Indian Goddesses of the Kitchen

That place is their second home, where,

Most hours of their lives are spent,

Yes! There is a small temple which,

Isn’t visited by the horde, but the Goddesses,

Live there, its’ most often filled with smoke,

The overpowering smells of spices and herbs,

That stays on their hands, even when they,

Are done with their making varied victuals,

But how much their lovers crook their faces,

And nose while being passionate towards their,

Lady love, alas! That stubborn culprit stays long,

Those smell of garlic and pungent herbs remaining,

Still fresh on their hands and ordinary clothes,

Often becomes the reason for spoiling romance,

And again with dawn, the Goddesses awake,

Entering into their temple, awakening the steel,

Utensils with clamming sounds and when she,

Begins making the paste of spice over the,

Brawny chest of the grindstone, and her delicate,

Hands rolls the spherical stone crushing few chillies,

And cloves, it seems she crushes all her emotions,

Of her melancholic heart, and gets the paste,

Of love, for the grindstone’s love for his Goddess,

Comes out as she smiles in solace collecting the,

Spice from its rock body, its chest then swells in pride,

For it remains the clandestine lover of hers’,

Soon then the smell of the oil burning in the pan,

Fills into the nostrils of the inmates, as they,

Hide their sleepy faces beneath the pillows,

And silently cursing the Goddess for the chaos,

In that small, hot and murky place called the ‘kitchen’,

And then the whupishhh sound, the tempering,

Of bay and curry leaves, mixed with Asafoetida,

Tells her benign presence, into that smoky temple,

Where seasons’ effects are the most,

Summer makes them prettier, with drops of sweat,

Sitting gracefully like pearls of salt on their forehead,

Which she carefully wipes now and then,

With one end of her sari, that stays tucked to her waist,

A serpent like braid also moves along with her,

Elegant pelvic moves, but she is not the one,

There to seduce thy lust, oh! She is busy to create,

Those divine delicacies to make their appetite roar,

Hoping to make way into the hearts of their men,

How naive! She is doing it day every, nights all,

Still trying to find the way to rule thy hearts,

But a twisted, discontented face she gets all in the end,

Even if there is a pinch of salt less or more,

If the red chilli has made the colour more crimson,

The Goddesses then have to listen to the,

Incessant complains and yet she manages to smile,

In the mid of that mayhem, knowing that another day is,

Going to be a struggle, to make that ‘Perfect’ platter,

That will erase all the downbeat thoughts from,

Their lover’s mind, poor thing! Even the slumber,

Of these Goddesses are filled with the nightmares,

Of hollow boxes of supplies, and that challenging,

Question which evermore sits on their heads,

Like the ‘Asura’ whom once Goddess Durga,

Annihilated, but now he has taken disguise in the,

Form of that abiding question, what to make,

Today, tomorrow and day after tomorrow,

These Goddesses yet, in the mid of the chaos,

Often think while cooking, oh! That wedding,

Function is near; a birthday ceremony is approaching,

Oh my God! What will I wear, and in between,

Her vegan pot kept on low flame, she inquests into,

Her wardrobe, flipping and turning few saris,

Now the Indian Goddesses have the most critical,

Thing in her mind, during her respite from the kitchen,

She has to look beautiful, and when the day comes,

Her hands which had ruined myriad nights,

Of love making and seldom that romantic mood,

Of their lovers, but tonight she paints them in colour,

She wears her much worn silk Sari, even the jasmines,

Take pride in days those when she adorn them on her,

Neat chignon, yes! She knows when to be the queen,

Yes! She looks beautiful, the Goddess then roams,

Amid many of her kind, they all might be the slaves,

In their kitchen, but when outside they are the perfect,

Mistress of their men, albeit reaching home she shall again,

Jig into those ordinary crumpled clothes, no matter,

How messed up she stays, her dwelling remains neat,

She changes the sheet, but again her story from next,

Day begins into that kitchen, where turmeric will,

Ruin her beautiful painted nails, some will even crack,

But she won’t bother; she finds solace in her little,

Kitchenette, and how much she does it fine, the belly of,

Their men would tell, yes! She will always be that,

Gorgeous mistress outside, without letting the world,

Know, her demeanour will be like an elite woman,

Who does no chores and has servants around,

The Indian wives know it all, they are the Goddesses,

Of the kitchen, undeniably the best aromas rise from,

Their kitchens when they are fully awakened,

As much they are the figurine of covetousness into the,

Eyes of their men, yes such Indian Goddesses do exist…



*Asura* A member of a class of divine beings in the Vedic period, which in Indian mythology tend to be evil

*Durga* Hindu Goddess

Poem By ~ Monalisa Joshi~



Whispering Murmurs

bc19ebaf400cac4c195f0d60838af22dLast night I heard the night whisper,

To the moon, “Darling aren’t you in glee,

You shall be in my arms for long now,

And we shall make love for eternity”,

She then silently whispered into the,

Ears of her sole lover, “My dearest I am”

The night smiled and filling her into,

His embrace he asked, “Tell me aren’t,

You feeling richer now, for the day who,

Was evermore thy foe, shall soon sink,

Into the abyss of horizon, no longer it,

Shall be able to keep us far, oh! My sweet,

Beloved our glory days shall reach far,”

And again I heard her whisper calmly,

While kissing gently on night’s brawny,

Cheeks, “Yes my dearest lover, I do”,

And I saw the night’s chest swelling in,

Pride, he then held her tighter as she,

Sighed, her cheeks blushing more greyer,

The night then said with a frown, “promise,

Me my sweetheart, that thy love stays same,

Even when its summer and winter’s game,

The rain is the most callous, it hides you in,

His darkest veil, those are my murky days,

When I can’t glance, thy iridescent body,

Thus my love, my head remains ever,

Bowed to the autumn, he is the kindest,

Mate, yes! My beloved I hear the autumn’s,

Footsteps round the corner, I am eager aren’t you”,

The moon shyly hid her face into night’s embrace,

And replied in the most innocent voice, “Yes, my,

Love I am”, soon she got merged into the darkest,

Veil of night, twain lovers got lost into another,

Realm of making love, silence prevailing all over,

As far my eyes could see, I only saw the most,

Ravenous night, I then left the lovers in,

Their solace, getting inside the duvet I thanked,

Them, for telling the news, I loved autumn,

Just like them, the season of shedding and,

Standing a bare soul, yet being most beautiful,

An uncanny autumn zephyr then murmured into,

My ears playing with my tresses, soon then I,

Too sank into the embrace of my earthly lover…


~ Monalisa Joshi ~


Pearl Princess By ~~ Shree ~~


                                                  Greetings from Shree

“I wish Plethora all the success from the bottom of my heart. Hope this blog attains a respectable and esteemed height in the creative world.

Since the genre is Romance, for me poetry is the best way to express that emotion. Since childhood, Fantasies and Fairy tales have romanticised me extensively. Following my heart I have painted this romantic poetry, ‘Pearl Princess’.”



It’s your birthday! Wish to offer you the most coveted present –

Matchless in realm.

Ruminated plunging into emotions,

And found for you this garland of rhythm!


Some precious memories,

And some enchanting stories,

Some deep-seated, hidden treasures,

Secured in those glories.

Once upon a time, there was a fellow

Simple, shy and young, had a heart like a child,

But he was like a river without a rein,

In his dreams wild!

His princess, he thought, was a pearl unsurpassed,

Lived in the conch-shell land.

But alas! Even after his untold endeavours,

He might not even hold her hand.

Fellow leashed his dreams,

Bridled the gamut of sentiments.

Looked away from the hopes of heart,

And left for a new land.


The princess of conch-shell land

Was not a mere pearl,

She had a heart filled with desires,

Passions hidden, behind her eyelash curl.

She lived her days in agony,

Tears in her eyes,

Why her beloved deserted her,

And shattered all ties?

Princess kept the flame of desires burning

In her aching heart for long,

Eventually she gave up, her hopes washed away

By her sobs, like an unheard song.


Era elapsed, fellow returned,

Realised his love for princess,

But she had left for a faraway land,

Dejected, heartbroken, waiting for days countless.

Her lover began to seek her like insane,

Knew no bounds,

Princess, anxious and desirous, reciprocated his love,

Passions spellbound.

Pearl princess gifted the love of her life

The precious conch-shell.

He kissed her and whispered,

“I am only yours, my belle.”


It’s your birthday, desire to gift you this dream,

My hidden treasure.

Now it’s yours, glorify it with your love,

Obsession and sheer pleasure.


Houston, USA

~~ July 2017 ~~


About the Author  

Shree is originally from India, resides abroad. She has travelled over the world extensively. She has remained an IT Professional for several years. She expresses her creative mind in numerous ways and penning down her thoughts is one of the endeavour. ‘Secret Expressions’ was her first published book in English in USA. It was a compilation of short stories and has seen success both in USA and India. ‘Silent Invaders’ is her first English novel published in India. The story has received much appreciation from the readers and the reviewers. Other than short stories and novels, Shree also writes poems, articles and travelogues for anthologies and blogs. She recently wrote for an anthology ‘Flock – The Journey’, which has been listed in Amazon Bestsellers.


Seeing My Older Self from the Eyes of My Younger Self

That dusk was an ordinary one,

The twilight inflowing silently,

Leisurely embracing my galleria,

And the twittering of flocks of birds,

In the saffron sky, returning to their,

Nests, a droplet of sweat dripped by,

 Of the summer’s dusk, from my,

Cheeks reminding me of the time,

I sauntered towards my kitchenette,

Brewed the leaves in boiling water,

Seeing it turning red, the liquor was,

Released, and I kept staring from the,

Casement while making the tea,

Pouring it then carefully into the,

Pot, resting it beside a plate full of

My homemade fresh Chocó cookies,

Yes! I was generous enough to pour the,

Chocolate chips in it, and sizing them,

Giant, one shall fill the hunger of my,

Beloved, who’ll be home any sooner!

Before the twilight breaks and night,

Awakes from its day’s long slumber,

I have to serve him tea, but before his,

Arrival I have to get ready, adorn my grey,

Hair with jasmines, taking one glance,

At my wrinkled, yet beautiful face,

That kohl of youthful days still rests,

On my weary eyes, and lips have turned,

Naturally blue, showing the frost taking,

Over, gladly we are still in much love,

 As seeing each other’s face after a day,

Long of chores, the enthusiasm remains the,

Same, of those youthful days, I often wonder,

How time fled, seeing my man growing,

Old and he saw me slowly getting wrapped,

Beneath the sheets of wrinkles, we have,

Been fortunate, to be still each other’s side,

 I was soon then ready in my small,

Garden with a tea pot, cups and cookies,

And I must tell, that I have heard words,

Echoing in air, as the aroma fled,

On the chariot of gust, myriad mouths,

Were willing to taste that tea, made with,

Love, but it was solely for him to have,

In these few of our numbered years,

Goodness! Then I saw his silhouette,

Standing as a shadow, as he approached,

He had a warm smile, and we did drank in,

Peace, from those cups of love, but coming,

 Till here was a journey, of lows and highs,

That we overcame together as man and wife,

I wish and eye this life for my older self,

Beside my lover, how much my younger self,

Humbly wishes! This waiting shall never,

Stop and neither shall those tea cups,

    Ever remain hollow, it’ll be the end then…

                                                          ~ Monalisa Joshi ~