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Poetry Month: SUMMER


Summer is here, and so is the discomfort.

The days are longer than they need to be,

The bugs are every where they shouldn't be,

Everything is feeding on everything,

Bees on flowers,

Birds on worms,

Strays on roadside treats,

The mind on memories.

There is something excessive about summer,

She is vulgar in her display of love,

She is gaudy in her appreciation of herself.

In every gesture she makes,

She is a mess, and she revels in it.

Summer is everything a woman can be

Once she stops worrying

About the inconvenience

She might be causing the world.



They’re saying Summer is here, but

I still fear I’ll catch a cold. April’s still waiting outside the door. Nights have stolen siestas from afternoons. my eyes are still to see the amaltas bloom


my room has never smelt more of me before, and my cotton kurtas more of my wardrobe. my bookshelves have been cleaned for the umpteenth time today. umpteenth video calls made in between. it’s a Summer after all

some stories would need to be told.


5 year old me, sixteen, twenty three,

didn’t know, a spring would die

un- romanticised so that a summer could live aloof.


In summer mornings, mists have fewer options.

The still doom in the trees stops its swirling,

and light balances precariously on the leaves.

The birds know it's airy enough to see

the blue skies as easels for random strokes.

It's too early for heat to claim hegemony,

but murmurs abound amongst bees

as they gossip about nectar with flowers.

That's the calm before the hard sun.

The afternoons show no mercy.

All truths are revealed,

and there is an unprovoked assault on good men -

summer forces out truths, to the dismay

of those unaccustomed to mirrors.

It is hot and sticky,

nobody can hold anything inside,

the clothes are thin,

and the heat in the body seeks release.

There is something about the steely fire in the air,

which erupts into tales of helpless lust,

and street corners and dark rooms,

neighbors and countries, loose control.

Crimes of passion abound.

Summer noons are desperate for evenings.

The day sidles into its softest avatar.

Children pour out like emotions in a protest march.

The parks are filled with the kindest sounds -

a girl laughing with a friend,

a boy calling out for a pass.

The roads fill, and the trams trundle slowly,

a man presses against a woman,

and she just let's him:

there is something about being human

and letting small indiscretions be.

The day trudges its way through

drudgery and magic,

tired souls passing through skies

playing an orchestra with colors.

Summers are always mercurial,

and even as the days end unreconciled,

there is music and noise

which keep the world aroused

deep into the night.

There is a balancing which somehow

brings nature and man into

a criminal reconciliation.

We all become creatures of a season.


for the longest 

lonely days, I have

sustained a melody

that keeps ringing

in the sky;

a thought has bubbled

in the corner of my

mouth, and the words

drool off in the

middle of a night.

the summer 

remembers my 

memory, somewhere

lost behind my


and I wonder

what the truth

might be,

but I may

have spoken the 

truth in my 



I’ll remember it as the summer of death.

The news so overwhelmingly real

One could almost smell death

Through the screen.

I’ll remember the countless evenings

Spent alone on my balcony.

The stillness outside,

The turbulence within.

I’ll remember the unsung heroes,

Leaving their families and lovers

So we can live another day

With ours.

I’ll remember the fear and loneliness

The coming undone,

The piecing back.

I’ll remember it as the summer of death,

When humanity came alive.



Cascading pink and white


Homemade papadums

Laid out on the terrace to dry.

Prickly heat, matka-cool water

and scorching bright light.


When we tiptoed to play

Chorpolice, pandi, saklitooli.

Until we lay panting under the

Lacy shade of the tamarind tree.

While back in the colony under

Fans kirkirring away

Paatis and tataas drunk

With the heat, snoring gently

Gripped under the siesta's sway.

Cotton sarees

Soaked underarms

Rivulets of sweat

running down.

Golas, dry taps and water

stored in drums.

Sucking mangoes,

gnawing at the stone

Lazing flies, stray dogs alone.

The white hot sun

Breathless nights that

leave you wrung.

Summers in India

Are parched, unforgiving.

Waiting endlessly for

the first sign of rain

Until it comes.

Then we'll romanticize

Something else again.



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