My First Snowfall

The first fall of snow,

seems so magical.

Makes be believe,

God’s creation is special.


Icy hands, icy toes, frozen nose,

cheeks are sting by chill blows.

Still the softness of falling snow,

is such a wonder awe!


With snowflakes all around,

outdoor looks crowned.

When everything is freezing,

kids started playing.


World is wrapped with a fair band,

seems like a miracle from fairy land.


The sky is dark

while the earth shines,

Time to listen the inner voice,

without any vice.


Wander to wonder in White Winter Wonderland !!!




ସମୟ ର ଦିଗବଳୟ ରେ କଣ

ସେହି ମୁହୂର୍ତ ଟି ବିଲୀନ ହୋଇଯିବ 

ନାହିଁ କିଛି ବିକଳ୍ପ 

ଏହା କଣ ଅପ୍ରିୟ ସତ୍ୟ ?


ସ୍ମୃତି ଅତ୍ୟନ୍ତ ସୁଦୃଢ 

ଅଛି ତାର ଦୃଢ ଆତ୍ମ ବିଶ୍ଵାସ

ନିଶ୍ଚୟ ସୁରକ୍ଷିତ ରହିବ ଏହି ମୁହୂର୍ତ 

ଯଉଁ ମୁହୂର୍ତ ର  ପ୍ରତୀକ୍ଷା ରେ ଏହି ପ୍ରସ୍ତୁତି

ଯାହା ଅନ୍ତରଙ୍ଗ କରି ଦେଇଛି କିଛି ପରିଚିତଙ୍କୁ

ଯିଏ ହୋଇଯାଇଥିଲେ ଅପରଚିତ ଅତୀତ ର ସେହି ବେଳାଭୂମିରେ 

ହଜିଯାଇଥିଲେ ସମୟର ସେହି ଦିଗବଳୟ ରେ


ସ୍ମୃତି ପୁଣି ପ୍ରମାଣ କରିଦେଇଛି ତା ର ଅସ୍ତିତ୍ବ କୁ 

କିଛି ସ୍ପଷ୍ଟ ତ କିଛି ନାତିସ୍ପଷ୍ଟ

କେତେ ଉତ୍ସାହ, ଆନନ୍ଦ ତ କେତେ ଆଲୋଡନ


କେବେ କେବେ ଅନେକ ଉଦବେଗ

ସୃଷ୍ଟି କରିଛି ଏକ ନୂତନ ମନୁଷ୍ୟ 

ଆବିଷ୍କାର କରିଛି କିଛି ବିଷ୍ମୟ 

ଉପାର୍ଜନ କରିଛି ଅନେକ ଆତ୍ମ ବିଶ୍ଵାସ 

ଏହି ମନୋଭାବ,

ଏହି ଚିନ୍ତାଧାରା  ହୋଇପାରବ କି ଚିର ଅନନ୍ତ 

ଆଶା ସେହି ସ୍ମୃତି ଠି

ଗଢି ପାରିବ କି କିଛି ସମୟ ର ଦିଗବଳୟର ଉର୍ଧ୍ଵ ରେ 

ଜନ୍ମ ଦେଇ ପାରିବ କି ଏକ ସ୍ତିତପ୍ରଜ୍ଞ କୁ 

ସୃଷ୍ଟି କରି ପାରିବ କି ଅଶାବାଦର ଏକ ନୂତନ ପରିଚୟ

ଏହା ହିଁ ଇତି, ଏହା ହିଁ ଅନନ୍ତ 

Beauty & Life

Beauty . The word conjures up many images , that’s right, when anyone talks about or mentions the word, the mind starts throwing up vignettes of people and not scenes, landscapes, objects, animals, stories, poems etc. May be these pictures emerge as a secondary facet when we delve deeper but definitely not impromptu. Now whether this is a conditioning of the brain based on a person’s unique life experiences or the brains inherent wiring , it would be a debate worth having between a neuroscientist and a social scientist perhaps. For now, I prefer surmising what Beauty means to me and how I have seen it over the years.
Someone in the recent past called me the right kind of feminist ( shall park the meaning of that for a later time ), I am not sure whether I can call myself one and if  being a feminist means caring more about your female colleague at work, lending an ear to the everyday juggles of a woman doing the balancing act, be it my maid at work or the co passenger in an Uber pool drive , then I take pride in being that right kind of feminist. Hey ,did I lose the Beauty part here , not really, rather its the beauty of everyday life which is the common string here. However clichéd it may seem, how many of us urban dwellers really look up the sky everyday, to catch the glimpse of that sole pigeon in flight, which has evolved to take shelter in the window sills  of dilapidated  walls.  Have you ever noticed  the ubiquitous flower seller in any Indian city  , who invariably happens to be a middle aged lady with greying hair sporting vermillion , they all seem to have the same quaint demeanour selling strings of jasmine with an uncanny pious fervour. The cities may change but the visage of the lady seems constant.
Walk around any Street  of any city across any country and you shall never miss that street corner shop,  most of the times it is either a shop selling trinkets, a patisserie or a bakery or always so familiar bookshop ( right out of “When Harry met Sally ” . I have always felt that these corner shops have a strange pull and seem always welcoming. You notice these shops across the traffic signal while waiting at the bus stop or while hailing a cab  or during one of your aimless solitary walks on a dull Sunday evening. They seem to have the quirkiest of doors which beckon you to enter their  mystical world.None of the other shops in the row seem to have the same kind of magnetism. And then you have one those old buildings which seem to be enveloped in some old world charm which instantly rubs on you every time you pass by. It crosses my mind then , how many families would have been it’s inhabitants , how many churnings of history would they have witnessed,  stories which remain buried within its greying walls.
Each city has its share of heritage , a part of its roots still evident , its beauty flaunted through a an annual fete in honour of a saint patron or a festival heralding its unique culture, a day when the city resonates with a fervour of radiant smiles . That day the grey facades illuminate in multiple hues of colours , a day celebrating belonging and bonding. The trees and the lamp posts that  jostle for every inch of the sky , seem to bask in the glow of togetherness. The cemetery with its shrubbery growing amok and the epitaphs on the tomb stones losing their sheen regale in the beauty of life amidst the dead. So to say, beauty is present in every nook and corner ; in  each breath of human life ;  in the alleyways of mazy cityscapes , it just searches for the right beholder to lift it’s eyes and look for it. Beauty is Life and Life is Beautiful.
– Elina

Happy Thanksgiving


Thank you Almighty for this splendid life,
Thank you for the rays of early bright,
The well wishes, blessings and the honor,
Time to thank for the beauty and glamor.

With autumn comes thanksgiving,
Overwhelming gratitude with cool breezing,
A moment to thank each soul,
Incomplete I am, without their valuable role.          

Turkey on the table,
Carrots, corn, biscuits,
Stuffing, mashed potatoes,
Pumpkin pie and cherry,
With friends making merry.

Thank you God for the diversities,
Bringing in us the creativity.
Mother, father, brother, sister,
Friends and relatives,
and to them who have no name,
I owe a million thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!


ଚରଣ ବନ୍ଦନ


ଆତ୍ମା ଜେବେ କରେ ଆତ୍ମ ସମୀକ୍ଷା
ସ୍ମୃତି ବୁଣିଦିଏ ମାନସ ପଟରେ
ଆମ ବିଦ୍ୟାଳୟ ର ସେହି ଶିକ୍ଷ୍ୟା

କେତେ ଗୁରୁ କେତେ ଗୁରୁମା
ଆଣି ଦେଲେ ଆମ ବିଦ୍ୟାଳୟ ପାଇଁ କେତେ ଯେ ଗରିମା

କୁମ୍ଭାର ର ସୁକ୍ଷ୍ମ ହସ୍ତ ପରି
ଗଢି ଦେଲେ ଆମ କୁ ଅତି ସୁନ୍ଦର କରି

କିଛି ଆଙ୍କି ଦେଲେ ଭବିଷ୍ୟ ର ମାନଚିତ୍ର
ଆଉ କେହି ବାଟ କଢାଇ ଦେଲେ ଗଢିବାକୁ ସୁନ୍ଦର ଚରିତ୍ର

ଆଜି ବି ମନେ ପଡେ ସେହି ଯୁକ୍ତାକ୍ଷର, ସେହି ସାହିତ୍ୟ
ଯାହା ଶିଖାଇଲା ଆମ ସଂସ୍କୃତି ର ମହତ୍ଵ

ଜାଣିଲୁ ଆମ ଇତିହାସ, ଆମ ଭୂଗୋଳ
ବୁଝିଲୁ ରସାୟନ ଶାସ୍ତ୍ର କେତେ ଯେ ଜଟିଳ

କରିଛ୍ହୁ କେତେ ଯେ ଅଗଣିତ ଗଣିତ
ଯାହା ପାଇଁ ଆମେ ଆଜି ଶିକ୍ଷିତ

ଯଉଁ ଗୁରୁକୁଳ କଲା ଆମକୁ ଆଜି ଗଠନ
କରୁଛି ସେହି ଚିର ବନ୍ଦନୀୟ ଗୁରୁ ଆଉ ଗୁରୁମାଙ୍କ ଚରଣ ବନ୍ଦନ

“ସତ ସତ ପ୍ରଣାମ”

The ‘Missed’ Sakura


They failed to bloom,
Disheartening the enthusiasts,
Dampening the revelry,
The hulla bullo and the hooplah
Buried in the angst of sighs.
The town and it’s promenades
The picturesque lake
Did not wake up,
To the sights of pink and white,
The chill ebbed ,
The stalls were not thronged,
A lone branch blossomed.
A flicker of hope ,
The horticulturists , the meteorologists
Exploring answers to
The perennial question,
Why did nature dupe us.
Our own version of “Sakura”
Our only moment of gratification,
Deprived ,
All of us bound in the same seeking,
Scientists,Revellers, tourism politik

Why did she turn her back,
Is this her way of
showing concern or
Did she just played spoilsport ,
This one time.

I not know who will answer,
What’s ailing her
And who will cure her,
Is there a single broad spectrum antidote,
Or the cure lies in singular efforts,
Of us all.

She signals
Waving at us
No it’s not a goodbye ,
Rather she wants transformation,
Her diseased visage
Wants to wear the old beatific smile,
Can we bring back her old self,
Helping us too to regale and rejoice
Yet again,
In the vales of pink and white blooms…

…written after learning that the 2nd cherry blossom festival in Shillong was a dampener as the cherry blossoms failed to bloom. It was in my itinerary this year…


Unfinished Conversations…


They talk,
In circles and in straight lines,
Discussing the circle of life and
Linear ideas,
Sometimes the words wage war ?
But moments fleet ,
And the same words make peace.
They flung thoughts at each other,
Unconscious and unabashed.
The thoughts converge ,
Rising to a crescendo ,
Of overwhelming emotions.
And sometimes opinions plop
To the lowest ebb
Dying momentarily.

The words are spirited,
they jostle for space
In the hearts of its creator.
They swim in the virtual space
Swirling and foaming,
Cascading ,
Waiting to be cajoled ,
And nestled in the receptacle of love


A Smoky Question


The smoke wafts through the crowded streets
Lingering on ,
Moving sheepishly across the lampposts and the traffic lights,
Wintry shadows lurk along the zebra crossings,
The smoke slithers on in neon hues,
Diwali is past, Halloween is around.
The smoke still smells familiar.

Would it be any different,
The smoke ?
if it shifts places,
To a more rustic rural setting,
Will the twigs and fall leaves crackle differently,
Or would the smoke be more bland
in its appearance,
Without the mask of the neon lights.
Will it take on a new life,
Greyer against the dark backdrop,
Or lonelier with only the silhouettes
Of thorny bushes and swaying rickety branches ,
As the sole companion….