How I would describe India to a foreigner

Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh

To see a temple, church and mosque

on three parallel streets is no surprise,

Faith is an ocean here, flows in different forms,

has no death.

 

Tongues twirl in varied syllables,

to each language its own layered history, beauty and pronunciation,

yet, uncommon not, to spot a man with turban having a conversation

with a man in a casual shirt and veshti in a nearby market.

 

Classical Bharatanatyam of Tamilnadu to Kathakali of Kerala,

tribal Jagoi of Manipur to folk Bhangra of Punjab,

Andhra’s Kuchupidi or Orissa’s Kathak,

rhythmic bodies, waltzing feet, swaying eyes;

each dance form a bead in a common string of art,

spilling hundreds of stories of

devotion, celebration and tradition.

 

Do not be surprised by that fan-boy moment

of watching the first-day-first-show of their favourite hero

in Bollywood, Kollywood or Tollywood, whistling with puckered lips,

it’s but the pride from victory of having meandered through a

jelly-like squeezing crowd,

and still to go,

be not surprised either by the mad mob

making it to the cricket stadium, sitting on the edge-of the-seat, curious eyes dance

between rhythms of the ball and the bat;

in contrast, stray dogs zigzag between

swaying thighs of young boys playing street cricket.

 

The ancient architecture through lustrous marbles of the Taj Mahal,

the gleaming granite of Tanjore’s big temple,

intricate rock-cutting archaeological

sculptures of Ajanta and Ellora caves, the electrifying ambience of palaces in

Jaipur,

in each structure, pearl-sweat of artistic masons;

 

the land of Aryabhatta, Kalidasa, Tenali Rama, Shivaji, Rani Lakshmi Bai,

Gandhi, Tagore, an amalgamation of the wise, scholarly, creative, literary

and the brave;

 

Kashmir’s salty-sweet pulao from houseboats on Dal lake in the north imbuing

with caramel-brown dosas of the South mirroring their topography,

Delhi chaat reflecting life’s experiences with bitter-sweet-salty-tangy chutneys

and the aroma of Assam tea in the north-east mingling with the softness of

shimmering full-moon rasagullas glimmering in the sky of sugary syrups in Bengal

in the east,

intertwining with them the heady fragrance of Coorg’s coffee enroute the beaches

of Andaman, navigating through the Malabar coast to Gujarat’s dhokla and

Mumbai’s Dabeli in the West,

this is India for you.

 

Rickshaws on rustic roads, autos on suburbs, feet-hanging-down-to the-ground

commuters on public buses; colliding shoulders of strangers running to switch

trains in those rush-hour mornings and evenings; street vendors at the entrance of

malls; the unique life of sages near the Ganges;

 

where marriage is not a conjunction of two souls, but a bonding of two families,

where despite domestic differences and dissimilar political ideologies,

from Kohima border to Konkan coast and the freezing cold of Gangtok to the

perspiring heat of Kanyakumari,

soldiers guard the nation for that one common

anthem, one tri-colour flag, one proud country called India.

 

Bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, literary critic, and a former copy editor. She is an Indian currently residing in Canada and is the recipient of Reuel Internation Prize for Poetry with an honourable mention, Poiesis Award International for excellence in poetry and the critic of the year for 2023 and 2024 in Destiny Poets, Wakefield, UK. Her debut poetry book, Autumn in America and other poems has been critically acclaimed.

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Setu, August 2025

The King of the Crickets Had It by Santosh Bakaya

The King of the crickets Had it

Santosh Bakaya

ISBN 978-93-6095-689-9

Authors Press, New Delhi, 2024

Pp, 100

₹ 295/ $ 25

 

Reviewed by Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh

Dr. Santosh Bakaya needs no introduction in the contemporary literary world. Enthusiastically expressing her thoughts through collection after collection of poetry books, she is astonishingly awesome in being prolific. Here is another exquisite book in her signature style- “The king of the crickets had it.”

In her introductory page, she says most of the poems were penned during the pandemic, when the world experienced never-before-such-a-scenario. Therefore, in the first section titled “Voices,” she begins with the sound of crickets echoing in the night amidst all the loneliness, and choking voices resulting from the void of emptiness engulfing humans, slowly progressing to the sinking “ship” in the poem “Bitter Taste” from the section “As Idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean,” where, by ship, she means life as a metaphor, and her very own one at that. She writes,

“I had Dreams. But then many had dreams.

Dreams can be no solace in such a nightmarish scenario.

……….

Martin Luther King Jr. too had a dream, still unrealized.

Will my dream dry up like a raisin in the sun?

…………..

Where was the sun? A storm was in the offing.

The water kept rising………..

Was the ship plunging into a chasm?”

Her eloquence in alluding to Langston Hughes and Martin Luther King and the helplessness of unfulfilled dreams in a pathetic plight of reality is applaudable, the result of which is this beauty of a poem, which is poignantly powerful and deftly immaculate, and by bitter taste she means not just the bitterness of the tongue of a feverish body, but the bitter taste of life itself, arising from parameters beyond her control, which finally relishes sweetness through the birth of this poem.

“A Delectable Detour” from the section, “The Tremor and the Tumult” is indeed, as the name suggests, a detour to the world of nostalgia, where she fondly recalls her “disciplinarian dad” in her ancestral house, overlooking the flowing ebbs of the Jhelum river. She recalls of delicious pancakes for breakfast and chocolate fudges, but what is impressive is her play around the words of Dicken’s novels, “Great Expectations” and “Hard times.” She pens,

“sadly eyeing Great Expectations, long fallen,

face down on Hard times.”

Dr. Bakaya is known for her naughtiness as a child, evident from her earlier collections, but here, I marvel at her brilliant wordplay. Hard times of humans and Great expectations for a better future [?] An effortless pun, if I am interpreting it right! The poem “Toothless glee” reminds me of a poem of hers in another collection, “Fractured reality” from “Sunset in a cup”- similar in its subtle approach towards ageing and love in old age, which makes me think if she is drawing connections between empty nest syndrome and the solitary gloom of pandemic times. In this section, the word night is frequently used, both as a metaphor and in its literal sense, to add emphasis on the dark times, I presume. Many poems in this section leave a lingering memory, “The girl with the stack of wood” and “The sad sparrow” in particular delve on powerful topics of the basic need of food and ecological responsibility or the lack of it, causing sparrows to dwindle in numbers. “The soldier has come”- which she says is inspired by the painting “Homecoming” by Norman Rockwell- strikes from a different angle in the end, making one ponder with this question- “Why war, why not peace?” “I am thirsty, mom” is also an unforgettable poem, haunting, hinting, in fact, about the next big war being that for water.

In the section “Ramblings,” “The frail strength of an aging man” has a gracefully mellow approach in its tone and is a mixture of compassion, inspiration and the blatant truth of mortality of man and immortality of time. On the contrary, “The notes perched on butterfly wings” is a pleasant one, a recall of the past, brimming with nostalgia, the beauty of childhood, yearning for that juvenile joy with catchy onomatopoeic lines,

“Unfazed, we continued to hum, banging, clanging, 

dangling and hanging from those trees of childhood, 

their leaves crackling with anxiety.”

In her poem, “On my virtual wall,” virtual reality is captured through daffodils dancing on her friend’s virtual wall, the fragrance of bougainvillea from another’s when social distancing was the norm, but the take away for today as one reflects nearly five years later is that we, as humans, should remind ourselves that at a time when breathing was a blessing, we understood not to take things for granted; it is only wise on our part that we adhere to love and peace forever, unmasking hatred, which also happens to be a theme in disguise not just in this collection, but Bakaya’s others as well.

The dominant subject of this entire collection is the abominable aura of a world hit by covid, but in silence, she seeks for a voice, a voice suffocated and throttled not just by a virulent virus, but one that has been suppressed by other factors in general, in a broader sense, thereby doing her job as a poet, hence the title from a line in Federico Garcia Lorca’s “The Little Mute Boy.” 

Undoubtedly, many literary devices have been used, layers of metaphors, excellent use of alliterations as in “Wicked whorls of whimsical, wheezing warriors” and “Blustery butterflies flitted around, flaunting flamboyant hues” [Barricaded no more], onomatopoeia (mentioned earlier too) apart from this one- “But it was yakking away – yak…Yak… yak …”[ A growl, a Yelp] and allusions to works of many writers like Dickens, Noami, Langston Hughes, Mary Oliver, etc. The use of language is copiously rich, though I am not surprised by it, having read her earlier collections.

There’s a column of her interview with Maria Miraglia in the concluding pages of this book, which is a unique initiative of exposing more of her thoughts in a poetry collection, this is the second of its kind if I am not mistaken, the previous one being from another collection. In it, she mentions about the wall Frost talks about, and how she perceives poetry as a powerful medium sans boundaries. She recalls that she started penning poems from class six, inspired by a girl in her class, and I take this opportunity to congratulate that now-grown-up-girl who knowingly or unknowingly introduced to the world a poet, who has been unstoppable ever since, and Maria Miraglia for evincing it out from Bakaya. Let her voice be heard more and more!

I can’t but conclude without mentioning about three different blurbs of three literary personalities, Dr. Lakshmi Kannan on the front cover and Dr. Koshy and Poet Laureate Richard Doiron on the back, each with their own perceptions of this book, but the common thread being appreciation for her splendid diction, which I wholeheartedly agree. The cover is blue, beautiful and expansive, mirroring her thoughts in this collection. AuthorsPress and Santosh Bakaya have become a wonderful combination and I wish them both success in their future endeavours as well.

Reviewer bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, reviewer, literary critic and a former copy editor. Her debut poetry book- “Autumn in America and other poems” has been critically acclaimed. She is the recipient of Reuel International Prize for Poetry with an honourable mention and Poiesis Award International for excellence in poetry (Xpress Publications).

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Setu, March 2025

“Sunset in a cup” by Santosh Bakaya

Sunset in a cup

Santosh Bakaya

ISBN 978-93-6095-458-1
AUTHORS PRESS,
New Delhi, 2024, PP 133

Reviewed By BrindhaVinodh

“Sunset in a cup” is yet another beautiful collection of poems by Dr. Santosh Bakaya, who has already carved a niche for herself in the contemporary literary world.

She has this unique and inimitable knack of drawing inspiration from life around her, be it the squirrels, rabbits, birds, trees, and all things natural: breeze, rivers, clouds, the sky, thereby uplifting human spirits, and it is this beauty of exploring and drawing simple joys out of them that makes her voice delicately nuanced.

In many of her poems, the tone is optimistic, instilling hope and rejuvenation to our lives, often filled with the drudgery of everyday activities, but then, she doesn’t limit herself to that alone, her deft acumen in observing life’s different shades is conspicuously evident as one reads through the collection in an in-depth manner.

Let me begin with a few lines from the poem, “The Vagrant Sunbeam,” mellow in its tone, scintillating in its approach, and yet, celebrates freedom in the most simplest form.

“Ah, a drop of golden ray also falls on the lady’s face.
I gape as she stretches her arms and legs, breaking
 into a languid smile. Her hair tucked back into a bun,
touched by the sun, breaks loose.
 It is as if an invisible noose around her neck has loosened.
Her body trembles with the euphoria of liberation. Her eyes glow.”

In the poem, “The cloud,” she elucidates on the theme and spirit of love in her uniquely vehement voice, but not before hitting hard with a powerful refrain, thereby juxtaposing, a timely reminder to human beings, who have a lot to learn from the avian community. To quote a few lines from it,

“Under the blue sky, a sunbird hopped from bush to bush,
and a Koel trilled from the neem tree, hidden.
A couple of doves cooed, watching a robin leave a few
musical notes on the lantana hedge. Was it a deliberate
gesture of love? An effort to bait its elusive mate?

Life was a celebration, why all this hate?”

“A Fractured reality” is a poem wherein she effortlessly pens about the emotions of an old couple on a bench, the memories they share, carved in their younger days, the secret moments they enjoyed beneath the bushes and the enjoyable recollections of simple but truly amazing, sweet-nothings in the aura of natural surroundings. Yet, touching as touching can be, the inevitable truth and reality of life fading like sunlight at the end of a day, is captured in a poignant manner. It isn’t an exaggeration when I say that this particular poem, for sure, strikes a poignantly emotional chord somewhere within. Here are a few lines from it:

“A very old couple sitting on a bench,

………………………………..

Do they remember those stolen kisses,
the furtive glances, those naughty twinkles
before the wrinkles came?

Hand in gnarled hand, they walk.
An eye fixed on the ticking clock. 

Tick - tock - tick - tock.

……….. The Monarch butterfly sits on the shrub
and the man tells her how it had perched on her shoulder,
long- long back, with the same ardour. They both smile.”

This is where she proves her versatility and evokes the reader’s senses with a plethora of emotions from the natural environment- joy, hope, love, longing, and inherent sadness.

Sometimes, she evinces the fear of the subconscious mind, the mysterious merging of realism and hallucination, the psychic experience, and it is clear she enjoys writing on this, as can be interpreted from these verses from the poem, “This happened last night”

“Yes, she was still there,
wearing anklets.
I could hear them singing- chiming,
miming the sound of raindrops…

Hoo-----Hoo----hooted the owl.
Hoo is singing? Hoo Hoo Hoo-
tell me tell me … Hoo?

There are many poems in this collection that make us traverse through thoughts to make the bridge of humanity remain strong and solid, not to be broken, for our own good, appealing lines that make us have a peek into the appalling sense of gloom causing unnecessary hatred among humans, by humans. Time and again, she has been delving deep into these topics to make herself more emphatic, and it is apparently evident that she is clear in her approach to conveying the message, a cry from within, expressing anguish and anxiety, arising from compassion.

 “The smell of nostalgia” is also a memorable poem, evocative and reflective, written in an exquisite tone and mood, in her signature style.

Her vocabulary is rich, diverse, and extensive in its usage, and those familiar with some of her previous collections will not be surprised if they are enthralled and enraptured by her penchant for alliterations and onomatopoeia. The imagery is as usual, vivid, vast, and startling.

The afterword by Dr. Ampat Koshy, an academician, poet, writer, and literary critic in his own right, wonderfully, widely, and eruditely captures the essence of the collection. Succinct is the word I would use for the beautiful blurb written by Henry L. Jones.

The picture by Tom Thrun that forms the cover of the book is stunning and mesmerizing. Kudos to Authorpress for yet another great publication.

 ***

Reviewer bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, literary critic, online tutor and a former copyeditor.

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Setu, June 2024

Summer 2024: Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh

Summer

The sun is the king of the empire of Summer.

In the red of his wrath, citizen-leaves go to slumber,

wrapping green blankets languidly.

Most citizen-animals and birds quench their thirst, tolerating

his heated-fury, hydrating themselves at an unusually high level.

So is with citizen-humans, 

sweltering, sweating, shedding some salt, 

spilling syllables cursing the king sometimes.

Ah! Does the king listen to those curses?

Do they reach his ears? 

For suddenly, he subdues his wrath,

becomes mild, mellow, 

gleaming in vibrant yellow

and happy citizens praise him in their own unique ways,

sweet chirpings, bleats, barks, roars,

the dancing tongues of humans, hailing the king.

***

Of Childhood and Summer

Those were days,

childhood as transparent as Summer.

Mornings would tiptoe quietly,

how nice of them to not disturb

me on non-school days.

Time was a lazy boy,

his pace as lazy as a cuckoo refusing to build a nest

and laying eggs on another bird’s built-home.

The wind would hum a slow song,

my uncombed hair would dance along,

and sparrows and mynahs would join,

Oh yes, how can I forget the crows?

Soon, a symphony of sorts,

the chugged baritones of trains in between

and the sky in its hue of a mixture of cerulean and sapphire blue

would look like a dry desert,

inducing a gastronomical urging to eat a dessert,

ah! would Amma do that?

No, and a strict no. Dessert in the morning was a strict no,

but in the evenings, yes, 

her coaxing yet strong voice from the terrace

while sun-drying home-made fritters

would reach my ears, knowing well she cared about my health.

I would quietly continue my laziness, 

and so would that lazy boy, time, 

until the sun mellowed 

and hurray! gatherings of neighborhood friends on the surface of the parched earth,

gatherings of birds on the parched sky, still that mixture of cerulean and sapphire blue,

temple bells melodiously ringing, devotees divinely singing,

neem flowers beginning to spread their smooth exuberance,

jasmines smiling with sparkling white teeth all around,

hibiscuses chuckling with their satin skirts, trees birthing mangoes with

that uniquely intoxicating scent,

oh! those were days, those were sweet evenings,

childhood as transparent as Summer,

time was a lazy boy,

don’t know when he became fast as an active athlete,

for when he did, I lost my childhood,

if only it could be found again,

like that lunch box at school.

***

Summer and beach

Last Summer, in July,

I went back to my roots,

to my country, city, Chennai,

where I was born and raised

to the beach where I used to go as a child,

the Marina.

Last Summer, in July,

I went with my two children

and held their hands,

jumped with them,

let the waves dance on our feet,

and jumped and jumped 

until our hands involuntarily went up and down

and it looked as though we were skipping 

between dancing waves,

twirling and swirling like ballerinas,

and our tired legs 

forced us to sit and build

sandcastles, our bodies beginning

to smell of beach salt and sand,

the evening sun embroidering

orange designs on our skins,

roots and sense of belonging being

the theme.

***

Bio: Brindha Vinodh is a published poet, writer, literary critic and the recipient of the Reuel International Prize for Poetry with an honorable mention and has been awarded the title of Poesis Award for Excellence in Poetry by Xpress Publications.

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Setu, May 2024

Songs of Harmony (Gandhian Philosophy)

Brindha Vinodh

Gandhi came in my dream and asked, “Do you remember me only on October 2n and January 30th?  I was ashamed to answer.

 When I woke up, it was dawn.

 Not just had the sun outside risen,

  but the alleys of my mind brightened too, 

  dispelling the darkness of oblivion,

 and I realized how we ‘Homo Sapiens’

  Have conveniently forgotten his values,

 having capitulated to the seemingly alluring

 Captivation of violence, only to be deceived by annihilation in its totality. 

  It dawned on me to sing to the youth the songs of harmony.

  It dawned on me to be practical paradigms to the children of today, just like birds flocking in the evening under a cantaloupe sky, signifying unity,  how important to tread on the path of peace,  smooth like a carpet of marbles, the change within to witness a sea change in the world, to allude to Gandhi. 

How significant to make this a practice than marking as an activity on the calendar! 

Bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, blogger, online tutor and a former copyeditor. She is the recipient of Reuel International Prize with a special mention for poetry, 2022. Her debut poetry book titled “autumn in America other poems” released in 2022 through Setu publications, Pittsburgh, USA, is available on Amazon.

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Setu, October 2023 :: Gandhian Philosophy

Fiction: Adaptations

Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh

It was a warm July afternoon in the little town of Lalgudi, some twenty kilometers from the main city of Trichy in the South Indian state of Tamilnadu. Seventy-two-year-old Ganesan sat on his chair, half-sleepy, after a simple but wholesome meal. He had made this a practice, of dozing off in the chair, his possession for more than four decades, all the repeated calls and the yelling of his wife Vanaja, to sleep on a comfortable cot inside, falling into his deaf ears.

“This man will never listen. It’s been forty years with him. Always adamant. With every single thing. Later in the evening, he will complain of a back pain and ask me to apply that old ointment. Refuses to change even to gels and sprays. He will never adapt. If only he had agreed to leave this native town and move to Mulund in Mumbai, twenty-five years back, near his younger brother’s residence, I would have at least had my co-sister to talk to everyday, would have helped her raise her two sons. Who will take care of him if I die first? 

What sin did we do to be an issueless couple?”

Vanaja lamented, and even as her rumblings

reverberated, between the walls of their 

antique, independent house, the postman 

opened the rickety gate, and in his stentorian 

tone, said “Post”- the only house in the street to receive a letter, and the only house in the street without a desktop or a laptop.

The stentorian tone rather awakened Ganesan. As he opened the sky-blue inland envelope, the very first line of the letter made him gasp in surprise!

It was from his younger brother, Kesavan, who had addressed “Dear brother Ganesan”-

in his inimitable, exquisite handwriting.

He called Vanaja, who came walking with her languid legs, adjusting her spectacles, her eyes riveted to the letter in Ganesan’s wrinkled hands.

 

“ Kesavan is coming here with his family. His wife, two sons, daughters-in-law and grandchildren. He is going to settle down here in Lalgudi with his wife, while the others will get back to Mumbai. Remember, it’s been two years since we both talked to each other over phone?

He choked when I last spoke to him over phone, and we exchanged heated words. 

I cut the phone when he refused to come over and settle down here in Lalgudi. No idea what/who changed his mind,” Ganesan’s eyes shimmered tremulously, and that made Vanaja really euphoric. It had been two years since Ganesan had shown such ecstatic emotions.

In the next three days, Ganesan looked completely different. He had his silver hair neatly cut, his tiny white grass of beard trimmed, the best of his shirts pressed, 

his eyes sparkled like stars, and his lips glistened from smiles.

Four days later, Kesavan arrived, with all of his family members as promised, by flight. Ganesan and Kesavan embraced each other, they didn’t talk, but the language of their eyes conveyed all buried emotions.

A day later, Kesavan‘s grandchildren took selfies with Ganesan and Vanaja, and Kesavan’s sons posted these pictures on their instagram accounts. The eldest son even updated his Facebook status, “From Mulund to Lalgudi-rediscovering roots.” The last visit to Lalgudi by Kesavan and his wife was five years back, for a wedding from Kesavan’s wife’s side, near Lalgudi. 

While in the verandah, Vanaja and her co-sister chatted, they had so many stories to share, the egos of the brothers, the sudden change of mind of Kesavan, the pricking of conscience of Kesavan of leaving his aged older brother and his wife alone, the outdated mentality of Ganesan, and so many anecdotes to catch up from their old, nostalgic years, when Vanaja taught Kesavan’s wife the nuances of cooking their family’s recipes when she came as a newly-married bride, and so on. 

The two daughters-in-law of Kesavan meanwhile made coconut rice, lemon rice, a mixed vegetable curry- symbolic of togetherness-banana chips, and 

bought ice cream for a change of taste for Ganesan and Vanaja. Ganesan relished the taste of pista and strawberry scoop while Vanaja enjoyed plain vanilla. They took a picture of all together, neatly dressed, the next evening. The grandchildren even teased Vanaja, saying her cheeks blushed pink, as she sat next to Ganesan in the picture. Vanaja smiled shyly while Ganesan preferred to remain silent, even as he fondled their hairs. Vanaja loved how Ganesan chose to remain silent, his authoritarian tones all contained, how he seamlessly mingled with the young grandchildren.

She felt it was the best days of their lives ever. 

The next morning, as everyone woke up one by one, and greeted each other, Vanaja was still in bed, frozen. She breathed her last at four am peacefully.

---

Setu, February 2023

Love in the time of plague

Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh

Love in the time of plague

is like the sun that is needed in Winter-

to offer warmth and to drive away darkness,

love in the time of plague 

is the hot soup needed on a cold day.

Love is fluid

when it adjusts its shape,

love from the marble eyes of a child, 

smooth and sparkling,

 radiates positivity and hope

at a time when an adult is plagued by cobwebs of worries,

love takes the shape of a tonic that can cure the plague of

hate man infectiously spreads in the name of caste, creed and greed 

to acquire larger boundaries,

 composition of the tonic being soothing words, warm gestures,

 greetings,

love is air when it flows freely,

borderless, bonding cultures through art and poetry,

it can be felt, absorbed through each vein and pulse beat of your heart,

even when war shatters the wings that your dreams were about to take.

Love in the time of plague  

is like the sun that is needed in Winter-

to offer warmth and to drive away darkness,

love in the time of plague 

is the hot soup needed on a cold day.

---

Setu, February 2023

Poetry: Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh

Parallel connections and positivity

It is Autumn.

One by one, the leaves

 f

a

l

l

 of different hues,

beetroot purple, olive green, mango yellow and pumpkin orange,

yet the trees stand firmly rooted,

 withstand the changing weather, the cold wind,

with  barren bodies,

let Winter slowly crawl into their arms

and allow snow to shimmer,

the same way poets disguise clotted blood as red roses,

till all the snow begin to melt in the embroidered warmth of the sun-

                                  life is no less dissimilar,

                                 put to test several times,

                                 we emerge again after inflictions

                                and wounds, we are warriors, we are survivors,

                               hope is the root that keeps us alive.

***

 

Body, shape and meanings

My body is currently out of shape

and I wish I could contort

and twist and make it elastic,

like a rubber band.

 

But then my daughter suddenly 

wants to draw, her brush beginning 

to stroke gently the steering boat that

is my lower lip, commencing from

where the cascading teeth stop to flow,

downstream, flowing smoothly 

through the waddling waves of my waist’s

stretch marks when suddenly 

a reddish-orange sun

 promisingly peeps in an East-West direction 

through  freshly fragrant 

marudhani/ henna leaves 

of my palm and fingers.

 

Nearing the coast, there are black pebbles

of moles and blue birds perch

in assembled veins across 

brown branches from outstretched arms.

 

It completes the picture.

 

All notions of shape and size disappear 

into vacuum when I am the universe 

to her. 

***

 

 

The stories of our lives

 

Every morning unfurls with the mango-yellow 

hue of a smooth sunrise,

 

tints of yogurt white good morning greetings from

unbrushed teeth and half-sleepy eyes

unfurl eyelids, like petals of flowers,

 

pink-sugar crescent moons pasted on

cheeks from loved ones’s lips

add value to the day’s beginning,

 

polychromatic shades of blue

merge with the mundane routine,

 

an  aromatic rice blended with

tinges of diced orange carrots, brown potatoes, green peas and purple onions

saturate the starving stomach,

 

an apricot-orange sunset 

tags an awaiting twilight,

 

on the way, someone in tattered clothes 

crosses the road at signal, the tone of

dried-red cranberry his parched stomach

from the aching heat of hunger,

 

she gives the poor man a few currency notes, 

that somewhat satisfies her bleeding 

pomegranate-red heart,

 

two tiny girls, draped in old skirts and blouses, 

without slippers on legs, sell story books

at the crossroads, she buys them, 

not just for bed-time stories for her children,

but to add some colors to their lives,

every ten books sold could fetch them

money to cook a day’s meal, their 

childhood dreams a black sky of moonless night,

 

she returns home, cooks a simple meal,

spiced up green chilies, a bit of salt, 

the white-sugar sweetness of her love, all mixed up, the moods and emotions of the day,

 

some one else in the family has had

a bad day, an unpleasant  auburn-brown

of a dried, crushed Autumn leaf,

with tinges of dull-gray grief,

 

she gets into an argument on

a moderate tint of bluish-magenta

translucent dawn,

 

then sorts it out before going to bed,

nightmares sometimes come in tones of

black, sometimes white dreams soft

as peaceful prayers-

 

this is the story of her, 

she is me, she is you, she is anyone 

you can relate to,

the stories of our lives,

and each day, different tones, tints, shades

get added, to saturate the day.

***

Bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, blogger and a former copyeditor. She has contributed to several anthologies and been published on several international magazines, e-zines and journals. She has recently released her debut poetry book titled “Autumn in America & other poems” through Setu publications, Pittsburgh, Usa. Her recent achievements include commendable mentions in two categories, “Poet of the year” and “critic of the year” for 2021 in Destiny Poets’ International community of Poets (ICOP) Wakefield, UK.  Born and brought up in Chennai, India, she currently resides in the United States of America with her husband and two daughters. Incidentally, she also holds a masters’ degree in Econometrics from the University of Madras.

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Setu, October 2022

Tamil: Culture and Cuisine

Brindha Vinodh

On a feather-soft green banana leaf,

         jasmine-smooth white rice, staple food

of the native region,

          topped with a dollop of ghee,

 

aromatic sambar from farm-fresh vegetables and smashed yellow lentil for the dancing pink tongue,

 

    tomato-pepper-cumin rasam

to digest and balance the heaviness of an elaborate meal,

  there’s an art of eating it-

 building a small pond with the grains of those white rice

with hand and filling it with the watery consistency of rasam

which amateur eaters on a banana leaf might find difficult-

famous now 

in the name of mulligatawny soup,

 

spicy potato and a mild, mixed vegetable 

curry garnished with coconut-the juxtaposition 

of anger and peace,

an exquisite blend of the skinny cluster beans and pulse called parupu usili

and a pumpkin stew and two pachadis- sweet and salty-

with yogurt as the base,

curd, sweet payasam and a hot red pickle,

mirroring the shimmering heat of the topography-

the culmination of all flavors of life

and the essence of togetherness,

the splintering sound of crispy applams,

akin in appearance to tacos,

and toothsome medhu vadais(try restricting to one and you will fail),

 

a typical Tamil Nādu wedding menu, 

invitingly teasing to the taste buds-

food here is an amalgamation of emotions,

a belief that generations propogate like the

rhizomes of a banana plant signifying lineage…

it’s not over yet-

steaming bubbles of a hot filter coffee,

 

            full-moon idly for all ages-

from babies to adults

from the diabetic to the daily commuters

from the rich to the poor-

a great leveler,

like ‘sickness’, to quote G.B. Shaw, but these idlies are ideal for the sick

and the natives never get sick of eating them,

 

fenugreek-flavored brown-boat dosas, soft or crispy, your choice,

     green-chilly, coriander and curry-leaf mixed

 cotton-textured bondas

with spiced, sesame-seasoned podi and chutneys

accompany anecdotes and conversations…

 

with variations infused in restaurants,

fusion foods

 and

cuisines connect cultures

these days,

bridging the past and the present.

***

 

Glossary:

Sambar rasam pachadis payasam- liquid or diluted in texture or consistency
parupu usili applams medhu vadais idly dosas bondas podi- solid in texture or consistency

 

Author bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, blogger and a former copyeditor. She has contributed to several anthologies and been published on several international magazines, e-zines and journals. She has recently released her debut poetry book titled “Autumn in America & other poems” through Setu publications, Pittsburgh, Usa.

 Her recent achievements include commendable mentions in two categories, “Poet of the year” and “critic of the year” for 2021 in Destiny Poets’ International community of Poets (ICOP) Wakefield, UK.  Born and brought up in Chennai, India, she currently resides in the United States of America with her husband and two daughters. Incidentally, she also holds a masters’ degree in Econometrics from the University of Madras.

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Setu, June 2022

Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, blogger and a former copyeditor. She has contributed to several anthologies and been published on several international magazines, e-zines and journals. Her debut poetry book titled “Autumn in America & other poems” was released in 2022 through Setu publications, Pittsburgh, USA.

Her poems have been published in Setu, Glomag, Soflay, innerchildpress international, OPA, Destiny Poets ( UK),  Metverse Muse, etc. to name a few.

Her recent achievements include commendable mentions in two categories, “Poet of the year” and “critic of the year” for 2021 in Destiny Poets’ International community of Poets (ICOP) Wakefield, UK. Born and brought up in Chennai, India, she currently resides in the United States of America with her husband and two daughters. Incidentally, she also holds a masters’ degree in Econometrics from the University of Madras.

Authors A-Z

The art of Poetry: Brindha Vinodh

Brindha Vinodh

I pour into her-

she pours into me.

Together

we flow

as

a river

carrying the soul

kissed by the sun 

the moon 

the stars ️ ️

and the eternal sky

playing the

music 

of the birds 

with the

flavors of the seasons.

Bleeding

as and

when weeds wade

through-

polluting-

only to masquerade

those clotted scars

as scarlet roses  

to retain that

fragrant fervor.

Smoothly flowing, still,

until those turbulent waves

of a powerful

tsunami take over

to merge and converge

with that one perennial ocean-

a mahasangamam of several souls.

***

Footnote: mahasangamam- The convergence of all things into one

***

Bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, blogger and a former copyeditor. She has contributed to several anthologies and been published on several international magazines, e-zines and journals. She has recently released her debut poetry book titled “Autumn in America & other poems” through Setu publications, Pittsburgh, USA.

Her recent achievements include commendable mentions in two categories, “Poet of the year” and “critic of the year” for 2021 in Destiny Poets’ International community of Poets (ICOP) Wakefield, UK.  Born and brought up in Chennai, India, she currently resides in the United States of America with her husband and two daughters. Incidentally, she also holds a masters’ degree in Econometrics from the University of Madras.

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Setu, April 2022

New Setu Books

Dear Readers,

Great news to share with you. After great success of Voices Within, the anthology of beautiful poetry in English by 82 contemporary poets, Setu presents three more books for your reading pleasure.

• Dear Mama: An Immigrant's Secret Cry (Shailja Sharma)
• Autumn in America & Other Poems (Brindha Vinodh)
• मानवीय अभिप्रायोंकी डगर (चंद्रमोहन भण्डारी)

Autumn in America & Other Poems

Dear Mama: An Immigrant’s Secret Cry

मानवीय अभिप्रायों की डगर

Stay safe,

Anurag Sharma

Setu, Pittsburgh

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Setu, February 2022

Women empowerment and Gandhi: A legacy

Brindha Vinodh

By Brindha Vinodh

Does a man aristocratic and magnanimous in his notions and visions yet simple and humble in his pragmatic lifestyle need any introduction?  Yes, Mohandas Karam Chand Gandhi needs no introduction for his quintessential integrity, yet what makes this essay essential is the need to carry forward his legacy to the burgeoning generations and establish the values of his scrupulous virtues and broad perceptions that he envisaged for women relevant to the contemporary era. We have known him as the father of our nation, as a freedom fighter, as a man of non-violence but his role in the upliftment of women has been less talked about. A subtle exploration!

He was way ahead of his times in terms of his images and the indelible impressions and impact that women could leave. To quote Gandhi himself, “To call women the weaker sex is a libel; It is man’s injustice to women.” Even now when in remote villages, we hear of a random Gowry being ill-treated for lack of dowry or a Rathi being plunged into the pyres of her husband in the name of ‘sati,’ Gandhi was liberal enough to take pivotal roles in emancipating women from such social evils. To him, women were not to be confined to the ‘purdahs’ of the taboos but set free from the cages of confinement.

He was one of the pioneers in encouraging women’ participation in politics. Politics even today remains a male-dominated domain. But, he encouraged women to participate in the freedom movements of India. Whilst Sarojini Naidu, Lakshmi Sehgal and a few others made to the list of top women fighters, many women remain as unsung warriors. Many women participated in public processions, meetings and gatherings to boycott the influence of the British products. A gentleman who gently made the progress of women into the arena of politics a pragmatic one, breaking the shackles of an orthodox landscape.

His role in the economic independence of women is commendable. The earliest forms started in the form of spinning, weaving and other domestic activities that could earn the women of his times a mention in economic realms. Although they were meant to supplement the income of men, to him, a woman was  a complement of man. He definitely laid the foundation stone for the economic ladders of women. 

So, what do we interpret and conclude? His principles hold relevance even today for can anyone dare to say that a “woman can go alone in the midnight wearing her jewels?” If the answer is a ‘No’, I am sure his virtues, values and visions still hold relevance. To quote him again, as long as there is a “vicious, brutal and barbarous practice” of a different dimension going on against women, his story shall continue to be depicted in the pages of History. When his birthday becomes a day of his wishes fully fulfilled than yet another holiday, India shall see the dawn of his dreams.

BIO: Brindha Vinodh is a postgraduate in Econometrics. A former copyeditor and a freelancer, she is a writer within. Her poems and short stories have been widely published in magazines, e-zines, literary journals and she has contributed to several anthologies.  She currently resides in the USA with her family. 

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Setu Special 2020 :: Setu, October 2020