Making Playlists
I cherrypick each song
like picking out clothes
for an unborn in my womb.
My soul is a garden of pining
needing these playlists
to balance out its uncontrolled needs.
And so I go hunting
for melodies to lull the tempests in me,
for bops to fuel me with glucose,
and for otherwordly numbers
to inject me with ecstasy.
An unintended therapy,
the act of making playlists
is my medication.
One to two doses a month
to detoxify my whole being.
When they ask me,
what do you gain from it?
I tell them-
If something has to make sense,
there has to be a playlist.
Ghee
(after Elizabeth Alexander’s ‘Butter’)
One of my favourite smells is melting ghee
wafting from the kitchen in strong gusts.
Growing up, we have come undone in the
company of fresh ghee, regaling tales,
mixing ghee with sparkling sugar as an
accompaniment for my mom’s chapathis,
a spoonful of ghee dissolving like a whirlpool
and melting right in the middle of the sambar rice,
adding a bit of ghee to the kids’ health mix
and inventing funny names for the cereal,
dollops of ghee for the Diwali sweets,
oodles of it mixed with all the savouries,
the flavour of it crackling on our tastebuds,
a simple meal of ghee rice with mango pickle.
When I picture the good old days, I can taste
the tenderness of my friend’s homemade ghee,
and licking it off my sweetheart’s fingers.
Ghee, our natural moisturizer;
No wonder the Gods in our temples were
appeased with ghee abhisheka.
A Prayer to Board The 17.40
Pray that the previous train hasn’t yet left the station.
Pray that there’s a stubborn bull on the track.
Pray that the person who gives the green signal has just received exciting news.
Pray that the hands of the watch slow down just for you.
Pray that an unruly kid throws a ball and breaks the digital clock in the driver’s cabin.
Pray as if the guardian angels are truly breathing down your neck.
Pray that you’d break eight coconuts for your favourite God as a reward.
Pray that there’s crow shit on some of the seats and the cleaning isn’t done yet.
Pray that a witch has cast a spell and the train simply won’t move at 5.40.
Pray that there’s a thunderstorm and the surroundings are hazy.
Pray that the gongs of your racing heart reach a kind psychic inside the train.
Pray, pray, pray…
And then you board the train exactly at 5.40 PM.
Panting, panting, panting…
Here comes the announcer’s voice, “The train to Thiruvallur will start at 17.50.”
So much for all that praying.
About the Author
Kavya Janani. U is the author of the poetry collections La Douleur Exquise and From The Land of Longing. She has also self-published a romance novel and two standalone sci-fi novelettes. Her poems have appeared in Sunday Mornings at The River and Sledgehammer Lit. She also publishes her poetry on her Substack website – Dreamy Poet. She is a banker by profession and currently resides in Chennai, India.
