Author Archives: Brindha Vinodh

About Brindha Vinodh

I am a postgraduate in Econometrics but a writer within. I have contributed to several anthologies and been published on many e-zines, journals, OPAS, etc. and a featured poet at an international publication house. My roseate sonnet was selected as one of the best poems of 2020 by the same group-InnerChildPress international.

Seeking the soul:

This question erupts an earthquake-
I tremble, stumble and fumble
when asked-“Have you met your soul”?

What does it mean?

Clueless, I ponder, I wonder, I wander,
I meander with the flow of the blue river
near my house whose mouth smells of terrible urine,
yonder across the lavender bushes,
the red oleanders, the violet roses
that have become a dry desert of Thar.

     It seems to be eluding, the answer-

gossamer cobwebs all around me-
I get back home.
I dust the red rust hidden behind.
A vaccum cleaner helps.
I wash the dirt, look at myself in the
“Ah! Finally!”-
I hear a voice like
the tender dew that kisses a white lily.
I look around. I don’t see anyone.
I look at my pomegranate lips in the mirror.
They are locked safely.
There are goosebumps on my skin
like green grasses that have sprouted
from fresh drizzles.

Something in me says-
“Just go and relax and have a cup of coffee.”

When I am about to,
I hear from outside a feeble whimper-
“Amma! Is there any food?

It is that of a woman with a saree and a blouse-
both tattered here and there like blisters
and her baby between her
breasts and navel tied like a swing to a tree.

Something tells me to give her food.
I get into my kitchen and
give her
some rice and spinach that I have cooked,
packed in an aluminum foil.

She gets it- blesses me and leaves.

Unwinding, the warps seem to be coming to shape.

Peace, kindness are all within.

Maybe it’s the soul within!

By Brindha Vinodh


Where do I begin?
Do I begin by asking my mom to forgive me
for putting up with my tantrums
as a child
or not helping her out with the chores
or my dad for not making him glad
with the best of my scores
or not being the daughter of their dreams?

Do I seek forgiveness from my husband
for failing to appease and please him
or for coping with my meaningless chides?

Or my children for gnawing away
in the remorse of my maternal guilt
by ignoring their ingenuous deeds
failing naively to notice the little nuances
that elicit heeds?

Or to Mother Earth
for making her bleed from this worldly fever
of unscrupulous ravenous pangs of human
tainting her with the smokes of human

Forgiveness is a blessing.
Blessed are those who are forgiven
and still blessed the ones who forgive.

Man is not a master of time
but a servant of his own misgivings,
a slave of his own judgement-
where in this mortal life
forgiveness like a double-edged knife
teaches him
treats him
Cures him

Forgiveness is the exquisite essence
of human fragrance,
the ultimate superiority of inferior mankind.

by Brindha Vinodh

The roadmap to success

It drags me underground
and I burrow through buried holes-
insects bite me-
porcupines prick me-
try to pull my legs.

I push myself-
set my
first foot-
manage to
reach the surface of the ground
while the moody moon looks from above-
she wraps herself in a black bedsheet-
goes on a slumber.

Black hole.
Buried holes.

Pressure from above.
Pressure from below.

One step at a time
as I manage-
dry leaves disowned by trees
blow towards me-
inject me upfront
on my nose-
some stab on the back-
the heart bleeds.

Gibran talks to me through his verses-
I imagine myself as a river now
that the whole way
back has been blocked-
that I must move forward
that I must make progress.

As I do-
petrichor from somewhere
tosses through my
the earth is still alive-
the dry spell is over-
I know now there’s some hope.

Not far away-
a fruit hangs from a branch

while the sun shines
crystal clear-
transparent as a yellow mirror.

I pluck and taste the fruit-
it is so sweet-
sweat shimmers like
beads of pearls on my body
while the heart no longer clotted
pumps corals of red.

I know now what it means to taste a fruit.

Brindha Vinodh

The time zones of emotions

People’s emotions are like time zones.

Someone out there is a mellow morning
in whose crimson yellow warmth flower eyes bloom
and petal eyelids dance
merrily, merrily in mirth.

Someone out there is the night of the no moon-
plunged into a solitary black hole
exposed too early to the dark truth
from an unexpectedly early sunset
in a family of two.

Someone out there is an afternoon-
a fiery passionate rebellious red
shouting slogans for reforms
from the seething heat of hunger strike
of a cauldron belly.

Someone out there is that translucent wee hour
love-making secretly in the fantastic reality
of a romantic mood as two bowl lips
serve the best of their essences.

Still, yet, someone out there is that
delicate twilight-
nostalgia rains in collages of black and white
blurred memories of second childhood
invite the first
Eastman images flash in between.

People’s emotions are like time zones
and these time zones change
when left unperturbed
for the universe knows to strike a balance
and make equilibrium exist.

Brindha Vinodh

Positive vibes- the need of the hour

Soon, the black crenulated clouds
shall move on
and the sky shall boast of its peacock beauty,
the licking tongues of the gluttonous waves
burning into ashes of smoke.

The sun shall no more be a black apple,
the phoenix moon shall emerge from the black hole,
jasmines shall bloom from deserts.

Masks shall be discarded as banana peels,
the wind shall spread the fragrance of
blooming memories,
ripples of laughter emanating as silver

With an oasis called hope,
tomorrow shall no longer be a mirage
but a milky dawn with a better life,
a better planet.

Somewhere, someone prays, pens

At the age of sixteen
when her cheeks ought
to be an autumnal leaf
of pink from blush,
enamored in a peacock’s
train of love’s strange thoughts,
a girl somewhere writes a
peace poem, praying
for her brother to return
from the battle
as the dark night perches on her eyes,
waiting for that ultimate
dawn that shall break
through the crumbling walls
of forts of men
having toasted breads
with almond milk
and applesauce.

Brindha Vinodh


Flamingo leaves fly past
my window pane on
an autumn evening,
wrapping the ground
with sheaths of pink bedsheets
whilst I wait for my own words
to fall from the tree rooted within
my heart, mirroring the season’s
frame of mind.

Across my window, on the other
side, a teenaged girl sketches
puddles from the fingers of her feet,
dreaming, drifting, shifting to a planet
that she alone knows,
in oblivion the orbiting echoes
of her mother’s calls fading.

And across me on the right side,
definitely not left,
an enthrallingly fascinated
boy, around twelve or so,
smiles from his dancing eyes,
capturing a somersaulting spider
from the gossamer glasses
of an immaculate window
called ‘autism.’

Brindha Vinodh

Turning inwards is no more

Turning inwards is no more
of what’s done and gone of yore
as I think of it in this night
when the moon is an elephant’s ivory
and the sky an American Red Robin
and the stars garlands of white daisies
serenely singing the
lullabies of melody with the blooming
white jasmines.

Yes, quiet and quite,
as I feel if I should reflect,
I feel that
‘rights ’ and ‘wrongs’ and ‘wrongs’ and ‘rights’
are all chameleons of time.
Green, red and orange-change with
yesterday, today and tomorrow-
with people, situations and maturity.

Yes, turning inwards is no more
for to taste the fruits that I lick
today from the seeds kissed by
a hundred suns would simply be
unfair for in the process a
thousand weeds have manured
the tree that I am today.

Yes, turning inwards is no more
for to do so would mean trespassing
days back to childhood, of the earth
that I was that boasted of all things
pristine, nibbled not by the
(in)sanity, sanctity of time and
peeled like layers of garlic.

Yes, turning inwards is no more of
what’s done and gone of yore
for when life itself is unsure
and incertitude the new ruler-
to go with the flow of it
would be the path of wisdom.

Brindha Vinodh

Eternal verses

Man created walls
to avoid differences of coexistence
as says even Robert Frost in
his verses in “Mending Wall.”

Yet, in assimilated avarice and ego,
in larger groups he fights
for that wall of
borders and boundaries,
of a larger landscape,
of mighty mountains and more,
in irony’s guffaws
somewhere, some day, a scapegoat soldier
falling prey.

The forgotten fact, however, remains
that man himself is crippled
between the two hands of a clock,
that time is eternal
and man is mortal.

To those who envisage
potential peace as utopian,
I say that history is a cycle;
I cannot mend the ways of the world
but change the ways
my children think.

Let genesis begin from the
unfolding generation,
new seeds sprout
as strong banyan trees.

I will teach my children

I will teach my children
that the world is a bowl of sugar
and bitter gourd and if they
have no reasons to believe me,
‘Trust me, I will thrust them
to taste them with their own
hands to the tongue.’

On days they come complaining

of bleeding bruises,
I will protect them with bandages
and to the desires of a healing heart,
give them a bunch of chocolate chip cookies
to munch, but beyond all, I will show them the
television news that flashes images
of weeping souls wistfully wishing
for the war to end, alas! a lass
also in confused chaos from her
first menstruation mourning over
the death of her mom.

And on days they say that their lunch box was packed with
grains of rice that contained a
little less salt than usual,
I will set them free from the
cozy confines of my home
to explore all along the narrow streets
so they come back to me with
that extra pinch of salt
upon seeing children
of their age seeking alms with arms
shivering from the chills of a
Winter evening, suppressed of supper.


And yet, a celebration will be called for when they fly high with good grades,
discipline from demeanor
of ethics and etiquette. And no matter
the ecstasy from their travel to fantasy,
when they still come back to this
land called life where real roses bloom
and mom and dad are super heroes,
they will know that life is still beautiful.
In that way, they will learn that
all things good and bad are
like parallel lines in geometry,
they go hand-in-hand.

Brindha Vinodh