Poetry: Balesh Jindal

Dr. Balesh Jindal

She Cares

Soaking, scrubbing the collar clean till

her hands sorely sore,

Slogging, striving for clean floors and doors,

she rests not her aching back.

Folding, ironing the laundry and floundering,

finding her dreams.

She cares.

Sweaty in scorching summers, she labours for

delicious and digestible fare for the dinner table.

Pleasant and pleasing dinner conversations—she stays

up for

Swooshing, splashing, sluicing the pots till late,

Douching the drains while her family dozes.

She cares.

Her books lie suspended of life,

The paintbrushes, dry and droopy,

Her beautiful sarees lay like wilted wimps—

wretched wrens with wings whacked dead.

She smiles, glad and grateful for you, for

She cares.

I do not exist without her.

To paint, primp, preen is impossible

if she would not care.

I am my best for her—a writer, a doctor—

She willed it for me.

She cares.

***

Stars In My Kitchen

Its dusk I think, evening walkers strolling in style,

Women with pretty white flowers poised politely

In their hair,

Petulant girls pouting and flicking their flirty fronds,

At the besotted boys, barely in manhood.

I see the faintest stars, vainly, vanishing in the purple

Complacent, condescending sky, from my kitchen window.

The contented curry, bubbles my evening away,

The assertive aura of my kitchen, bothersome and

Burdensome. 

When did I embrace this kitchen as my own bristling battle!

How did this small space become this burning, 

Broiling, braising element, stifling my sanity!

My soppy, sticky skin soaked in sweat,

Waits for a cool summer that caresses and cares.

Flowers in my hair, flirting with the stars,

I wait for the wind that can whisk me 

Wide eyed, wondrous into a dreamy and delightful

Into a sky,

Blessed and blissful but all these

Pleasing dreams fade away as dinner sounds 

Permeate my being.

***

The Night Sky 

When the breeze caressed our faces

Upturned in the night.

My hand on his, I sat with my little 

Boy. Wondrous he looked above 

I can’t see the stars, he said, perplexed.

Look they are scattered pretty all

Over the sky, dotted bright like fireflies,

Like our home in Bharat, I said sadly.

Remembering my land, receding far now,

Faint, fumbling in distance but fresh in

My heart.

Oh but I can’t see them, he lamented,

Bewildered. 

I pointed at the dark grimy sky, heart reminiscing,

The curly smoke rising from the chimney, 

Of industry and home.

The maize fields that stretched, nailed to the 

Horizon. My mother sat in her crumpled saree,

Feeding me bites of hot roti, ladled with 

Ghee.

They are just behind the clouds, wait awhile, 

I chirped brightly gazing at the dark starless sky.

I could see his furrows deepening,

On his beloved face. I patted his hair tenderly,

Consternation writ on the small face. He had not seen 

The warmth of the Indian sky.

Look I can see one and another, and another..

Just behind the silver oak, look. Tears in my eyes.

Visions of the land where I grew up,

The sky is full of stars. You just need to look 

My dear.

He looked and he caught on my game. 

His face brightened,

Mama there it is, Mama, I can see the 

The sky is full of stars. 

***

I Need Freedom

They dressed me in pink when I asked for 

The khakis of my brother.

Dainty, satin bowed, distressful shoes

Chagrin me crimson. 

Large mortifying bows in my mess of a

Head. 

Humiliate me. 

Soft spoken words when I wanted to scream,

Quiet amputated smiles as I guffawed inside,

A graceful walk with short steps, as I craved to 

Jaunt a military walk.

Rolling in the mud, stained and soiled, I 

Wished to come home smudged and squalid.

How I wished I could. 

Back from work, to put my legs up

Watch TV, till my eyes teared up, I wish.

No one to call me to get the disgusting 

Dinner ready.

Dusty, dirty tables, disheveled kids,

Blackened, begrimed pots and kitchen,

Rumpled beds, cluttered life.

I wish for freedom from an organised life 

Thrust upon me.

***

When The Eyes Speak 

Her broken jaw hanging loose,

The face a reddish blue hue,

She sucked in her sobs and her

Sullied and sordid tears

For who had the time for them womanly things.

They, her family left her with me to treat

Without much money, they said.

What happened? I asked her.

She ran her hand on her disheveled hair

And smiled weakly.

Her eyes scanned my face silently even as I knew the wrath

Of her husband had seeked 

Revenge for his insecurities.

To beat up the wife is empowering,

The more the better, break her jaw,

Break her legs,

Burn her, kill the ugly witch.

She spoke not a word, but 

Her eyes said it all.

***

Bio: Dr. Balesh Jindal is a graduate of Lady Hardinge Medical College and has a medical practice for forty years. She wanted to study in London to become a pediatrician, yet found herself practicing in a village to fulfill her father’s dream. She has seen a country emerge from an underdeveloped economy to an emerging economy and has treated five generations of patients.

Dr. Jindal is frequently invited by Rotary clubs, schools, and colleges to preside over their literary festivals. Her accolades include being named one of the "100 Most Inspiring Women" by Fox Story. BBC.com featured an article titled "The Most Compassionate Day in the World."

https://www.bbc.com/news/business-28882749  

Other recognition include - 

• Delhi Medical Association Award for Exemplary Community Service (2023)
• Indian Medical Association Health Ambassador for Excellent Health Services (2024)
• The Day Of Compassion by Stanford University

Balesh’s artworks adorn the walls of art collectors in India and abroad. Her art has featured on the covers of leading design magazines and newspapers and accentuates the walls of many art collectors in India and abroad.

Publications

• Dear Father 
• The Reluctant Doctor 
• A Hundred Dreams
• Towards A Brighter Sky
• A False Sky, a collection

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Setu, August 2025