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.

Not asleep, but aware

“Asleep but not oblivious
of the unslept, unsleeping” – Adrienne Rich

She comes home, around 9 pm,
opens the house,
tiredness crawls into her every part
of being, body, from limbs to
like a creeping worm,
does the routine,
the usual,
somewhere there on that
dining table, a half-eaten piece of
wheat bread from that hurried
morning schedule waits to be
chewed, just like so many
things around her…

She stands from her balcony
and gazes at the night sky-
a black blanket with silver stars embroidered
and a white daisy moon with petal clouds-
her only muse these days being
the night sky…

gets to bed,
thousands of thoughts unfurl
before her like water from a tap let open,
of all the news she read while
coming back home, buying
the evening newspaper
from that local boy, hardly
pushed to
early employment from
the pricking pangs of poverty-
yet another case of
an eight-year girl being abused
by her male teacher,
a sixteen-year tribal girl raped by
three rich men,
air strikes, invasions elsewhere,
a farmer’s suicide,
rising refugees,
racist remarks,
a case of dowry harassment death
in a remote village,
civic bodies dumping the
plan of banning plastics…

she knows of all the black
gossamers around her,
the economic crisis
to the politics
in the world
to the
civic sense, common sense being
lost by some local bodies,

but she falls asleep at 11 pm,
without being oblivious
to the unslept, unsleeping,
the tiredness crawling to
her eyes finally,
when she becomes a noun,
knowing of all the verbs
around her.

By Brindha Vinodh


My thoughts take wings and soar high,
beyond horizons defined by humans.

Let there be love
and roses and kisses be exchanged,
between lovers young and young at heart
and husbands and wives
and partners for years…

Let there be love
and greetings and wishes be exchanged,
between brothers and sisters
and fathers and sons,
dads and daughters
and girls and moms…

Let there be love
and honey-coated words be exchanged,
between fellow human beings
with due respect for all
for “hate is too great a burden to bear”(MLK Jr.).

Let there be love today, tomorrow and ever.

Brindha Vinodh
February 14, 2022

The Past, The Present, The Future

She keeps nibbling me,
I keep nibbling her,
time and I,
both losing a part of each other
in the process-
learning to digest
honey-dipped memories
with a pinch of salt,
marinated with the squeezed juices of
bitter gourd, tangy mangoes
and hot chillies.

We both know we cannot
alter what has already been digested,
yet we keep nibbling,
hoping to improvise
on the combinations
that would make memories

The sun, the moon, the stars
and the seasons testify
our process.

But a day will come,
when I will no longer be
able to nibble her,
for she would have gobbled
me up wholly,
and exactly on that
very same day,
I would be a bitter-sweet memory
in someone else’s heart.

The sun, the moon, and the
stars still testifying.

By Brindha Vinodh

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