Pondering over Seasons

The seasons seem to be in a crisis
Latecomers don’t want to leave.
The Spring sprang like a surprise
But soon started to pant and heave.

The Summer was all powerful
Blazing rays with burning breeze
Even the puffed up clouds got thirsty
And the Earth cracked with unease.

The Rain came shying gingerly later
We found a little respite from the heat
Until so many States were flooded
Submerging every home and street

November has just set foot
The air is little moist and dense
The Sun sets earlier than before
Tendrils have covered the fence.

The year-end is not too far
Vacation plans are all done
No fall colors but bright lights here
Autumn’s festive dance has begun

Kids are waiting for December
Who doesn’t like the Winter Vacation?
A week’s outing can do no harm
No Office, no School – only relaxation!

Do Seasons comprise a Year
or a Year is made up of Seasons?
Sitting by the window on a November night
I ponder and search for reasons.



© Taruchaya

Moulded out of mud,
an ideal idol is made.
One to be worshipped.
One who never gets scared.
Vibrant and heavenly,
decorated with stones.
Adorned by floral garlands,
earthen flesh and bones.
The diety stood tall
over the high wooden plank.
Worshippers thronged the place-
folded hands & eyes blank.
The festivities came to an end.
The crowd dispersed gradually.
The idol stood still and quiet,
then it is brought down eventually.
The garland flowers have dried now.
Fake ornaments have been taken off.
The earthen idol is woefully abandoned
by the roadside, after a few hours.
There.. on the earth the earthen idol stands,
looking lonely and pale.
Staring at apathetic passersby…
silently telling its sad tale.

© Taruchaya



The tiles are getting slippery
Tread lightly, they said
The water diluted by continuous rain
Floating leaves- some brown, some red

I see the pool from my window-
the rain-fed chaos on the surface
Water dancing on water
splashing all over the place

And when this dance is over,
the clouds scatter with a sigh
The sun yawns and stretches its limbs
gradually wetness begins to dry

The leaves drip liquid crystals
The buzz of the busy bees resume
The grass rejoices its muddy roots
while the mud spreads nostalgic perfume

So there goes my thoughts
on their usual haphazard way
Senses stirring my invisible soul
Painting words on a random day


We can’t change everything.
Things happen on their own way.
We can’t have sun blazing all night
or see the stars shining at day.

We can’t ask leaves to bloom
or the flowers to shed like leaves.
We can’t ask Winter to warm us
or Summer to wear woollen sleeves.

We can’t be happy when we’re sad
or laugh in intense pain.
Snow cannot fall from the scorching sun.
Moon can’t avoid its own wax and wane.

The birds shall always fly.
The winds shall always blow.
The leaves will always sway.
The clouds will wander slow.

And we shall watch in awe,
our evolution…our history.
The magnificent Cosmos we live in –
Nature’s ever-changing mystery.


We hate dust… don’t we?
Those little specs making us sneeze
as we inhale the regularity of mundane life.
And exhale the day that ended-
another one will follow in hours and minutes.
Wiping them off the study table
and the LED lamp dim with age.
Dust filling the gaps on the shelf
where books lay silently buried.
The creased bedsheet- a scene of chaos.
making the single child culprit,
as he jumped and played all evening
with imaginary friends and mute toys.
There’s dust on the windowsill
and the grill that barricades it.
The pool below glimmers in silence-
carrying dropped feathers and dead leaves.
The road outside is dusty too
treaded upon by countless people
Known or unknown faces- expressionless.
Always in a rush…like a routine or habit.
And then there’s dust that falls on memory
making moments hard to remember
Just hazy remnants to recall
Distant voices, dreams, smells or feelings.
Sometimes cringing at the familiarity
or craving the warmth of welcome arms.
When death erases every existence
what remains is only dust of memories.