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| Vandita Dharni |
Showing posts with label Vandita Dharni. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vandita Dharni. Show all posts
Vandita Dharni
Flavour Bombing Spices: Vandita Dharni
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| Vandita Dharni |
Those childhood days revelled in the insatiable,
intoxicating spices of a mother’s love.
‘Ma’, as we called her lovingly, has conjured up a chessboard-
her altar of sacrifice, her battleground over the years,
She carefully analyses war strategies, placing a regiment of pawns
in their exquisite, exotic burst/ blend of aromas.
Chiseling an epicurean knife, she dices her inhibitions
into virgin-white onion boats and cherry blush tomatoes.
The flush of a citrusy dawn ignites her Teflon sky
as a dollop of devil’s dung splatters through.
The tangy tamarind contorts its pulpy bosom
resisting. grimacing, wafting its talisman into a saucepan
while mustard seeds and curry leaves writhe, splutter,
sizzle in a release of fortitude.
Ma showers this heady concoction with jaggery kisses,
letting them simmer in oil long enough to coagulate.
The carmine lipped chillies factor in other flavours
pirouetting on a bed of dusty brown ginger flakes
and they surrender like the mortifying cloves of garlic
the canvas of an indulgent connoisseur.
After spooning and tossing the ingredients,
the labour of love is ready-
A chutney, redolent of a mother’s heart
embracing itself in tastes of home, heaven and hearth.
Vandita Dharni: Poetry (Voices Within 2021)
Vandita Dharni is an acclaimed poet, scholar and gold-medalist from
the University of Allahabad. She has a Ph.D. degree in American Literature. She
has authored three anthologies, Quintessential
Outpourings, The Oyster of Love
and Rippling Overtures. Her articles,
poems and stories have been published in journals like Criterion, Setu,
Borderless journal, Ruminations, GNOSIS, Hell Bound Publishing House and
International magazines like Immagine and Poessia, Synchronised Chaos, Silver
Birch Press, Inner Child Press, Raven Cage E-zine, Sipay, Fasihi and Guido
Gozzano. She is also the proud recipient of the World Poetic Star Award 2019
and the Rabindranath Tagore Award 2020.
The Clairvoyant’s Cigar
In forbidding circles,
night treads on clouds of smoke
convulsively flickering in a candle’s flame.
Hollow voices ricochet near fjords
Life’s sojourn aching to a close
in Cannabis moments vapourized.
Lost in the crepuscule haze of solitude,
a broken winged butterfly
flutters its paper wings-
life’s breath, one deceitful breath
enshrouded by the hostile mist- dark
on a suffocatingly treacherous night.
“Hussshhhhhh!”
the clairvoyant vapes
predicting the highs and lows,
now sunk in the residue of waxen stubs-
false promises he spouts to himself,
snuffed out by his voodoo chants-
“Husshhh!” I see frail fingers resting
replicating burnt out cigar ends
imprinting crimson on jaded greenbacks.
A night drunk in marijuana haze
Life swims full circle. “Hush!”
A New Identity
I transcend binaries- real and acquired
Clutching hemispheres of creeds
in granular sediments ensconced.
My apprehensions wrapped in an orhni
reflect the myriad hues in my eyes,
hope braided along the nape of my neck
and tattooed in my veins.
Fingers morph into numerals
unconstrained by ethnocentrism
nor sealed in equations of identity.
Petals of my being burnished by an alien sun
on a distant landscape. I introspect, ‘Is this
me?’
A myriad shlokas echo my unified sensibilities
congregating into memories, both native and
alien
and as I assimilate the identities- they merge
into one
A sentinel lamppost squints
blinding those numbers away
Leaving me at the confluence
of a new culture poised at the threshold.
I scratch the parenthesis off the slate
blurring my apprehensions etched beneath
Those fated numbers dauntless again
dew drops scratching my windowpane,
hexagonal patterns of a hybrid consciousness
blurred in the hologram of my mind.
Those caterpillar lines on streets paved with
snow
carry me into backwaters of my past, I grow
no longer constrained in a sufi’s chant
nor complacent in the dust of my ancestral
legacy
A new identity stitches me into the folds of
its skin,
I feel the rush of humanity that comforts me
in its warm embrace, divorced from the din.
An Autumnal Night
Cardamom lids dim their shutters
as another day hems to a close- gently,
purposefully
in the echoing strains of a songbird.
Its trill sits upon the twilight haze
in the breath rasping in my chest
or the warm mercurial drops of solitude
that drench tarantula thoughts.
Muddled, befuddled in an hourglass
a fire dies in the throbbing
of an autumnal night, still suckling
on maple leaves with withered breasts
Bleeding its woes red into gravitational
allegiance
Hastening infringements to retract
the moon’s repressive act
of waxing to a fulness
or imprinting footsteps of a hostile winter
that treads on dampened dreams,
Stifled in nets of a forgotten tide-
the tide that only returns its dead
to a watery bedrock of algae,
in dreadful bronze, coal and pewter grey.
The sea is their abode for dreams,
a womb birthing stillborn foetuses
aborted in rivers – bleeding, breathing
While the sun filters through lids
rock cold in comatose, it glimmers
covered in the shroud of a misnomer
stretching, straining to resurface.
The Weeds
(In Memory of Edgar Allen Poe 1809-1849)
Into corners, I entrust weeds entangled
in what lies within and without
in the sifting and incipient drifting-
the debris of a withered life,
Compressed in pages of poesy
dog earing his past, blighted
bursting open- a montage of images
desecrating the lattice of his overgrown
solace.
Here, rests the shovel
snipping Spear thistles unwarranted
those that germinated into cycles of deceit
glowering at their rival’s defeat.
The fire of Prometheus seething in Rufus’ eyes
blinking through dank tunnels
where Oizys held sway
Strife slithering through insalubrious pockets
drenched in sweat and alcohol
a containment zone of mortified fears.
Whose life I contemplate?
I look at the pauper’s grave-
My nascent tears nestle there
and in those dog-eared pages demystified
I see myself, a part of me dead.
Then and now, the time he lived
I thrust the obituary ruthlessly bold
thriving on Rufus’ weeds of acrimony
as Edgar’s blue veins run ice cold.
Memoir / Essays: The Ferris Wheel
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| Vandita Dharni |
Life was a ferris-wheel of highs and lows for me. The
highs were always uplifting but the lows always badgered me with an existential
crisis. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I was battling an avalanche of depression.
I had lost my mother to cancer in the October of 2017 and I could fathom my
entire world collapsing after her demise. Two years hence, a profound interest
in the macrocosm had sprouted within my being. It dawned on me that somewhere
the connect with nature and people had diminished with my hectic work schedules
and the invasion of social media that made me addicted and unsociable. Yet I knew
I wasn’t going to succumb to the vermin. I began retracing pathways of life,
unravelling the ones I hadn’t traversed before, surging on towards the ones I
wanted to and chartering my own paths too. I was on a quest, searching for
answers to questions that plagued me, leaving me in a conundrum.
I had fallen in love all over again. The ‘City Green’
just captured my heart and I let it grow veins and arteries into my flesh that
craved for pure oxygen. Parks were the hub of creative impulses and the ideal
place to introspect about life, delving into its mysterious facets and myriad
hues. Sometimes, life would snowball into dimensions unfathomable, creeping
over Hibiscus hedges that skirted along the lawns and on other occasions it lay
entangled in Bougainvillea creepers espaliered to walls of houses overlooking
the parks. There were parks in every sector, each with their own distinctive
features and aesthetic layout. The muse within always inspired me to explore
these serpentine pathways where the dew of nature’s bounteous gifts would douse
my restless spirit.
Often, I’d undertake long, arduous walks through
picturesque landscapes of the garden city of Chandigarh, now my permanent home,
trying to reminiscence and capture snatches that could enliven my foggy spirits
or pulse an adrenaline rush in my veins, but to no avail. Memories of Mumbai
would still haunt me like dead echoes from the blighted past. We had moved to
Mumbai for two years in 2008 on account of my husband’s transfer and the
concrete jungle had stifled my free spirit. I was never enamored by the
skyscrapers or skylines, being a small-town girl. That year I remember Mumbai,
the invincible city was struck by its worst tragedy when the terrorist attacks
took place. I remember how distraught and panic-stricken we all were. I was
teaching at the Cathedral and John Connon school then and the most horrific
news was from my class. I had lost a student who was living in a suite at the
Taj with his family as his father was a Manager there and also the parents of
another student from my class were mercilessly gunned down at the Oberoi
Trident hotel. How devastated I was! Yet I had a firm conviction that time was
a great restorer. Soon the scars would heal and recover. The verdant expanse of
Chandigarh made me shut out the gloom of those bitter memories.
My walks were a flashback of memories that would
propel me back into time. My childhood was spent in Allahabad, the city richly
drenched with the legacy of the Nehru’s. My mother who was a lecturer of
English at a degree college once told me how the Nehru family once took up
lodgings at our villa at Bank road since Anand Bhawan was under some
construction. She knew I was always intrigued by ancient stories and how I had
the knack of weaving some myself. Her passion for poetry, music and writing had
rubbed off on me to a great extent. She was an overprotective mother ever since
my two pattering feet and strawberry pink hands cradled her joys. A thyroid
problem wasn’t detected for many years and when it was diagnosed and medication
given, she conceived me the very same month. So, when this little dumpling was
birthed, she left no stone unturned in lavishing her motherly affection that
bore rich dividends. She was certainly the best mother I could have asked for.
When I was four, my parents sent me to the most reputed
convent school in Allahabad. As an adolescent, I realized that subjects like
Mathematics and Science were not my cup of tea and I often daydreamed during
these classes which were too drab for the poet in me to engross myself in.
These lectures were barricades to my freedom, gripping me with frustration. I
remember how my father, an eminent psychologist in his field, would motivate me
to raise my own bar rather than compete with other classmates. But now that my
parents weren’t there anymore, I gradually weaned myself off my visits to
Allahabad, my hometown after my mother’s demise. Although, I am married to a
doting husband and we have two grown up sons, the pangs of loneliness still
persist in my languishing soul. My meanderings into time are so riveting that
they often awaken a nostalgia of these bygone days.
Two years ago, while ambling towards the joggers’
track in the Topiary park in Sector 35, I often noticed tawny squirrels
frisking about, chasing each other on the velvety grass or nibbling hard, brown
nuts thrown at them by some benevolent passers-by. Stray dogs marked their
territory, mapping isolated corners to chew dry bones and left overs they would
fish out from a garbage bin nearby. Birds would often roost there, cheeping
merrily and creating a ruckus. Old couples would saunter blissfully in groups
of two’s and three’s, gossiping and guffawing aloud at the recollections of a
past occurrence. Young boys loitered around, vying for the attention of the
opposite sex. They wore t-shirts with eye-catching captions. I recall one such
fellow named Raj, a neighbour’s overly pampered son with spiky hair whose
t-shirt bore the most ludicrous captions like ‘I’m Single and Ready to Mingle!’
or ‘I Love the Opposite Sex’ splashed in bold crimson letters. Those were the
days when the movie bug had bitten most youngsters who wanted to behave like
the cool, hip and macho men, flaunting weird hairstyles and shades portrayed in
the movies. Young girls on the other hand were a tad smarter. They would romp around
in their t’s and shorts, taking obnoxious selfies, while their roving eyes were
rivetted in their direction. The only pre-requisite for a selfie was a pout or
a victory sign and the company or ambience was of little consequence.
The sun often swallowed up these musings in a steaming
cup of masala tea that I would purchase from a nearby tea vendor, Ranveer. He
updated me on all the ‘goings on’ in the surreptitious lives of corrupt men and
their agendas to gratify their insatiable thirst for wealth. I would ponder if
life was only reduced to binaries of power versus money, love versus sex and
religion versus secularism. But there were honest men like Ranveer who
possessed a strong character and didn’t surrender themselves to the vicious
nexus of power-hungry wheeler dealers. Ranveer would sculpt me the weirdest
interpretations and I had to keep nodding in approval or he’d forget an
essential thread to link the plot that only got murkier each time. I firmly
believed that every word spoken by him was God’s truth, every grain of it.
On one particular visit to his tea-stall, I noticed a
stocky gentleman, a dandy in a motley-coloured, outrageous attire. He alighted
from his swanky black Rolls Royce car, wearing a fluorescent green turban,
white trousers and a matching green psychedelic shirt. He flashed a smile at
Ranveer who looked a bit intimidated by his belligerent demeanor. Later, when
the man toddled off with his goons without paying for his tea, Ranveer apprised
me that he was a local hip- hop singer who had tie-ups with the underworld. He
even changed his cars every year. A car was a status symbol for the high
society and Page three celebrities. Cars could enhance or tarnish their
reputation, depending on their brands. Life was so complicated for tycoons and
bureaucrats that I could scarcely bring myself to envy them. I preferred
hailing from a middle- class family with minimal demands and expectations.
Talking about shady people, I met another one twenty
years ago when I had recently relocated to Chandigarh. He happened to be a
distant uncle who had amassed a lot of wealth and priceless acquisitions which
I later discovered weren’t his own but belonged to others. Uncle D would pick
up things from shops on the pretext that he’d pay up later when he never really
intended to settle bills in the first place. Within a few months, his wealth
and assets escalated disproportionately to his real income compelling him to
leave lock, stock and barrel from the city. I thanked the almighty for infusing
us with wisdom that we did not fall into his sinister trap and lend him
anything. Our relationship had soured already when he tried to dupe a close
relative’s family on one such occasion but he was unsuccessful.
There were other intriguing encounters that I can faintly
recollect now. The walks in parks were quite stimulating and eventful back
then. I recall meeting this elderly lady- J, an ardent birdwatcher, no ‘negative
connotations’ please! Whenever she found me, she would latch on, giving me a
well-documented history about the numerous species of birds she had encountered
on visits to the bird sanctuaries. We would sit down on a bench and I’d give
her a perfunctory nod occasionally, while she’d update me on their life span,
food habits and even their mating. I wondered how such a plethora of knowledge
had gone in vain. She should have become an Orinthologist, or at least
transformed me into one. Within a few days, I decided to upgrade myself to a
different park to vent my frustration and stretch my fertile imagination, being
a poet. I sought recourse in another one close by, but before I could continue
my musings in this new found paradise, I realized I was being stalked. A street
dog had taken a queer fancy to me and he decided to follow me like ‘Mary’s
little lamb’. If I happened to go to pick up groceries or get myself a relaxing
hair spa, he would be parked outside faithfully with a Cheshire cat grin, waiting
for me. Finally, we parted ways one day when he found himself an emaciated
little pariah mate. That was the end of the stalking and I was glad he had
found lady love at last.
My nature walks continue to enchant me to this very
day and have given me a whole new perspective on life. Despite the fact that
Covid-19 has confined us to our little microcosm, the walks have expanded into
a repertoire of moments that would have otherwise been inconceivable. They rejuvenate
me, dispelling negativity associated with the deadly virus. I still adhere to
the norms of social distancing, especially with the ‘bird watcher lady’ in
sector 35 and ensure I keep my mask, head phones and other protective gear on
at all times to avert unnecessary intruders. But the irony is that we can’t
camouflage our souls behind those masks of indifference that distance us from
the world.
The vicissitudes of life envelop me, yet I have learned to shrug them off and move ahead, shedding my inhibitions dauntlessly. From the pusillanimous child to a spirited woman, the journey has been long and gruelling, yet it constantly ignites within me a fire that will never get extinguished. My life has been a raw onion as I peel off its layers that sometimes sting my eyes or tug at my heartstrings unfolding a new facet of myself. At times I feel I am a mirror looking at a new face each day. The faces might be transitory and may intermingle or vanish, yet the memories will still remain etched to the soul that is overflowing like a river in spate.
Bio: Vandita Dharni
hails from an eminent family of educationists. She is a gold medalist in
English from the University of Allahabadand also earned a Ph.D. degree in
American Literature. Her articles, poems and short stories have been published
in Criterion, Ruminations, GNOSIS, HellBound Publishing House and International
magazines like Immagine and Poessia, Synchronised Chaos, Guido Gozzano, Sipay,
Our Poetry Archive, Written Escapes, Primer Antologia De Poetas Del Proyecto De
Unamos Al Mundo Con La Poesia- Mexico and Poleart, Albania.
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