The end of the game

She exudes the radiant fragrance of her white jasmine smile as she walks through the day’s unfolding.

Come nights, she is a pomegranate
inhaling the breath of her red fury
beneath the veiled mask of the seeds that are her smile.

She is her own Government.
She is her own court.

Is she a Lady Robinhood?
To brood as one would?

Past tense.
P.a.s.t. T.e.n.s.e.

As transparent as lucid dreams
as pristine as newborns
was she, not long ago!
In a game called rape played by
four brutal men,
she lost her virginity.
As wildly as the game was played, she reacted.

C.o.m.e. b.a.c.k.
A great comeback!
Time is ripe and so is the pomegranate of nights.

Tonight is the big day!
As mysterious as the gossips engulfing the deaths of her three predators,
she treads through the mysterious valley,
wearing her mask for the final time.

All four done!

And finally, she marries death as her
eternal companion,
confessing to her conscience!

Copyrights @Brindha

Navarasas(nine essences) and their corresponding bhavas( emotions) for monsoons

Haasyam: mirth , laughter, etc.

sparkling smiles,
a million a moment,

Shrinagara: Love, attractiveness, etc.

Raaga: amirthavarshini
Dance recital: Peacock
Accompanying artistes from Devlokam:
Krishna’s feather and Karthikeya’s vehicle
Guru: Nature
Venue: Open auditorium

Raudram: Anger, fury

Is it the anger and anguish of
infinite mustard seeds spluttering on hot oil
the lava of sound waves erupting against humans?

Kaarunyam: compassion, tragedy, etc.

Oh Varuna, God of rain!
Neither has the Boologam sinned nor the Devalogam for the rains to be born from the womb of virgin clouds.
Why is there a monsoon failure?
Would you not bestow your blessings
for bountiful harvests?
Oh, Varuna, would you not show Karuna?

Bhibatsam: disgust, aversion, etc.

Oh! The Agni (fire) 🔥 of ire, jealousy and
evil Pyres are burning!
Varuna, come and extinguish the flames!

Bhayanakam: Horror, terror

Oh! precipitations of snow and sleet!
Will you not show mercy upon the naval fleet?

Veeram: Heroic act, mood, etc.

Incessant, record rainfall, splash!
Lavish lash of Mazhai in a flash!

Adbhutam: Wonder, amazement, etc.

The dance drama of sunlight and rains!
Subtle reflections of colours, rainbow!

Santham: Peace, serenity, etc.

Man vaasanai, the plesant scent
emanating from silent droplets!

Human interaction with the monsoon.

I sit on my verendah, frustrated,
a sort of feverish feeling engulfing me
when suddenly to my merriment and glee,
the first song of Amirthavarshini reverberates!
( kaarunya, adbhutham)

I venture out, excited, euphoric
to dance to the rhythmic taalams of rain
like a child, evaporating the feverish pain,
kissing the first Pallavi of this season!

Oh, Why has the song stopped abruptly?
why are the charanams not being sung?
Why am I adamant and naive like a child young
to listen all at once to the entire song?

Oh, Sakhi, I miss you! Your warmth,
Your embrace and your presence!
Infuriated by the thoughts of your absence,
I yearn more for you at this untimely hour.
(Shringara, Raudram)

Aah, what magic is this of the monsoon?
The song resonating with renewed energy,
but alas! my energy is down to be in synergy,
I sit and enjoy quietly in the bliss of peace!
(Adhbhutham, Shantham)

Continuous spells this time, determined,
I refuse to sleep, the incessant melodies
invigorating me, drenching me in rhapsody,
making me her ardent fan, Oh, Amirthavarshini!
(Veeram, Haasyam)

Is it a quick coffee break in the concert?
Yes, I relish my first sips of filter coffee from freshly brewed decoction,
from the greatest granules of concoction,
when the uninvited croaks of the toads nauseate me!

The toad and the scorpion creep
as uninvited guests distorting the mellows,
like a cross talk of irritating hellos,
repugnant and frightened, I shut the doors!
(Bhibatsam, Bhayanakam)

Amirthavarshini- a raag in Indian Carnatic music to beckon rain
Hindu mythology terms:
Devalokam- the house of the Gods
Boologam- Earth
Varuna- God of rains
Pallavi- the first stanza of a song
Charanam- the subsequent stanzas of a song
Taalam- rhythmic beats
Sakhi- a female friend/ companion

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

It’s enough:

Enough, it’s enough!
The tears of war widows have withered,
why drench them with fresh spells of blood?
Enough of beckons of radicals leaving no one to the seemingly beautiful rhythms of war.
When you die, your power becomes
powerless, meaningless.
All blood is red,
across borders and boundaries too.

It’s enough of all the atrocities and abuse,
fighting and killing in the name of
caste and creed!
Capitulating to the captivation of imprudence
and dichotomy is not an act of pride,
it’s a syndrome of ignominy.

It’s enough!
The migrant laborers walking on
sands of shattered dreams,
swallowing pangs of sorrow
today amidst an uncertain tomorrow,
traversing between the edgy bridges
of life and death, all lives matter!

It’s enough of hearing,
seeing and complaining.
It’s time to act.
When one is born, one is destined to die.
A breath does not distinguish,
acts of kindness,
acts of humanity do!
When one dies, nothing matters,
your ego, your wealth and superiority
burn as ashes too!
But they remain, remnants of your
good deeds,
as sown seeds,
and that’s when people get to see
the dead living!

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Random Reflections:

Instant inspiration,
a lightning flash.
Sudden eruption of emotions,
a volcano.

Poetry, a hybrid child from this unorthodox marriage.

The air is a smoke of avarice
choking me to death,
bit by bit.
I am afraid I might die a premature death
for so obnoxious is this breath
that I inhale commercialism
and exhale poetry.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Peace: A lost voice

Fragmented like bits and pieces
here and there,
me, Peace,
a wandering soul,
an incomplete whole!

I quiver within
like a shivering patient,
the knells of nuclear bombs
piercing me like agonies. Ouch!

What can I do when my torso is hoodwinked,
and annihilated by antagonists
speaking violent languages of war?

I can only cry
and soak in tears like you
in aftermath
beneath the smokes of the black sky.

If only your ears you would lend,
you good-hearted human friends-
a vanilla dawn might not be as elusive!

Will you lend me your ears?


Lies, like Statistics,
have colours,
depending on the source.

When from a distant end
the honey-dipped love of
my mother pervades like an aroma
enquiring if all is well
whilst from the embers of a viral fever I suffer
uttering “Yes, I am ok,”
muttering within in unease
with puerile eyes of anticipation,
my child comes with a silhouette of a landscape from her sapling hands
asking if hers is the most beautiful art in the world,
and I nod in the affirmative
when there could be better ones,
I speak white lies.

They bear no impact,
yet have an impact
but I carry no guilt
for white lies are like elixirs,
and do I need to tell you that love is blind
be it of any dimension?

But there are other lies,
reflecting true colours
of men, money, mafia and much more
to be soaked and washed by waters
sans sins.
No, detergents shall not work here
for they are artificial and superficial too.
Monsoons, monsoons and more monsoons!


I like this sail in the silence
of a diamond night’s pride
under the cashew crescent moon,
blushing like a glittering bride
to the winks of the sapphire lake.

The trees are swaying, singing
odes to Wordsworth,
adding colours to his verses
from their rainbow blooms.

The night jasmines are adorning us,
you and I,
with garlands of their white pearls.

We are getting married again,
dear mate,
with greetings from Nature.
A rich wedding indeed!

This moment is an aurelian memory
for age, like time, is a mere nothingness
and now if death shall invite me,
I shall graciously accept it with glee.

The journey of a girl:

“You are one of the top three State toppers. How do you feel. What are your plans for college?”, a question thrown to a girl called Amudha, a first generation learner from a family whose father is a tea plucker. A hundred miles and more from Nilgiris district in Tamilnadu, India, a tiny village of Cherana crisscrossing the scenic beauty of

Mudumalai mountain ranges, Amudha has fought all odds to emerge a winner.

“I am the first in my family to read and write.
My parents initially were reluctant but upon the advice of panchayat head they understood the importance of education.
He then started ignoring all meaningless cacophony of gossip mongers and let me focus on my education.
I am extremely grateful to panchayat head and his family who let me study in their house just a day prior to my Maths exam when
‘a strong gust of wind blew away the candle’
in my house.”
When my father requested the Panchayat head to let me study from the power of their inverter, they readily agreed. If not for them, I would not have got a full score in Maths.
The gust of wind blew away my candle but not my hopes. Where there is a will, there is a way.
As far my future plans, I am yet to get suggestions from my teachers.”

An applause of claps ensues from the press.

Amudha is all submerged in happy tears.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Sands of reality:

Based on a prompt!

Kovalam beach
Off ECR road
3.30 pm

A group of flies were swarming alongside cool July beeeze.
Salima, a young writer and a columnist for a local magazine was digging for some inspiration for her next write-up.
She was still laughing over a humorous poetry
that she came across…
“Once a man had a head full of lice
he thought he was very wise
trying to drive them away like the mice
of Pied piper……
when the fresh aroma of “thengai-maangai Sundal” tantalizingly invited her drooling taste buds.

“How much,” she asked the woman.
“ Fifteen rupees,” the woman packed one quickly in a paper-cone cup with a nonchalant countenance before even Salima asked for one.
Salima: “How long have you been making these? Tastes good.”
“I have been doing this for around 5 or 6 years. They sell mostly by 6 pm,” the woman replied.
Salima- “ I have seen you a couple of times here but this is the first time I am eating here. Last week I saw you arguing with a drunkard walking deliriously.”
The woman replied, her eyes reflecting
a mixture of sorrow and anticipation,
“He is my husband. He is a drunkard. He comes and picks petty quarrels with me always.
Doesn’t have a proper work. I make this Sundal and run my family. My children go to the nearby Government school.”
“What’s your name,” Salima questioned her.
Bhuvana seemed an example of quintessential elegance of economic independence of women to Salima.
“Bhuvana, I truly admire you. You are a great inspiration.”
Bhuvana smiled benignly and said “There are many like me here. You see that woman there. She sells bhajjis.”
Salima nodded.
Heading back home, Salima thought, “sands of reality on the beach.
“Great inspirations are sometimes humble!”

Footnotes: thengai-maangai Sundal- a dried yellow lentil salad with coconuts and raw mangoes.
Bhajjis- fried fritters from chickpea flour with a vegetable base.
Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

The night

It was their first rendezvous.

His blackberry eyes smiled at her strawberry lips.

Her hair was a black silk sari let loose.

The mango milkshake at the centre looked like a clueless orphan. The straw stared at them.

The lullaby of time forced the restaurant hours to come to a close.

He went to the restroom and their romance

had to rest, too.

He came back but she had disappeared like a nightmare.

He touched his pant pocket.

His credit card had eloped with her.

The night was a stupor.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh