you burn me
I only shine my light
I am fire

When you push me
I get stronger
I am diamond

When you break me
Each piece reflects my being
I am mirror

When you throw me in water
I create ripples
I am waves

When you bury me
I birth and grow a mutiny
I am seed

When you throw me
I fly the sky
I am wings

I am woman



Inspired by and in dedication to every woman I know.

May we know them. May we be them. May we raise them.

Mother Language

I've lived in places I can't remember
the first language I learnt wasn't my mother's

It was a language I adapted to
as I stayed over at my "almost adopted" parents

I've forgotten that language though
well most of it anyways

The many places have given me many languages

When someone asks, I do not know
how to answer to the question
of what tongue is my mother's

How does it matter, my mind rolls its eyes
And the tongue perhaps
The languages in my mind are mixed and queer

My mind
plays its own games
where languages skip and hop
and dance with each other

It laughs when I still sometimes
with so many languages in my head

Forget how to get my thoughts across

(On International Mother Language Day 2020)

Hope

The summer we spoke
when the little purple grass flowers
grazed against my ankles
in the early May wind
In Keonjhar

We met for the first time
In the summer breeze
by the sea
In Puri

The first monsoons together
by the coast
As children walked in Prabhat pheri
to celebrate independence
In Vizag

The time we walked
hand in hand
in the early winters
through the Parthasarathi rocks
In Delhi


When we set up our first home
little by little
with things we built
with our own hands
in the November heat
In Mumbai

I keep these memories
like books dog-eared
that I can pick from the shelf
and sniff
and read


In those pages
we fall in love
again and again
quickly
slowly
through the years

Ra-Vi

Sometimes
I have the urge
Like some others
To shorten your name
To the first syllable
Call you "Ra"
Call myself "Vi"

And funnily,
When I combine them
To make a couple name
You still retain your name
When I loose half

How unfair.