Four Poems by Snigdha Agrawal

 

Fragrance of orange peels

Winter settles against the windows

Orange peels lie scattered

on the kitchen countertop,

bright as remembered sunlight

Its fragrance touches the curtains,

bookshelves, sofa set,

and corners ants file past.

Outside, the day remains

cold and withdrawn;

indoors, the air changes.

A child looks up from homework.

Ma hums near the stove.

The fruit’s sharp sweetness conveys

orchards, distant afternoons,

picnic baskets,

and jars of orange compote

For a moment…

The house itself seems to breathe,

more warmly.

A distilled sun

wanders from room to room,

plucked from the sky above,

its warmth released

into winter walls

Magic happens unmagically.

 

Borderless night roads

The highway stretches

beyond checkpoints

and sleeping towns

with headlights piercing the dark

Inside the bus,

names are folded

into passports, notebooks,

inside frayed backpacks

Some travellers speak

softly into phones

before the signal disappears;

Others lean against windows

carrying silence across borders.

A child sucks at her mother’s breast,

while unfamiliar milestones

rush past like forgotten promises.

No one knows exactly.

When leaving becomes becoming.

 

At roadside tea stalls,

strangers share warmth

without asking origins.

Behind them, homes fade

gradually into memory,

softened by distance and night rain.

Ahead waits another country,

another rented room,

another attempt at belonging.

 

 

Midnight feeding

The house is almost entirely silent

except for the small breathing sounds

between mother and child.

Midnight wraps itself 

around the chair

beside the window

moonlight bathes

the baby’s face,

sleeping in the crook of her arm.

Half-awake, mother watches

tiny fingers uncurl

and rest against her skin.

Outside, the world continues unseen:

distant traffic,

sleepless dogs,

and the slow drifting of clouds.

Inside, time stops

Tenderness eclipses exhaustion

This tenderness becomes

its own kind of strength.

No audience witnesses this hour

Yet the moment,

feels ancient and sacred

A quiet exchange

of hunger, warmth, comfort,

and of enduring love.

 

 

Thin Varicose Veins

 

She sits with her legs,

stretched on the bed,

massaging tired calves,

while the afternoon light

exposes thin varicose veins

blue and purple, thin lines, 

fragile yet persistent,

tracing years of being

mother and wife.

For some time

She tried hiding them,

beneath long skirts,

embarrassed by what age

had crafted onto her legs.

Now she views them differently.

Each branching thread,

with a memory attached:

written in her memoirs

to re-read, and rewind

to the days when her bare legs

invited catcalls.

The marks are no longer flaws. 

But quiet stories the body keeps

When words fail to speak.

 

 

Snigdha Agrawal, a septuagenarian, was raised in a cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to the Eastern and Western cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds.  Educated in Loreto Institutions run by Irish Nuns, she developed a love for writing from childhood.  She has an MBA in marketing and more than two decades of experience working in the corporate sector, which has honed her writing skills in both commercial and artistic parlance. A versatile writer, she writes in all genres, including poetry, prose, short stories, and travelogues.  Her poetry, short stories, essays, and travelogues are regularly featured in online journals published across the globe. 

A published author of five books, the latest titled FRAGMENTS OF TIME, is a book of memoirs, written in a simplistic style. The book is available on Amazon. She lives in Bangalore (India).  Her lifelong passions of writing and travelling remain undimmed.