Poetry: Abha Iyengar

Abha Iyengar

Abha Iyengar is an award-winning, internationally published poet, author, editor, and British-Council-certified Creative Writing mentor. She has eight published books to her credit, and her collection of poems is titled, “Yearnings”.  Her poems have been included in various journals and anthologies, most recently Sahitya Akademi’s, “The Lie of the Land” (2020), Red Rivers' "The Shape Of A Poem" (2021) and "Witness: Red River's Poetry of Dissent" (2021). She was longlisted for the WE- Kamala Das Poetry Award '20. Website: www.abhaiyengar.com

This Precious Time

Mother, my brother of another mother

Has sent you asafoetida from his town

Of Dehradun. 

Mother, you need to use it.

Crush the granules and release the smell

Let it infuse the sambhar and the bhindi.

Let it enter your pores through your hands

Surround you and not go away for 

A long time. 

It’s like the smell of love,

Lingering forever much after the person

Who brings it to you

Fades away from your life. 

Let it stay,

It is strong and powerful and full of life.

A reminder of this precious time.

*****

Dry Matter

I am attracted to dry things now.

A crisp leaf on dry sand

Nothing fluid here, 

no water in the substance

Just something that remains.

Black grains mix with brown grains.

Sand.

The pale brown leaf lies on top. 

A woman sunning herself 

beyond the pale, will never return

to green, never return to pliable.

Will survive as whole

Or break into dry dust

If required to mix.

Leaf.

On the side a wooden spoon,

Crafted by an unknown hand

Another shade of brown

From the same natural materials

Cannot mix, will never mix.

It is hard, unyielding,

Can scoop sand.

Can scoop leaf.

Can throw both back 

in different forms

Mixed and broken.

Will survive, holding 

or withholding.

Wood.

Dry things show a different face,

Granular, crisp, hard, is good.

I am drawn to dry matter.

*****

Raindrops

Hunched shoulders at bus stops

A girl at the paan shop plays 

With a lighter

A man in bright blue shirt 

and mustard pants 

Holds his car keys tight and

coughs loose into the air

There is the threat of rain.

A boy plays with his mobile

A lady taps tobacco into her palm

Indifferent to the stares

She is used to it, she's pretty.

And chews tobacco, 

Her teeth are not so pretty.

Graffiti on the sidewalk wall

A number in black, 

‘To stop termites, call Deepak,’ 

That will suffice.

A cyclist wheels past

Enjoying the fresh air

For it also rained last night 

When everyone lay 

In bed, oblivious to the swelling

of the sky.

But now they wait at bus stops

Bracing against the chill

Coughing, lighting a small

Flame from a lighter,

It's play, but also

An unconscious seeking of warmth

The cyclist pedals on

As a few drops fall

gentle and still soft.

Hard, a man slaps an errant child

Half naked and crying,

The wails increase

The rain falls harder

Everyone scrambles for shelter

Not the naked child and

that girl with the lighter.

They look at each other.

A slow smile spreads for the rain. 

They open their hands

out and twirl their fingers

Feeling the falling water.

Magnolia flowers drip wet

from a nearby tree.

*****

A Cup of Tea

Today I am making

Just a cup of tea.

Not green, not camomile, 

Nothing restful.

I am making masala chai

Which to many may seem

An exciting of their senses.

It is spicy, aromatic,

Dark made light with milk,

Mixed, nothing pure about it,

And cooked a lot on the fire

To mix some more before

All things that made it happen are

Filtered out,

The tea leaves, thick and brown

The cardamom green and small,

The cinnamon stick, long and light

The star anise, I know, not used,

But I use it. 

The black eye of the

Peppercorn stares back at me. 

Why throw me out with the rest,

it seems to question.

And yet despite the filtering,

Everything remains, mixed

And hybrid. Masala chai.

You cannot call it pure,

this spicy, heady concoction.

It’s just my cup of tea.

*****

---

Setu, May 2025