Monsters Under My Bed At five the beanstalk gave way, and the ogre devoured Jack And when Carrol sent me down the rabbit hole It was dark, slippery, smelled mossy and cold The Grimm Brothers entertained as did Anderson. As terrified as I was of Treasure Island pirates, sent by Stevenson, was I of the wicked witch, whether I was Gretel or Hanzel I would get the heebiejeebies, galore reasons all around, demons, ghouls, and monsters in every shadow to be found. At fifteen, the worst demon crawled out from under the bed into the mirror A sun-roasted, gangly geek gaped back, seeking validation of high school results. Am I really first in the boards? Stage performances, gastronomic butterflies sucked nectar as each torn petal whispered….. Does he…does he not? Does he…does he not? The kisses of Brutus’ and Judas’ stab my side wrenching my gut drilling black holes in the mind Draculas bleeding me white, their thirst never slaked misery surfaced, as honey-tipped venomous tongues licked my grey cells, a smile I faked. Hitting rock bottom was not a blunder there’s nowhere to go except rise upwards for you cannot go any further under. Fifty was a tough tutor as light finally dawned, everything under was always above the bed having made a home in the subconscious head. Stumbled and fumbled, my thoughts totally jumbled carved inroads, exorcised fears, and tears brandishing Excalibur overhead, tasted victory wherever I tread. Copyright@Dr. Sunil Kaushal How To Avoid Making Rotis! Our home, Summer House in Clement Town all of six, I entered the kitchen with a frown Mummy said I must learn to make a ‘roti’ “When you’re older you’ll need to, you won't always be ‘choti’.” Making a mess, I was off to play ‘rotis’ could be learned any other day battering and bettering watery batter, someone must have set it right. childhood soon over, life was only studies, day and night The hostel cooks served fluffy ones, soft and hot Twenty years fled past, and Mummy’s advice I had forgot. Guests arrived, cook on leave, cornered in my forties Surgery and gynae didn’t teach me ever to make round ‘rotis’. One looked like Australia, the next was Ceylon partly uncooked, some burnt or dark brown. The performance was repeated time and again tried adding oil to the dough, but still, there was no gain they would huff and puff and I clapped in joy By the time one ate, it turned into a plate. Oh boy! Every advice I followed, all in vain confidence plummets, at my age you know - oh what shame! Now, to those who snigger, I say, ‘Can you do what I can? Cut open a woman, take out a baby, and make her whole again?’ My little one, who wants to become a chef, has also learned how saving my face says ‘Naani, you’ve done enough, time to rest now.’ So although by now, my ‘rotis’ are fairly good I get away by saying, ‘I never really could! C@Dr. Sunil Kaushal roti-* flat Indian bread choti -* a nickname for small girls Slurping On Mangoes The central jail kitchen did not allow access to inmates watery lentils and dry veggies stuck in our gullets rotis were burnt, stiff, and never soft unless half-baked. Ten onwards, twenty teen tummies tapped a tormented tune hunger pangs setting up an orchestra familiar to every homesick hosteller. As monitor, I could enter the holy precincts satanic forces urged me to follow my instincts! Taking a trusted lieutenant along, decided to raid the pantry and store there lay baskets of luscious, saffron yellow mangoes galore. Ah! The sight of those treasures in gold drooled forth a rush of hunger untold. Sinking our teeth and gobbling the juicy flesh we sucked every drop of the sweetly sour syrup. Even as it dripped to our elbows and below our chins deterred us not till we had sucked dry the skins Not a word spoken, nor from the mice a squeak as we quickly polished off two mangoes each. The appalled rodents glared at the new thieves their territory invaded, they could hardly believe. The problem arose to dispose of skins and stones out of the window the waste when thrown knocked on the head of a passing watchman hearing his shouts, to our dorm we hurriedly ran. The poor mice couldn’t even scurry, his torch shone on them And the watchman stood wondering How to catche them! Copyright@Dr Sunil Kaushal
Dr. Sunil Kaushal, an awarded author, a gynecologist, trilingual writer/poet/translator/editor, has been translated into French, German, Greek, and Chinese. She has been honoured nationally and internationally with many awards. Her debut book of memoirs, Gypsy Wanderings &Random Reflections won The Nissim Award 2020 for prose, given by Nissim Ltd., awarded by The Significant League (International); the Enchanting Muse and Fellow of the Regal World of Scribes Award, by The Pentasi B Poetry Group; Literary Brigadier by Story Mirror; Stickypins bestowed her with the title of Quillmaster; the Women Achiever’s Award 2019 by Literoma. Featured in the Limca Book of Records as part of the Amravati Poetic Prism 2018, her poems also find a place in The Golden Book of World Records. She is winner at YoAlfaaz, and twice on On Fire Cultural Movement, besides a host of others. At present she is working on completing her second book of memoirs and one of short stories based on her patient’s true lives. She was awarded Best Lioness President, Asia for her work in preventing dowry deaths and domestic abuse. She is a Gold medalist in Dramatics. Besides being a member of the advisory committees of Doordarshan & All India Radio, Jalandhar, she was also on their health programmes for 30 years, carving many changes for the welfare of women and children. Her varied interests in Classical Indian, Gurbani, Sufi music, traveling, and hobbies like sketching and fine embroidery, keep her in love with all aspects of life and active at 78, yoga being the fuel, first thing in the morning.
Confessions 