Sitaphal Basundi

Custard apples{sitaphal in Hindi} are my absolute favourite. They’re so good on their own. And sitaphal basundi or sitaphal kulfi or sitaphal ice cream or even cream-of-sitaphal, yes just about all desserts made using this element… are super delicious. They’re seasonal, so only during the monsoons. Maharashtra gets the juiciest and plumpest sitaphals. And this year, they’re still available even post-monsoon. I intend to write a light-hearted short poem dedicated to my genuine love for this delectable fruit!

Custard Apple

You know I love you, Custard-Apple
If I could, I'd build you a chapel
And everyone who came to worship
Would forget about hatred, jealousy and gossip
Because, a happy tummy
Takes away much worry
It could be just momentary
But joy is worth it, even if temporary
Sweetness in every bite
But, you've got lots of seeds inside
Reminds me about the complexity of life
Good and bad experiences go side-by-side
When I begin to devour
And savour every hour
You just get away another year
making me break into tears
This year I tasted something new
One that I could eat all day, that too
Sitaphal Basundi is the name of the dessert
With my tastebusds it continues to flirt
For those who have tasted this delicacy
You really must get your hands on this certainly
It's like a melted kulfi with bits and puree of custard apple
Kulfi is the Indian version of ice cream, only better
It's made of reduced whole milk, it's not just babel
I know I seem deranged writing a fruity love letter!
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Disclaimer: This poem is purely literary. Please read it with an open mind and out of respect for the written word. To me, writing is my life. There is nothing I love more. I have a very creative imagination. Most of my poems do not hint at my life/situation. Kindly refrain from drawing such parallels. Much of what I write is purely fictional. Situations and examples may be hypothetical. I have always written about topics I am passionate about – Christianity, makeup, melancholic poetry, food, romance, women’s issues, soulful music, narratives, etc. Given the circumstances, my gender, situation, geography, etc., I feel the need to put up a disclaimer every time I write a romantic/melancholic/intense piece! Everyone is entitled to an opinion. But, please don’t interpret this poem in a disrespectful manner. That is just my humble request. Please extend me the grace of excusing typos if you notice any. I seldom ever edit due to time constraints. My writings may contain material unsuitable for children


  1. Oh Dear Rue to Count Our Blessings is a Prayer
    Oh Dear Rue to Put Our Blessings in A Poem is



    Hehe or
    Hard to Understand

    The Way i Do it Some Days

    Yet Rue is the Soul of the Poet

    When i come Her Way She Feels

    The Chords and Strings of my Soul MuSiC

    We Surely Resonate This Way in Choirs of


    Soul FRiEnDS

    For How it Sounds
    When i Harmonize With
    The Choir Director From
    The Very Back of the Church

    Those Are Just Metaphors Yet
    The Elder Ladies Do Turn Around
    From the Pews Ahead of me So Surprised

    To Hear A Voice from Above Come From What
    Otherwise Looks Like Someone Who Would Enforce Laws…

    True the Profession i Have Most often have Been Confused for by
    Looks as Soon as i got Nearly Superman Strong Looking and for
    Some Reason Folks Think my SHades Are More For Undercover

    Than Previous Disability in the Worst Pain Known to Humankind as
    Street Lights at 3 am were as Painful as Looking at the Sun at 12 Noon…

    And Sure Even if i had my eyes closed and ears closed no matter the day
    or now forevermore then where a second Lasted a Thousand Years of Hell…

    Yet of Course Losing the Feeling/Memory of a Smile Losing All Emotions That Was

    The Real Flavor of Hell

    Just No Connection to
    The Rest of Existence

    (God) At All Just a Life
    of Never Ending Pain and

    Numb Such A Gift that is…

    i Could Never Sing Like that
    Before i Went to Hell i could
    Never Dance Like i Do Before
    i Went to Hell and There Was no
    Poetry Changing All My Words this way
    From Soul the Greatest Gift of ‘Custard Apple’

    So Ironically

    May be the

    Gates of


    Both Entered
    And Stayed And
    Returned to Dance And Sing Again Now…

    Next Stop/Go Forgiveness my FRiEnD…

    And i Surely Put All my BLeSSinGS
    DarK Thru LiGHT in Poetry too For
    There Are no NuMBeRS iN Heaven
    Now Although i Do Make All Those Symbols

    Holy Sacred

    And Divine

    With the Rest

    of All that is God
    DarK Thru LiGHT As
    ETeRNaL BLeSSinGS NoW…

    Yes As We Dance And Sing
    This Inhale of Peace This Exhale
    of Love This Gift This Breath NoW mY FRiEnD..:)

    Liked by 1 person

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