For Her

She and I didn’t share the same nature of job.

I’ve known her but for some time now.

She and I never spoke anything

Except exchanged “Thank you”  

For the cup of tea she served me at work.

Today, unlike other days

She and I got into the lift together and were alone.

I smiled and fiddled with my phone

And she searched in her bag for chocolates

“You know, I work for myself and my past is not painful.”

“Happy Women’s Day, madam.”

Copyright © 2017, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar

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Privacy

privacy

Hiding behind the scene,

She hoped to remain unseen;

“Private I am and share not my mind.”

Her performance a dream;

Applause heard among scream;

“Private I am and save me my name.”

Who she is, mattered everywhere.

Who she truly is, mattered to none;

“My privacy is precious and I trade not.”

And thoughts conflicted

Between real and realm

In her sacred private space.

Copyright © 2017, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar

via Daily Prompt: Privacy

Float

Curtains fell and bottles rolled

I floated in thin air.

Sometimes mind revels in moments

And absent-mindedness gets an appraisal.

Copyright © 2017, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar

via Daily Prompt: Float

Daily Prompt: Echo

His words echoed,

“Trust yourself,”

When in doubt; but

Words rearranged,

“Doubt in when.”

Inane or obtuse?

Yet I heard voices,

Unheard before; and

Words rearranged,

I heard my echo.

Copyright © 2016, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar

via Daily Prompt: Echo

Daily Prompt: Vegetal

“Am not looking my best, but you will relish me, I promise.” My mind never stops talking when I am in the market and laying hands on the green vegetal. Often, it is the feel of it that, leads to visualisation of the dinner menu on the table.

The cabbages, carrots, bell peppers are always easy-to-pick. The green peas frozen and fresh pods are more of a decision because they differ in flavours when cooked. Deciding between celery and coriander is yet another task for most of my Indian cooking, especially the north Indian dishes, taste wonderful to a hint of coriander.

The spinach washed clean, green, tender, are always welcome. Yet, I have to replay the vegetal aroma to match the dishes. Without doubt, a dish of spinach that retains its original flavour is the most preferred these days.

That reminds, the selection I had to make from the assorted sprouts in packets.  A week into vacation, left me with little choice but to buy the ‘usual’ home germinated beans and pulses, and home-made yogurt.

However, in a local market the vendors do not place the name plates for the veges . With the global touch, the vegetable markets have an array of lettuce, broccoli, zucchini and such other foreign guests laid alongside the popular and the desi (local) collections. Guess, that is the first reason, why I had visited the net to learn about the vegetal.

Interestingly, the dictionary meaning turned into another search from vegetables, to vegetal characteristics of unripe grapes in wine, to vegetal cells in embryology.

Let time decide. My concern for the day is, dinner for two.

Daily Prompt – Vegetal

Copyright © 2016, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar

via Daily Prompt: Vegetal

Red

love

Single red rose.

Deep and dark,

Blood red.

Named Red Cross.

Heard me recite,

“The Sick Rose”.

Hybrid velvety red.

Marvelled life,

Pleasure’s mine.

Recalled Jung’s Red Book, but

My thoughts speculated,

“Who inspired William Blake?”

 

*Carl G Jung, psychologist and psychiatrist, recorded “exploration of his unconscious and his encounters with the works of many cultural figures” in a book that came to be famously called Jung’s  Red Book. It is said that “the format of the Red Book resembles the work of the British poet and painter William Blake (1757–1827), who also recorded dreams and visions in combined text and images and with whose work Jung had some familiarity.”

The Sick Rose is William Blake’s contribution to the world of literature.

Ref: https://www.loc.gov/exhibits/red-book-of-carl-jung/the-red-book-and-beyond.html

 

Copyright © 2016, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar

 

Questions…?

In the many unanswered questions of “why me”,
A mother who lost her son to time factor,
Left alone to fend for herself,
Couldn’t still hold herself responsible
For the miss calculations of life and dependence.

Expectations turn painful
While fear takes away the confidence;
Why blame anyone
She says, ” that’s my karma”
And her pain eases.

As she lies down to sleep,
All I could hear was a soft snore.

Copyright(c) 2016, Deeya Nayar-Nambiar