tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40195861426460606012024-03-11T00:43:04.480+05:30Epiphanic Moments...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger376125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-53700752550420633042024-02-25T18:36:00.004+05:302024-02-25T18:48:40.637+05:30Chennai- The city that refuses to give up on you...<br><p dir="ltr">This weekend trip to Chennai was all about rekindling my bond with the city after a 5 year long hiatus. Embarking on a visit like this is a bit difficult especially when there are bittersweet memories involved, which stand ready to conjure up a plethora of emotions at the minutest nudge. My mind was a mixed bag, hesitant and anxious. But the city- which I knew from childhood as good old Madras, proved me entirely wrong. It welcomed me with open hands and vehemently refused to let me go.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Though it was a very short trip, I didn't want it to be vague. I wanted to greedily grab back as many parts of the city I could, as many images my eyes could grab, as many loved ones I could visit. It was like a frantic effort to draw back slices of my past and bits and pieces of myself I left here. Everything from Music academy, All India Radio, University of Madras, Anna flyover, Rayar's mess and the bustling streets of Mylapore gifted me sweet reminisces of my earliest tryst with Chennai. I could visualise myself, who looked at this city with awe, when I came to the city as a student and then, for my first corporate job. Vignettes of early morning classes near Sanskrit College, and evening classes at Nungambakkam flashed in front of me, along with the uncertainties and nightmarish tensions I had experienced at that time, like every other CA student. As the buildings sprinted past me, I travelled backwards too, to forgotten versions of myself, when I was too naive of what life had in store for me. That's when I understood how giving, forgiving and embracing Chennai actually is. I saw teeny bits of myself that I thought I had lost, popping up, as I happily trodded my way through like a kid, talking to auto annas and cab drivers as if I knew them for a long time. Yes, the city chose to show me, remind me only of those parts which brought joy, like a dear friend who protects you from anything that triggers you. That made me feel I wasn't an outsider after all, I did belong!</p><br><p dir="ltr">Even though visiting loved ones had transformed to lightning appointments and I did miss the surprise element and joy of arriving at someone's doorstep unannounced, I accepted that things do change, and you adapt. But I was happy that all conversations took off without any ice-breakers and went on as if they had been continuing all along, even though years had passed in between. That's the beauty, right? As someone said, some conversations don't have beginnings and ends. They are there,always, like waves.</p><br><p dir="ltr">And that brings me to the majestic waves of Marina, that touched me with a smile of an all-knowing saint. "I knew you would come", she said. The waves, that saw me in all the different phases of my life, kept moving back and forth, unattached, unaffected, unscathed, teaching me life-lessons to carry back home.</p><br><p dir="ltr">That's when I knew the answer for the questions everyone asked on my visit.</p><p dir="ltr">Why visit Chennai ?</p><p dir="ltr">Friend's wedding? No.</p><p dir="ltr">Interview? No.</p><p dir="ltr">Meeting? No.</p><p dir="ltr">Hospital appointment? No.</p><br><p dir="ltr">To come and shake hands with Chennai- this long term friend- and feel and soak in the energy, vibrance, charm and most importantly, the warmth of this rustic city.</p><br><p dir="ltr">As I write this, looking at the trees moving backwards from my favorite window seat of the train to my home town, I was reminded of something I wrote on a similar journey from Chennai to Palakkad long back.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Yes. The city never lets you go.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Click <a href="https://endlesselan.blogspot.com/search?q=Alappuzha&m=1">here</a> to read "Alappuzha Express", written in 2015 on a similar train journey.</p><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">25.02.2024</p><br><p dir="ltr"><br></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-36359812029151830662024-02-20T21:16:00.001+05:302024-02-20T21:16:58.881+05:30How much is too much?<p dir="ltr">Do you shrink yourself to accommodate?</p><p dir="ltr">Curving yourself into a flattened ball?</p><p dir="ltr">Stretching your instincts in a such a way</p><p dir="ltr">That you feel drained,</p><p dir="ltr">And there's not a drop left to pour?</p><br><p dir="ltr">Do you nod compulsively?</p><br><p dir="ltr">Do you carry the solidified residues of all those moments you weren't there for yourself?</p><br><p dir="ltr">Is your cup parched dry, with cracks on the rim?</p><br><p dir="ltr">It's time to generously fill it with whatever you can gather,</p><p dir="ltr">Hunt, search and source</p><p dir="ltr">And abundantly refill yourself to your heart's content.</p><p dir="ltr">Whatever it takes,</p><p dir="ltr">For, how do you continue to pour from an empty cup?</p><br><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">20th Feb 2024</p><br><br><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-49581029583464506202024-02-03T20:44:00.001+05:302024-02-03T20:44:48.561+05:30Navigating the greys...<div>There was a time in my life, maybe my childhood, where I believed, I could box everything I did or saw around into the meticulously, systematically inculcated compartments in my head, coloured black and white. Over time, my first realisations started when I understood that my boxes do not necessarily match with others, all of us have different colouring patterns! What's white for me, may be black for someone else! Over this monochromatic expedition, I stumbled upon the convenient concept of grey, where our boxes could seemingly atleast stagger towards one another, even though they don't necessarily need to intersect at any point. We could find a way to harmoniously coexist. And suddenly, I started spotting all the greys around- everything we did or decided or talked or thought or merely ruminated- actually did fall into this box which refused to fit in, allowing compromises, letting go's, moving on's and lessons on different lines of thought still being right in varying perspectives and circumstances.</div><div>It allowed me to finally find my calm amidst the chaos that my mind was, doubting myself, as I struggled to compartmentalise my thoughts and deeds, every time. Finally, its liberating to just be, not having to go through the self-deprecating act of ruthless scrutiny to pursue the unending path of always fitting my thoughts into the boxes. Sometimes its okay to not categorise everything and just let it slip to the grey zone conveniently.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>03rd Feb 2024.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-61581935430647962852024-01-30T20:30:00.001+05:302024-01-30T20:30:51.081+05:30Camouflage <p dir="ltr">We carry multiple layers of cloaks around us,</p><p dir="ltr">Some conscious, visible,</p><p dir="ltr">And some very delicate and fragile.</p><p dir="ltr">We keep shedding them each time we respond.</p><br><p dir="ltr">The sophisticated masks fall,</p><p dir="ltr">Camouflage fails,</p><p dir="ltr">As disappointments and darker emotions envelop our being.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Revealing the demons within,</p><p dir="ltr">Exposing all those we swept under the carpet,</p><p dir="ltr">Emphasising the blue jackal story time and again.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">30 Jan 2024</p><br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-9343620935697720432023-12-31T17:58:00.001+05:302023-12-31T17:58:58.900+05:30Last day of the year...<p dir="ltr">Let me leave this day empty,</p><p dir="ltr">Let me feel all that I missed to, this year,</p><p dir="ltr">And process all those incomplete emotions,</p><p dir="ltr">Let me finish all the phrases I started to speak</p><p dir="ltr">Let me breathe and allow the day to pass,</p><p dir="ltr">Let me just let the day be.</p><p dir="ltr">Let me just let it take its course.</p><p dir="ltr">Let me just let the year conclude.</p><p dir="ltr">Let me allow the semicolon to rest, and transform into a fullstop.</p><p dir="ltr">Let the night sleep</p><p dir="ltr">And wake up tomorrow afresh</p><p dir="ltr">In its own pace</p><p dir="ltr">To unwind a new year in its own, slow timeline</p><p dir="ltr">Without rush, without inhibitions.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">31.12.2023</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-38325564619946531532023-12-03T21:04:00.001+05:302023-12-03T21:04:28.332+05:30Sunday evenings...<p dir="ltr">Some Sunday evenings come with a tinge of eerie blankness,</p><p dir="ltr">A teeny weeny bit of doom and despair;</p><p dir="ltr">When all classes of fatigue form a cluster,</p><p dir="ltr">Shaking hands with a social media overdose of picture perfect filters-</p><p dir="ltr">And a digital outburst, bombarding you with ceaseless stimulants for your evaporating attention span.</p><br><p dir="ltr">The sun leaves a part of its tiredness behind, retiring for the day - as if meticulously doing its part to add on to the scene.</p><p dir="ltr">The air around gets sticky, as a reluctant shower half-heartedly graces the ground, like a mechanical tick in the box exercise, churning out heated, pent up emotions.</p><br><p dir="ltr">A glob of the stickiness finds way to the soul too,</p><p dir="ltr">Leaving me weary...</p><p dir="ltr">From somewhere, the temple bells ring, for the deeparadhana,</p><p dir="ltr">Echoing with reassurance,</p><p dir="ltr">Giving me solace,</p><p dir="ltr">As I come back to the rest of the day,</p><p dir="ltr">Resolved to give it another shot.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">3 December 2023</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-11490117407683078922023-11-29T20:44:00.001+05:302023-11-29T20:44:16.865+05:30Yesterdays<p dir="ltr">There are times when you look back on your yesterdays</p><p dir="ltr">And they stare at you like a stranger</p><p dir="ltr">Refusing to recognise your new thought patterns;</p><p dir="ltr">Twisting their eyebrows as if to recollect a faded image.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Even as you knock the doors and throw reams of your skewed trajectory,</p><p dir="ltr">It holds you on spot and twists your belief in your own memory,</p><p dir="ltr">As you drown in the squabble of indecipherable words and epithets</p><p dir="ltr">Trying to hand-pick the fallen pieces from a forgotten past.</p><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">29 November 2023</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-26911425427695876062023-11-15T08:14:00.001+05:302023-11-15T08:14:57.995+05:30Fluidity<p dir="ltr">Running effortlessly, taking shapes and patterns,</p><p dir="ltr">Switching courses on the way,</p><p dir="ltr">Blending itself thick with encounters,</p><p dir="ltr">Diluting over time,</p><p dir="ltr">The inner self amazes me with its flow,</p><p dir="ltr">The ease with which it manoeuvres,</p><p dir="ltr">And runs with ease</p><p dir="ltr">With an impeccable apathy</p><p dir="ltr">An incomprehensible demeanour</p><p dir="ltr">Staying so aloof-</p><p dir="ltr">As if nothing ever changed.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">15 Nov 2023</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-53467858898201390582023-11-03T08:34:00.001+05:302023-11-03T08:34:14.144+05:30Confetti<p dir="ltr">I close my eyes and torn colour papers fly,</p><p dir="ltr">Bits and pieces floating around,</p><p dir="ltr">Did they emanate from my eyes,</p><p dir="ltr">I do not know.</p><p dir="ltr">I find some hues familiar, some, a faded memory</p><p dir="ltr">Some hold within them, the freshness, the proud aroma of novelty,</p><p dir="ltr">There is a strong tinge of yellow to the older ones,</p><p dir="ltr">But their tiniest corners still minutely stay true to their authentic self,</p><p dir="ltr">Folded, crumpled,</p><p dir="ltr">They wander,</p><p dir="ltr">And a bunch of them walk with me</p><p dir="ltr">Like faithful escorts</p><p dir="ltr">As I sail through yet another day.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">3rd November 2023.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-39124235997420929892023-10-12T22:14:00.001+05:302023-10-12T22:14:44.366+05:30Dosa poem<br><p dir="ltr">I start by letting the heat spread on the surface.</p><p dir="ltr">To double check, I crookedly splash a palmful of water,</p><p dir="ltr">Revelling on the satisfying cacophony performed by the waltzing droplets.</p><p dir="ltr">As I pour the batter on the tawa,</p><p dir="ltr">There's an initial settling of the noises,</p><p dir="ltr">And I stealthily grab the chance to make-do a reasonable circle.</p><p dir="ltr">The edges curl slightly towards me,</p><p dir="ltr">Dancing in pain,</p><p dir="ltr">Airbubbles form, sad ones, pleading for my mercy,</p><p dir="ltr">I pay no heed.</p><p dir="ltr">I decide to add fuel to their burns, pouring oil like a circumambulation on the bruised soul.</p><p dir="ltr">I wait for it to wince,</p><p dir="ltr">And when it thinks its all over,</p><p dir="ltr">I ruthlessly poke on its wounds with the spatula,</p><p dir="ltr">And ensure equitable distribution of anguish by successfully turning it upside down.</p><p dir="ltr">Mission accomplished.</p><p dir="ltr">Life's a full circle.</p><br><p dir="ltr">Prabha Prakash</p><p dir="ltr">12th Oct 2023 </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-73815536376476919282023-09-25T20:11:00.001+05:302023-09-25T20:11:43.740+05:30Haiku<div>My thoughts weave a cobweb</div><div>And I slide one point to another</div><div>In an eternal spiral ride.</div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-23158882828465109012023-08-13T20:16:00.002+05:302023-08-13T20:18:57.131+05:30Ordinary <div>Did I say I am bored of monotony?</div><div>Nah! I think I was wrong.</div><div>Sometimes, it's just the routine that I crave- the normalcy, the comfort of the known, the ease of structure...</div><div>Knowing what happens exactly when the clock strikes what,</div><div>Knowing when the rays of the sun fall on the right side of my sofa through the window,</div><div>When the uncle on the cycle rings the bell twice with the milk bottle,</div><div>Guessing who is at the door without looking up- knowing how each one opens the iron door that creaks without oil- the gentle and mind ones, the haphazard ones, lazy ones and the meticulous ones,</div><div>How the early morning coffee smells differently from the afternoon one,</div><div>How the swing in the drawing room sways to and fro and knowing exactly when the motion will stop and when it will hit the ones passing by,</div><div>Living in the comfort of predictable patterns of existing and ranting and existing</div><div>Sometimes, ordinary is luxury.</div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>13.07.2023</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-6449619438598228222022-12-31T23:48:00.001+05:302022-12-31T23:50:29.184+05:30Happy New Year 2023!<div>May this new year gift you</div><div>Brightest mornings</div><div>Real laughters</div><div>Deep conversations</div><div>Lots of chai and masala dosas</div><div>Relaxed deadlines</div><div>Unexpected holidays</div><div>Long weekends</div><div>On-time travel</div><div>Sound sleep</div><div>Stargazing nights </div><div>Mesmerising travel where you forget to click pictures</div><div>Early arrivals</div><div>Luck with tatkal tickets</div><div>The luxury to hit the snooze button thrice every morning</div><div>Cozy blankets on wintry nights</div><div>Glorious sunsets</div><div>Impromptu trips</div><div>Unplanned catch ups</div><div>Surprise visits</div><div>New friends</div><div>Moments with yourself.</div><div><br></div><div>HAPPY NEW YEAR 2023!!!</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-19116208080665212722022-11-26T21:09:00.001+05:302022-11-26T21:09:43.847+05:30Dosa on the tawa Vs Dosa in the casserole<div>Dosa on the tawa Vs Dosa in the casserole-</div><div><br></div><div>That's the analogy my teacher used to point out my inclination towards the new lessons, vis-à-vis the older ones. Building on it, I felt how true that is, in a broader sense, with respect to our proclivity to anything new for that matter- Be it our latest shopping haul, a new found habit,new books, newspapers,new acquaintances, apps or skills-introduction to anything new- that gives us a fresh perspective, however transient that may be. The erstwhile interesting matters would have already got archived within their short shelf lives, as the ideas labelled "new" await their untimely expiry with dread.</div><div><br></div><div>As we move ahead in this fast paced world, stillness looks alien to us and we keep pushing things behind to make space for the new.But there is a sort of beauty in rusticity, in old world charm, yellowed leaves,forgotten snippets, discoloured pages and faded letters. And an unparalleled sense of fulfilment in dusting our memory, sneezing with the tiny particles of forgotten things, nudging the mind to recollect what it conveniently overlooked so fast. Even though we might be tempted to demand for the "choodu dosa" like Suraj in "The Great Indian Kitchen", may be the dosa awaiting us in the casserole deserves our attention too.</div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>26th Nov 2022</div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-48872506497395519972022-11-25T23:56:00.001+05:302022-11-25T23:56:19.465+05:30Midnight Musings<div>Aren't we all in this journey together,</div><div>With the hope that, one day, eventually,</div><div>Everything will fall into place,</div><div>And the jigsaw puzzle will magically fit in,</div><div>As all the question marks miraculously transform into connecting dots...</div><div>But what if there is no such thing as falling into place,</div><div>And obscured images, incomplete analyses and muffled answers are the thing?</div><div>What if we are really where we are exactly supposed to be, in this moment, one of consciousness and nothing else?</div><div>#Midnightmusings</div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>25th Nov 2022 </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-37241948773846895932022-10-16T20:15:00.001+05:302022-10-16T20:15:25.755+05:30Self acceptance <div>Choose moments of conscious self acceptance.</div><div>Allow it to pass through you-</div><div>The warmth that spreads to the length and breadth of oneself,</div><div>Generously,</div><div>Without inhibitions,</div><div>Without apprehension.</div><div>Embrace the wholeness of your being-the eternally underemphasized act of being kind to yourself,</div><div>Letting go of the imperfections,</div><div>Forgiving yourself for being vulnerable,</div><div>Applauding your resilient self for it's patience that put up with the incessant rants and tantrums of your mind,</div><div>Allowing your heart to swell with pride, thinking of the innumerable times you didn't give up on yourself,</div><div>Acknowledging your little bits of progress, however staggered and skewed they may be,</div><div>And for surviving through all the mess in your head,every single day.🌼</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-76183444000849692632022-08-19T20:27:00.001+05:302022-08-19T20:27:17.659+05:30Stalemate<div>Oft, I offer the privilege of my ruminations to wasteful thoughts,</div><div>I allow them to dwell on my head during lazy afternoons with half open eyes and snuggled torso.</div><div>And then I allow them to wander,</div><div>Ranting about cold and indifferent stares,</div><div>Hesitant smiles resulting from exhausted efforts of forming an acceptable curvature with stiffened lips,</div><div>Plastic pleasantries that never have the courage to graduate to conversations, and</div><div>All those laboured acts of enforced kindness and generosity, with a futile attempt at pacifying a fragile ego.</div><div>I suddenly realise that the critical analyis is indeed something that I have witnessed everywhere,</div><div>Amidst neighbours, aquaintances, kith and kin,</div><div>Mornings and evenings,</div><div>On routine and on occasions.</div><div>It starts pricking me and the bitterness gets deep.</div><div>And before these little minions start expanding their territory on my brain,</div><div>I find the eternal saviour sans airs</div><div>Blowing her magical wand</div><div>Inviting me to a perfect siesta.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>19 August 2022</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-55272674867843743982022-08-02T08:39:00.001+05:302022-08-02T08:39:21.208+05:30Thoughts<div>When my thoughts overflow and invade the length and breadth of my home,</div><div>pacing fast like waves greedy of conquering space,</div><div>Bits and pieces of me go with them,</div><div>Following their path, merging into them,</div><div>Some evaporate into thin air, glad at their newfound freedom,</div><div>Some give up their identity and accept the metamorphosis for survival,</div><div>A few remain loyal faithfully-</div><div>They stay around me,</div><div>Echoing my emotions and resonating my ideas,</div><div>Throwing my own words at me,</div><div>Sprinkling little versions of myself on me,</div><div>As my home houses them gladly-</div><div>Thoughts that my mind found too heavy to carry.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>02.08.2022</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-12373899626477248082022-04-27T15:28:00.001+05:302022-04-27T15:28:22.716+05:30Hope<div>And hope within a deep, dark grave is laid.</div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes the messed up thoughts leave way to a spiral,</div><div>Intertwined thoughts like a bundle of wool,</div><div>Tied so tight without the space to breathe,</div><div>Entangling and suffocating each other,</div><div>Interspersing and intruding into one another's ideas.</div><div>Weaker ones fade away,</div><div>Smarter ones survive,</div><div>Bits and pieces of memories</div><div>Shatter and lay, to be stamped upon,</div><div>To become one with the soil,</div><div>One with the earth,</div><div>One with the grave,</div><div>As tiny tinges of hope laid within a deep, dark grave.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>26.04.2022</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-1614755293731609502022-04-11T23:11:00.001+05:302022-04-11T23:11:38.586+05:30Ekphrastic poem<div>Ekphrastic poem</div><div><br></div><div>It's time to shake off your head, my girl!</div><div>Let the striped box that houses your beautiful face</div><div>Fall down and break into pieces</div><div>As your ears dance in joy at the clinking sound.</div><div><br></div><div>It's time to let your hands loose</div><div>As it sways at the air of freedom!</div><div><br></div><div>Stand up for yourself now!</div><div>Enough of the sitting that you did!</div><div><br></div><div>Walk around and own your day my girl!</div><div>Let the eyebrows twist</div><div>Let the jaws drop</div><div>And let the eyeballs circle round</div><div>As your magical face sparkles with joy.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>11.04.2022</div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-24409491808701428642022-04-10T20:56:00.001+05:302022-04-10T20:56:20.719+05:30A Sedoka <div>A Sedoka</div><div><br></div><div>Call:</div><div>Tell me what you want</div><div>For these are my sweet favours</div><div>Bring it on my love!</div><div><br></div><div>Response:</div><div>All that you can do</div><div>With pen and a mighty sword</div><div>Kill it for me now!</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>10.04.2022</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-19670440547351340432022-04-09T20:32:00.001+05:302022-04-09T20:32:07.204+05:30A world without time<div>A world without time</div><div><br></div><div>How I wish the day extends</div><div>Without demarcating itself to tomorrow</div><div>Flowing perennially sans hurries</div><div>Slipping into eternal continuity of existence.</div><div><br></div><div>Embracing an uninterrupted line without fullstops and semicolons</div><div>With unparalleled freedom</div><div>Unbound by limits</div><div>To sway endlessly</div><div>Bereft of the ticking behind my neck.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>09.04.2022</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-13006115478217510152022-04-08T12:20:00.001+05:302022-04-08T12:20:50.544+05:30Goodbye<div>Goodbye</div><div><br></div><div>It's not a goodbye, I said when I left.</div><div>With half finished conversations,</div><div>Unchecked to-do lists</div><div>And unexplored territories.</div><div><br></div><div>It wasn't a goodbye.</div><div>I came back, to finish what I left,</div><div>To sit and dwell in memories</div><div>In hope of grabbing back the past.</div><div><br></div><div>This time, I was on the other side.</div><div>Waving goodbyes to them,</div><div>One after another</div><div>As I sat cuddled with my yesterdays.</div><div><br></div><div>Just like this unfinished poem,</div><div>I leave parts of myself with the bygone days</div><div>In an attempt to end my obsession with what's passed</div><div>And my tryst with saturation.</div><div><br></div><div>Goodbye is a coin that holds welcome on its back.</div><div>So why not flip it once?</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>08.04.2022</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-88618743097839383642022-04-05T19:30:00.001+05:302022-04-05T19:30:23.463+05:30Shape Poem <div>Napowrimo Day 5</div><div>Shape poem</div><div><br></div><div>Sometimes I feel expansiveness stops</div><div>And I start shrinking within myself</div><div>So much that I am already</div><div>Contracted</div><div>Squeezed</div><div>Taking</div><div>Exit</div><div>Into</div><div>Me.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>05.04.2022</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4019586142646060601.post-2758403754809052132022-04-04T08:45:00.001+05:302022-04-04T08:45:08.714+05:30Kitchen spices<div>Napowrimo Day 4</div><div>Kitchen spices</div><div><br></div><div>Everyday I find them ceaselessly eager</div><div>Finding variety in monotony-</div><div>Mustards spluttering once for sambhar, then again for the thoran,</div><div>Next day for the pachadi</div><div>And again for the pulissery.</div><div>Fenugreek, peppercorns, coriander with their friends who add hues of yellow and red-</div><div>They wait with enviable drive,</div><div>Not like us who complain of the absence of novelty.</div><div>They dwell in my mother's antique spicebox,</div><div>happy within their compartments -</div><div>sometimes spilling over one another in minor quantities just to nudge but not to interfere-</div><div>Teaching us lessons of space and harmonious coexistence.</div><div><br></div><div>Prabha Prakash</div><div>04.04.2022</div><div><br></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0