Author Archives: pramilakhadun

About pramilakhadun

I am the holder of a Bsc degree in Food and Nutrition from S.N.D.T University,Pune,India.Have taught this subject in a private institution for almost thirty-five years.Currently, I am retired and travel alot with my husband Raj, daughters Dr Rajnee and Priyum and son Airline Captain.Had my first book of poetry published by Minerva press, London and other two in Mauritius.More coming soon.I love poetry and enjoy reading poems of poets across the world and I feel Destiny Poets is the right place for me.

Wild roses, vanilla and cardamom

He was a marvellously handsome high- tec entrepreneur

And yet, his world was a confusing blend

Of terror, betrayal, pain and suffering.

In spite of all this, he had the same fire,

The same dreams, inspirations and zest of life.

He had a broad wisdom about the world

Ans was a gentleman to the very core.

His face showed the ravages of grief,

Yet, the spice of his after- shave

Always left a fresh smell on it.

He had an innate sense of what is right

And what is wrong and how he should react

Under each and every circumstance.

And when he met her and tilted her chin

Up to him and looked into her brown eyes,

He felt something in him stir

That had lain dormant for years.

He smiled dreamily at her

And strolled his fingers on her white Cashmere sweater.

She looked appreciatively at her

With a longing look while

Her sexy and disheveled hair

Blew in the wind that carried the fragrance

Of wild roses, vanilla and cardamom.

pramila khadun


Buddha says that all composite things
Are perishable and we should strive
For our own liberation with diligence

In these days of COVID-19
Where nations at large are suffering, and scientists are taking long to find a vaccine,
People are loosing dear ones
And the echoes of their cries are clearly heard in distant shores

Every sunset knows a sunrise
And every end of the tunnel knows light.
Maybe humanity will see light
After wilting and withering in terrains
Hot and dry without a ray of hope

Amidst this marathon task of survival,
Humanity’s inner self, re-engineered
Revolutionized, realized the meaning of existence,
An existence where all men are brothers
And man is higher than what he thinks.
Our perceived differences evaporated,
And we came to the unarguable conclusion
That humanity is one.

We stood like a stunned rabbit
Stuck in front of COVID-19’s light,
Light that liberated us from darkness,
Changing the course of a whole lifetime.
Replenished with an inexpressible
Joy and satisfaction, together we realized
That love, understanding and compassion
Are the requisites of a good life
That will help us find our liberation with diligence

by Pramila Khadun

In the backyard of your heart

He was a London-born Indian designer

Inspired by the rich cultural heritage

That is synonymous with India

And she was a ballet dancer

With sophisticated tastes

And a champion for social causes.

Both knew each other for some time

And soft flames of love and desire

With emotions cascading in all forms

Grew gently in her heart

Sparkling a ray of hope.

He was the answer to her prayers,

The warmth that encased her

And when she thought of him,

Be it dawn or dusk,

A sweet radiance of happiness

Glimmered in her grey eyes.

Her soul embodied the perfection

Of love God had created.

One evening, while they walked

Fingers intertwined,

in the long

Promenade in the pine forest,

She unraveled to him

The sweet mystery of her love.

The horizon shone

Luminescent orange and white.

The birds sang unheard melodies

And she felt stepping on

A threshold to a new experience.

He held her close to his heart

And she whispered in his ears,

‘I know your heart is not mine,

Yet, give me a small place

In the backyard of your heart.’

He held her closer to him,

With a resplendent smile

He strolled his fingers on her hair.

‘In love, I don’t give all my heart,

I always keep some to myself

And this precious part,

I give it to you now,’

The strings of her heart

Strummed into celestial melody

In an air scented with lavender.

Enfolding her soul in his,

He gave her his first passionate kiss.

The golden era of our childhood days

As children, we never spent time

On net browsing day and night.

We only had fisherman’s net

And we caught fish

While our mothers washed clothes

In the large widening rivers.

Our weekends always dawned

With dazling sunshine

With no bulldozers, earth movers

And steam rollers.

We gamboled in the pastures,

Thrilled by kites

Swooping down suddenly.

We ran, laughed, clapped hands, danced

Rolled on the grass green

And relaxed braiding each other’s hair.

We shared the same delights

And the same terrors.

We held marriages of our dolls,

And their babies were not born

By in vitro fertilization.

We just put a smaller doll

Under the frilled frock of the bigger doll.

Our family expanded.

We had the experience and the expertise

To look for food.

We knew the road map to the woods.

Uniting ourselves behind a historic mission,

We headed forwards,

So independent, so inter-related,

Under the guarded looks of the elder ones.

We plucked guavas, mangoes, berries

Of all kinds and tastes,

Always exploring, always finding.

It was a roller coaster ride

And the adrenaline kick was unbelievable.

Our doors were never locked

Nor did our yards have walls.

We never wore halter tops

Flip flops and jeans.

Barefoot, we walked on roads

Brown with crushes red banyan fruits

And our clothes were either

Too big or too small

Always out of fashion.

We were respectful towards parents,

Teachers and elders,

Compassionate towards animals,

Kind to the poor and differently able,

The sick and the babies.

Like nature we always had something

To give to the hungry and the thirsty.

Sometimes, when I look

At the colony of ants nibbling the bread

Or the white swans paddling in the lake,

I think of those children

Deprived of mother and father

Like old clothing left to

Disintegrate quietly in an attic

Leading a life of missed opportunities.

pramila khadun

The ants in my kitchen

My kitchen shows my personal touches

And my artistic sensibilities as well,

For this is the place where I spend

A lot of my time

Preparing, cooking, serving and washing up.

Every time I place my chopping board

On my work surface near my cooker,

A dozen red harmless ants approach

To taste the colorful vegetables

Which I am dicing, chopping,

Shredding, grating, top and tailing.

They always seduce me like the Trojan Horse,

With warmth emanating

From their inner selves,

Reflective of their souls

With the oceanic depth of their hearts.

With tranquil, vast expansive eyes,

The females move with passion

Exuberance and coquetry

And the males maintain

The decorum of being gentlemen.

With a camouflaged smile,

I look at them

And I know how guarded they are,

And how they trust people

Only when they have proven themselves

Trustworthy and loyal.

I blow a kiss with glee

When they move back

Behind my cooker,

Their quiet zone, their comfort zone.

When I go on a holiday,

I think of them

And about what they must be doing

In their world of silent love,

Beyond the intangible,

Beyond the apparent

Far from this madding crowd.

Suddenly, my ants flash to my mind,

Climbing the mount of hope

With no rope,

Like a group of white star cabin crew.

They know I will be back soon

And I can see the fireworks blazing

In a glorious moment

When the sound of my chopping board

And knife ring the bells of joy

For the rapprochement.

pramila khadun



When hungry, eat your rice,
Tired, close your eyes.
When dirty, have a bath.
When in company, talk words soft and nice.
When idle, relax, read books never seen.
In love, never give all your heart,
Keep some for yourself.
In the garden of life, be the flower,
Be not the weed, bees will not hover around you.
When confused, take a shower.
When sad, cry your heart out.
When you feel like laughing,
Laugh loudly until you are tired.
Listen to yourself sometimes,
Keeping your mouth shut.
Think twice before agreeing to what you listen.
Lead your life as if tomorrow you would die.
Live for the moment and be happy.

pramila khadun

The waste of life

When I look at the surf-splashed columns of rock,

With an aerated drink in my hands,

I get lost in the breathtaking scenic panorama.

Somewhere, far away, butterflies must be fluttering

In rapturous delight in the pretty

West lands stretching for miles.

I think of the religions and traditions,

Of slavery and debauchery

Eating and hollowing mankind

The way termites do to wood.

Life seems such a waste.

The love we have not given,

The powers we did not utilize,

The children left to perish with diseases,

The women abandoned shamelessly,

The old ill treated and left to suffer alone,

And The soldiers bleeding to death.

We all thought that the purpose of life

Is seeking for our own happiness,

Making life so cruel and senseless,

A real waste!

When shall we rise from this waste?

Is that day far when

Our waste of life will turn

Into opportunities of wisdom?

pramila khadun

Love is that key

Love is that key which in innumerable guises

Unlocks the mysteries and beauties of life,

Be it Holland or Poland, Pakistan or Rajasthan.

Love flies with the wings of Truth,

Propelled by the winds of change,

Exerting a powerful influence on beautiful minds.

The frozen straits of epiphany,

The riddles of existence, the hidden secrets

Are all unlocked by the key of love.

The recipients of great literary accolades,

The poised and savvy thinkers and philosophers,

The brilliant minds of our generation,

The natural code breakers and the mystic

Who push their minds beyond limits

All know about the power of this key.

The unforgiving mind, the selfish mind,

Always inclined to hurt others by words or actions

Will never find the key of love.

For them, it will be the proverbial

Search of the needle in the haystack.

Love is that key, which, with consummate skill

Can bend History in the direction of justice,

Change the hearts of most hardened cynics,

Dissipate those clouds which fuel conflicts,

Make minarets sway and church spires glisten

While the whole world gets suffused with peace,

A stimulating gaiety spreads around

Ans a magical smile plays on all lips.

pramila khadun

Blood and Ink

Blood and ink
I simply love leaning on your poems
O poet!
It ignites the interplay
Of blue, red and white in my heart,
Setting free those hidden feelings.
Fondled by your poetry,
Readers find their past and present
Resonating in them.
Your poems are so freshening,
So liberating, so rejuvenating,
That they throw a resplendent smile
On their faces, kindling a light
Of exotic pleasure,
Evidenced by your acts of love.
Your poems come as myriad colored jewels
Bridging your heart to readers’ hearts,
Transcending language barriers,
Adorning them in dreams and reverie,
In worship and in wisdom,
And with your great compassionate mind,
You harbour them all,
The segregated, the sedated,
The worn-out, the dishevelled,
Making their hearts
Run out of tune
By creating the chemistry
Of flint and steel.
Your poems speak of the blazing fire,
The fleeting embers, the desires,
The lovelorn cry of peacocks,
The owls in tree hollows,
The transgressions against God’s laws,
The sighs of lovers,
Their pains of separation,
The fresh Spring gales
And the Holy Grail.
Dear poet, I know you write with a pen
And yet, the mystery of
Your powerful pen remains unravelled.
When I think of your pen,
With neither flaw nor fault,
Something deep inside me
Humming a sweet rhapsody, tells me
Your pen writes not with ink,
It writes with your blood
For ink is for the conscious mind,
Blood is for the unconscious mind,
And great poets like you
Write with the unconscious mind.