Benazir Bhutto Assassinated

The world is sobbing
Oh! Such a disgrace
They end the life of a
Woman of grace
In exile she lived
For many years
She returned to give back
The freedom to her world
But blood thirsty, cruel
Senseless gents
Knew not how to handle her verse
They slit her throat
And now are cursed.
Will they be able to celebrate this awful bloodshed?
Or will they escape with another cover-up?

Is it right? Should we fight?
I feel miserable as I write.

I wish to be free

I would like to compress my dreams
To match my needs
My dreams are too large to fit
On my shelf of reality
Their enormous size overflows my budget
Larger than life, they fill the space,
Clutter my emotions in an unfulfilled stakes
Bury me under their heavy weight
Stamping me down
With wild expectations
Leaving me shattered
With disappointments
I cannot cash
The desires of my dreams


I wish to be free
From expectations,
From disappointments,
From illusions
I wish to compress my dreams
to just to match my needs
I wish to be free.

Street Urchin

No!
My heart does not move
Not any more!

Not even when I see a street urchin,
His hands, soiled, outstretched
Beneath my neck,
His eyes meeting mine
Imploring for help for one more time

Will he hobble and cross the street to
buy a bread that are sold for a dime?
Or will he stagger across the road,
to his boss, who owns him now
Who had chopped off his feet
Clipped off his wings
and send him here to beg?.

No!
My heart does not move!
Not any more!

How can it move?
It is stoned and lifeless,
peeled off its feel.

Dedicated to my cousin, Baby,(Alias Meena)

Sixty today, should I call you by your name‘Baby’?
But believe me you are NO ole baby

Wrapped with a heart of gold
Your words are soft but still quite bold

Untouched by world’s cruel life style
Living always with a big broad smile

Having touched many weak, low minds
You helped them bloom in flowers upright

How do you curse, those abusive verse?
That is still coated with buttery words?

Your laughter is heard across the ocean
It rings with love and true affection

At sixty, hope you will grow more bold
Remember, you are not that old

Your inspiration is contagious, maybe
Although you are still called ‘Baby’

Facebook Poetry Competition number 1

The rules were simple: we had to post a poem no more than 8 lines, and must begin with the word "Face" and end with the word "book".

My take: six entries

Take 1:Face the truth

I am good
Starched are my collars
Now part with your dollars
‘Eight lines’ was the size
I deserve a prize
You collected enough clichés, look,
Now you can publish a book

Take2:

“Face it”,
You had said many times
Holding on to my trembling thighs
On those cold, clattering nights
Your precious words, a soothing balm
Could always mend my fissured heart
But now, look at you, a wrecked fool
I see you crumpled behind that book

take3:

Face above sand
caught in a blizzard
unprotected, helpless
trapped like a lizard
A joke turned sour
his friends, all gone
if by miracle ,he survives
he may write a book

Take 4:

Face of a baby, soft to a touch
Touch on a delicate petals of a rose
Rose, its fragrance hide the pain of the hurt
Hurt from a spike of a thorn beneath its bud
Bud, unfolded mystery, overlapping layer by layer
Layers hidden in the labyrinth of words
Words that come alive and dance on being off the hook
Hooked and trapped, they were, between the pages of a book

Take5:

Face the fact
Fact is no fiction that can be churned
Into a whirlpool of thoughts and feelings,
Fact is a simple truth
A virgin truth that cannot be altered
Not even in a book

Take6:

Face is potholed by too many pokes
Of friends and families in every nook
Vampires fights, somersaulting werewolf
Frightening shadows of their crazy look

Playing Scrabulous, and other virtual games,
Enjoying cold coffee by the brook
Many summers ago, on a rainy day like this
All I would do, was to just gape at a book


But the winners were with much better verses and the dollars went to
Facebook Poetry Competion 1.0

Here are the winners:

#1 Tolu Ogunlesi (Nigeria)

Instructions

Face the future.
Pick the moon off

the dark, cold floor
of night. Slot it gently
into the earth, and wait.

Nothing might happen.
Just like in an empty book.


#2 Janet Vickers (Vancouver, BC)

Face: what do you mean?
That nose gets larger each time
I see it. What can it smell?
Those lids become heavier
over bloodshot eyes and the mouth
droops so naturally. Your image
is intimate and your language foreign.
You are a heavy book.



#3 Dominic O’Rourke (London)

Face left the A Team
Around the end of the Eighties
having had enough
of Hannibal's cigars
and Mr T's golden chains
and Murdock being Murdock
He retired to a cabin,
in the woods and wrote a book

Recipe for friendship

On the fire of warm passion
Heat a spoonful of love
Add in a pinch of compassion
And let your friendship grow

Stir it with emotions of love
Mix it in glassful of imagination
Simmer a while for cooking
A friendship of long duration

Strain out the hatred and disillusion
Churn out the degrees of suspicions
Grind the molecules of corruption
Pound away cloves of rough commotion

The emotions, pure and true, can be
Served with a salad of cheer
On those days of celebrations
When you feeling blue, my dear

Just say it

Not a shirt, on your back
On your knee like that
Know not what, do I do for you?

But darling I love you,
My roses for you are not blue
Don’t you see my profound feeling for you?

Oh, look around this place
All in suits and full of grace
None are bare backed and tanned like you

Don’t you worry, my Dear
I am crouched down here
Just soaking under sweet glances of you

Shoo! Go away right now
You will embarrass me, in this town
I think not, that I have ever spoken to you

You know me, my dear
You reside in my heart, up here
You may hear my love ballet for you

Not now, barebacked
Go home, I mean that
Or you will see, this big car, crush you

Crush me, sweet love
Crush me tight, with your words
But just say that you do, love me too.

World is Round

World is huge but still is round
Your smile can never meet a frown
Post-tiring day, its worth, you will see
Your love and care, always come around.

So pick your neck above the sand
And breathe the fragrance of love abound
Share your wealth of word and song
Let ego, hatred, filth be drowned

Walk with pride through streets of fame
Uplift souls that are weak or lame
Expect not a grain of thanks
Just do your bit and move along

Fruits of smile one day will reap
The flowers will bloom in your happy mind
World is huge but still you will see
Your compassion sure will come around.

-Pushpa

The Keh-Mukarni

The "Say-and-Deny" Riddles

Keh (say) Mukarni (denial) is an interesting genre of riddles played between two people, where one of them describes something in a way that it is mistaken by the other as a reference to the first one's beloved, but which finally turns out to be something completely different.

For what it's worth, here's my keh-Mukarni,

Shaft is bent, hands so sweaty
Whacked like a sucker, I can hardly walk
To be desired, a follow-through leaves a lot
Hold on, I need to wash my balls
Ahhh! That lovely game of Golf

My Silence

I wrap my silence around me like a scarf
Concealing my emotions beneath its flap
For if I speak , I might explode
Shattering my silence in bits and shreds.

-Pushpa

A kitchen (English Ghazal)

Clutching my sweaty hands, he plugs me inside my kitchen
Lost I am, flabbergast, I look at wall around this hi-fi kitchen

Glossy cabinets clothe surrounding walls, under
My bare feet, a soft carpet feels good in this dry kitchen

News scream from walls, cool air floods this room, there is
Even an attached wash room close by kitchen

I cannot squat down and serve, I am confused, how
do I cook? I keep standing on my toes in this high kitchen.

The families serve their own meals, emptying big tumblers of food
Village home is better, Munni wish she could say “goodbye kitchen”

Party at Village Fair

Sun had set, but none arrived
Those party veterans, always late
The troopers practiced again and again
With same beat and rhythm to excel in game
With drums, trumpets, music of trinklets
All dipped in exhausions and in pains.

First guest entered, it was past mid-night
The dancers gyrated with a slower gait.
Music was slow, Ah! Such a bore!
None were interested in any folk lore

They plugged the wires to the boxes
The stereo resonated, vibrating the air,
Soon the fields were filled with crowd
All dancing, twisting to the beat
Of rock music, disco and retro
While ethnic music went to sleep.

Who am I?

Who am I? It matters not
Just a piece of clay with a soul
Feeling, thinking, reason, thought
Attributed it to make a mold

Could dance on a toe upright
When smile was woven under light
Hurt by a simple poke of
Restlessness of my fickle mind

Squirming, wriggling in a fight
Like a decayed robot with a tool
Attaching ‘I’ to the game
I had become just an another fool

Sleeping, dreaming, walking-on
Divinity I could attain not
Walking hand-in hand with soul
Might help me discover who I am

Ssshh

Ssshh!

Screams the picture on a wall
A cute kid smiles through a frame
Her index finger clips her lips
Looking shyly through crinkled eyes
Her silky hair, glow in light
Behind her chubby cheeks, they hide

Ssshh!

I read the threatening print again
Pain in my molars, a trick it plays
I try to smother my unbearable strain
Noise is loud, mind is drained
With folded fist, I contemplate,
In silence, I suppress the wait

Cyber Group Attends an Off-line Party

Jealous I was
Of missing the feast
Of village fair
Without a lease

They teased us with their
Virtual pics
Of puppets, drinks
And physique twists
I tried to squeeze in
Into their game
By associating face
With their names
Oh! So that’s XYZ I said
As I slid covetously
Through those frames
They smiled broadly
Through those slots
Those online veterans
Smoking pot

One event I missed that day
Because it was planned
Too far away

A worm called silence

Silence is comforting
If it is but for a pause
Too long a silence
Can break the heart apart

You store your cabinet of mind
And clutter with all the negative thoughts
There will be worms of suspicions
That will eat up all the stock
Of cheerful, happy memories
That you so lovingly hoarded each day
And you will leave with only silence
That might haunt you everyday.

My Canvas

Blue, no red, let me fill this space
The brush, a mini mop,
Sweeps on my canvas tray

I dip my mini mop
In five-holed plate
And splash the canvas
With a grace

The picture comes live
Staring at me
I can hear it sing
Dance and breathe
The colors join hand
And make merry
Reds, and blues,
Grey and greens
All the colored moods
Intermingled
Into a design
Together they smile
On a newly framed face

Unusual Marriage

Girl with girl
Now that’s a game
No issues about sex
No work loads divide
Who mows the lawn?
Who cooks the grains?
No ego mentioned
Nor a question of sex
No rights to stretch
No equalities refreshed
No interfering third person
In choices or crush

Tones are same
on a colored canvas
differences handled
without a fuss

It is a free decision
Of two equal minds
When girl marries girl
And both are brides.

A slip of your tongue....

I told you several times
Don’t say
Don’t say it at all
Let it be
It will pass
People will forget
No need to remind
Let bygones be bygones
Make peace
Cook harmony
Serve compassion

But you pierced the silence
With your sharp words
Chopping the sentiments
Into tiny pieces of pain

You wasted it all
And flushed the friendship
Down the drain

Moma! Please!!

I slurp up the milk, didn’t you hear me burp?
Another diaper, oh no, was there sales again?

Why do you always smile at your reflected self?
Is that the new dress, one more addition?

Must you decorate my pram with funny, showy bells?
I am very embarrassed by your kitty party friends

Is that your new hairstyle?
Are you going partying again tonight?

Please! Your nail polish smells so yuck!
I don’t feel too bright

Just leave the door ajar,
And finish off your chores
Whew! Can somebody put OFF the AC
Need some fresh air outside

Tribute to my teacher

On my final day at school
Me and my friends sat cozily in a room
Ten years of school life edged to an end
The tears in your eyes, reflected love.

You spoke to us, your final speech
Of etiquettes and the ways of world
You preached

I remember all that, to this day
Of your warning that the world is bad
Every step had to be a careful move
Followed by right instinct not
Influenced by foe

Friends, you said, we meet at every step
But path that we choose, decides our fate.
Rule by head, not by heart, you had repeated
Many times till it was clear.

We kissed the four walls of class that day
To thank the school of all that care
Now as I sit and ponder alone
I remember your words on this teacher’s day.

Reflections

Drowsy eyed
I wake from bed
See myself
In the reflection,
Sad

Scared
I am of
Disheveled person
Staring back,
Frightening me.

Hey,
Come-on ma’am,
Get up ma’am,
Comb your hair,
Iron the crease,

I say
To the reflection
In the mirror
As I hold my cheeks,
Make me clean.

The reflection
Then smiles at me,
Neat and lean,
Out of dream
pretty

I look into
The looking glass,
I see my left as my right,
Reversed, inverted,
But it is ‘Me’

Typhoon in Hong Kong (Fiction)

September afternoon, Suman, my room mate, warns me not to walk down the street, to buy the grocery on this dark, cloudy day, and I look at him confused, “Heavy rains”, he says, “Beware! Not a bright idea! There is a signal of typhoon number eight.”

“Do you know that my fridge is starving? There is only a warning, I could finish my work and stock my fridge before the typhoon paralyses my daily routine.” I protest as I shut the door behind me, walking away from his non-stop mumblings.

I elbow my way through the narrow exit into the deserted street. Over the edge of a road, rows of trees stand erect, with their crown whipped roughly by angry winds that accelerate its speed.

The fierce, blowing breeze kneads my silky skirt, exposing my bare skin shamelessly.

Roads, like a war zones, rattle with crashing sounds as bill boards and street lights come tumbling down.

Nervously, I fumble with my umbrella, trying to shield from rain as dust mingle with flying debris. Wind is violent and I walk only a few meters. I see two men in their long overcoat and hat, with their hand shielding their face, walk swiftly, taking long steps and cross over to the other side of the road. Fear walks all over me and I wonder. Am I crazy to walk into this deserted street? There is not a soul on the road.

I regret not having stayed at home. Should I go back and face this ‘I-told-you-so look’ or should I go to supermarket and finish my shopping. The bus stop on my right, its stiff pole, balances its firm roots to the ground, shaking only at its top half, and the billboard on its roof vibrate as the drops of rain smash against its green, shiny surface, blinding its script.

I am reminded of the warning of typhoon number eight! I shudder as a thought occurs to me about its outcome. The two previous typhoons, which landed in South China few years ago had killed more than 600 and brought huge economic losses. The local governments had warned people to watch out for flood and landslide. They had drafted plans to call back fishermen on the sea, checked and protected reservoirs, monitored natural disasters like floods and landslide, and arranged evacuation of people in dangerous areas to safe places. Schools were closed, flights were grounded and the city was paralyzed for many days.

I walk through the winds, between the sheets of metal and the branches of trees that are scattered on the streets, my umbrella blows sideways, turning me swiftly. I decide to return home. A game of scrabble with Suman and a cup of hot coffee is a better choice on this fierce rainy day. I retrace my steps through the cobbled-stone ground, walking carefully, taking smaller steps and avoiding the pot-holed puddle on the street. I am afraid of falling and with greater resistance, I endure the force of the winds, planting my feet firmly on the ground, as I retreat to walk back home.

‘Okay baby, no mood to buy the groceries, we will have to make do with mashed potatoes and boiled eggs.” I say.
I see a smile, lopsided, hardly there, but there. He looks at me with a scorpion eye, staring at the mutilated umbrella in my right hand.

I am surprised too. What the hell! Why is his hair dripping droplets down his wet face? Why is he drenched in clinging clothes? Did he go out in rain too? Did he follow me?

I see then, behind him the angry rain come boisterously through the open window uninvited.

“Why is this window open? Don’t you know that some skyscrapers had their windows blown out sending shards of glass on to people below?” I say as I go towards the window to shut it close.

As I walk in, my body is lunged forward, taking me off guard as my feet slide, far apart in opposite directions through the slippery floor and I am down on my buttocks in an aerobic pose into the puddle of rain water, scattered randomly into my drawing room.

Through his dark eye lashes and crinkled smirk, I see his anxiety reflected. I know it then, that he, too, had peeped out, craning his neck out through an open window, oblivious of the fury of rain, stretching his body, bending at the mid-torso at ninety degrees, desperately throwing a glimpse at the street below, wondering, whether I was safe

And through my whimpering and tears, I see him bend down, on his knees, closer to me as he starts to laugh loudly, very loudly, diluting the sounds of thunder of angry rains.

I am the Creator of my Feelings

Here I am! The creator of my life
I rule my own world, singing a tune

Singing a tune at a driver’s seat
I can maneuver around, choosing a space

A space between stimulus and a response
Carefully I drive, watching for hurdles.

Watching for hurdles through this narrow space
To search my destination of happiness and peace,

Happiness and peace, they rest for a while when
Signals of critics and unhappy people surround

Unhappy people surround, think they can stop me
When I am not, in my street car named desire

In my street car named desire, I can drive around
Speeding, and feeling on the top of the world

Top of the world, is the matter of choice
Nothing to do with dream world or reality

Reality is hard and full of brakes
If there is accident, whom do I blame?

Do I blame the Creator of my life?
I think I can rule, so here I am.

Daydreaming (Fiction)

I remove my hairclips, and stretch comfortably on a high chair. Through the shiny, large mirror, I see Annie gently comb my hair with her fingers, separating the knots between my thick strands of hair. I feel the tingling sensation through my scalp.

‘Same dye?” she asks as she turns to mix two different shades, squeezing out the paste from the tube of gold and blond, into a cup.

I close my eyes. The soft music from the radio is very soothing.

I like the sensation of the cool paste on my scalp as she combs the strands and starts to apply the dye.

“Aunty, is this your purse” says Karan, nine-year-old boy, who lives in my lane. Karan is a very naughty kid and always up to some mischief. He is a bully and many children complain about his pranks.

“Oh! Thank you! Give it to me.” I stretch my arm to take back my purse, but he just smiles and hides the purse behind his back.

“Will you give me a chocolate if I return your purse?” he says as his dimples deepen on his cheeks.

“Where is your Mom? What are you doing here?” I say, as I knit my brow and stare at him.

“Mom is doing facial, over there.” He says as he points towards a small cabin, at the end of the room, covered by a plastic curtain.

“I have no chocolates in my purse, but if you return my purse, I will buy some for you.” I say as I stretch my arm once more towards his chest.

“No, I want it now.” He says stubbornly.

‘Okay, lets go” I say as I snatch my purse from him and I grasp his tiny fingers into mine. We go to our car that is parked outside the building compound.

I slide into my driver’s seat while Karan sits behind, holding on to the back of my seat. I turn on the key and push my feet on an accelerator and speed through the traffic, ignoring all the signals, driving through an express highway, into the narrow lane, till we reach a muddy path. Karan chuckles happily, he seems to enjoy this joy-ride.

I stop the car in front of old wooden cottage.

‘What place is this?” he asks innocently as he sprints out from the car and starts to walk ahead of me towards the wooden cottage. The sun rays filter through the trees forming intricate design on the ground.

“Shut up! Walk quietly! You ask too many questions.” I shout as I take two long step to hold on to his elbow.

“Ouch! You are hurting me, Aunty! Let go of my arm!” he says as he tries to break free of my strong grip.

I drag him forcefully into the house, we enter the empty house, I unbolt one door and push him into an empty room, locking the door behind him. I hear him banging the door with his fist and shouting, “What’s wrong? Uh? Open the door! Open the door! Please aunty, please.” But I just ignore him.

I sit on an empty cane chair, outside in the verandah and dial a number.

“Want to have fun? Would you be interested in nine-year-old kid? Sweet kid, he has cute dimples. Should I bring him for a party tonight?” I say quietly into the phone, smiling silently.

The banging on the door has stopped. I walk towards the door and strain my ears to listen for any sound. There is none.

I walk towards the back door and to the back of the house. The window is open. I peep in. Karan is not in. I look around. The huge trees in the courtyard swing with the breeze, the dry leaves wander carelessly in all directions. There are many plants surrounding the house. Maybe he is hiding behind those plants. I search everywhere but there is no trace of Karan. I cross the muddy path and go over to the row of other cottages; I walk further, the muddy path leads to a beach. There are few people at the beach, but there is no trace of Karan.

“Oh! My Goodness! How do I find Karan?”

‘Karan! Karan!” I call out as I retrace my steps towards the deserted house.

“Aunty! Here! Take your purse. Mom is calling me.” says Karan as he smiles sweetly, dumping my purse in to my lap.

“Madam, Can you please get up and come to the wash basin for a hair-wash?” says Annie as she hands me a fresh towel.

I wrinkle my nose, shrug my shoulders and turn to see Karan spread his arms around his mom’s waist.

Dared to dream......

Many of my dreams have come true and that is because I dare to dream. Some have faced delays and some have not, but most of my dreams have come true.

In India, we get superstitious if we talk about our fortunes, we are afraid that people will put an evil eye on our accomplishment and the magic might fade away. That is why many people keep cribbing and hiding their wealth. They don’t want to talk about their luck. But my mom would say, don’t crib. Don’t ever say “I don’t have” we must always say “I have”. She would say that if we keep cribbing all the time then we really will not have, and if we have (even a little) and we say there is sufficient, the river of fortune flows in our direction.

And dreaming keeps the excitement alive. It is important to dream of the future, to visualize it in all details. Given, sometimes things don’t turn out exactly the way you want them, but having a dream gives us a sense of direction, a goal to pursue and a path to follow.

Dream carries us forward through the stormy weather, can make us climb the mountain, win affection of the person we love. It helps us cross the hurdles. A dream keeps us going.Such are the powers of mind!

Even if our dreams were not realized, we are still happy that at least for a moment we enjoyed, that moment, when we dared to dream!

Mumbai rant...(Anthadi)

Mills closed down in Mumbai city
Replaced by multi, shiny malls
Smoky pillars puff no more
As people shop freely through those halls

Halls, filled to its brim,
stamping on each other’s frills,
People looking for a cheap bargain
amidst the array of branded goods.

Goods once sold, are not taken back,
People aghast at a broken patch,
Discovered through the fancy pack,
Foolishly bought an old rusty latch

Latch, she opened to see this man
In colored overalls, he looked a bit tanned
Offered him a drink in a can
He sat relaxed while she prepared some snack.

Snack was biscuit, wafers, water chilled
He sat and chatted to his heart fill
Time passed slowly, he asked for bill
She said she dropped the list at the mill.

Should I hold a grudge? Is it worth it?

First of all, why must I hold any grudge against anybody? Am I angry because he said something that I did not like? Everybody has right to their opinion, if it is in my favor, I am happy, so, then why am I unhappy when it is not in my favor? It in not necessary that every single person in this universe should like me, there has to be some group of people who will like me and also, there has to be some group who will dislike me, I have a choice, I can just avoid the people who dislike me instead of holding a grudge against them. I remind myself that he is just speaking his mind. If he is speaking the truth, then it is time to make some changes in my life, so that I don’t give people reason to talk bad about me, if, on other hand, what he is saying is not true and it does not describe me, then why am I annoyed? I know what I am. Don’t I? If he thinks I am not living up to his standard then that is his problem and his opinion, why must I be angry and hold grudge against him?

I would know I am holding grudge against somebody when I show disinterest in their work and want to avoid his presence. It is a bad feeling. Holding the grudge against somebody creates a bad vibration around us which affect only us. The other person may not even acknowledge your discomfort, so is it worth it?

We are uncomfortable in the presence of people against whom we have a grudge, and that causes irritation and anger, resulting in loss of appetite and leading to different health problems.

We can get over this feeling by introspection. We cannot change people’s behavior but we can change our own. We have to accept the people as they are and if we cannot accommodate them into our life, then we can just avoid them and be cordial to them if we are forced to tolerate them. Holding grudge against anybody is injurious to our own health. Smile works wonders. It is really not worth it.

Freedom Assurance

On this day of Independence
We hear new assurances
Candidly
Freedom, education, better life
Shall entwine, they say,
Cleverly.

No more, I hope, the farmers
End, distressed life in
Penury
May he be blessed with
Honest progeny and not die
Prematurely.

Hope he is educated and
Self-sufficient to feed his future
Family
No more, I hope, we have street
Urchins, at signals, pedaling
Desperately

Instead of playing moral police
Hope they decree
Intelligently
Not grease their palms with green,
Shiny moss, but rule with a crown of
Neutrality

With poverty extinguished, illiteracy
Blackened, will we be living in
Liberty?
The promises, they brew
Every year, I wish, they distil it
Genuinely.

Mimicked Spectacle on 60th Independence Day (loop-anthadi)

At Wagah Gate, when clock chimes six
On evening of 60th Independence Day

Independence Day will be one more day
With marching, singing, music and fun

Music and fun with patriotic songs
Will fill the stadiums, as crowds cheer on

Crowds cheer on, flag-lowering-ceremony
At theatre of war on India-Pakistan border

India-Pakistan border, separated by heavy gates
About two meters apart, lie across each other.

Across each other, they hear sounds of yonder
Pakistan Zindabad! Hindustan Jai Hind!

Hindustan Jai Hind! They will roar once more
As couples run, balancing the National Flag

National Flag, the pride of Nation
Will sway volatile, with winds on both beds

On both beds, pounding the ground, soldier
With brusque exchange of mimicked threats

Mimicked threats, gates will open,
Approaching each other, they will shake hands.

They will shake hands, and birds will chirp
As they lower their own esteemed National Flag

National Flag, folded carefully, carried away
By soldiers, in their balanced goose-steps

Goose-stepping soldiers, march forward,
Shutting the heavy gate, with a sterner glance

With a sterner glance, roaring spectacle will fade
On 60th Independence Day, at Wagah Gate

Will You call me? Please!

From morning to night, I wait all day
Hoping my cell would ring

It rings, I check the number
But this is not a call from you

I tell myself, I will not answer
But I hope you will dial my number
So that I could disconnect your ring
or not answer at all

I want you to know that I am angry at you
Pout lipped I sit all day, staring at the phone
But you don’t call.

……

It has been two days now
I am still staring at my cell
The number that I wish would call
Is silent,

Damn it!
Why don’t you call?
Call me now, I need to disconnect
I need to ignore, I need to leave it unanswered
I need to let you know, that I am still sore

………

It has been three days now
The anger is there no more

I worry
Are you alright? Hope you are fine.
I wish you would call, I may not disconnect
I may not leave it unanswered

Just once, please call
Let me hear you say you are fine
I will promise,
To continue my anger some other day
But today, please call.

……
Oh. Well, can’t let my pride come in my way
I need to know, all is fine.
Here is the message, please read.
‘Hey! Are you okay?’

Pressing the keys with my thumb,
I write.

This is the way I was meant to be…

Just because small group of people
Do not accept me as I am
Should I strip my originality
and live a life displeased?

Do I have to dress my soul
In a frilly strips of charms
For some one to envelop me
in their pleasing, pleasant arms?

Do I stoop down on my knees
To dig a wealthy recognition
and forfeit my own true beliefs
to win a fake relation?

And what happens to me in long run
when I lose my greatest glory?
My uniqueness is my recognition
Can’t shed it on false story

There is kingdom for each of us
I as queen, reign in my own
I can’t ape, but I’ll wait
for gracious world to find me

Existence had loved me much
That it broke the mould
That made me

Another ‘I’ cannot be created
So let me be
Just ‘Me’

Be my friend

You could befriend me
Reading just my profile
Secretly, carefully,
I write the most
Selected words to define me, and
You know not if it is true

Because you have just begun to know me
Across this vacant cyber space
Not sure if I am really me
But you play along and befriend me
Hooked on to my cleverly schemed words
That you assume they might define me
and you scroll down
looking for clues in my long lists
of my treasured muse, wondering,
if you might as well
believe me like those scores
of other friends, who were unsure too
but now they are back
to smile once more
for me
just one more time.

Can you hear me?

Poetry I know not what it means to you
But overwhelmed I am by your attitude
As you stand before me
Looking carelessly, oblivious of me
And I watch you
Snatching your attention
Words washed with my deep emotions
Spray across, trying to reach on to you
In spiral rhythms, stirring my soul,
I look for a hook to hang my verses
For I know not what my poetry
really means to you.

I am travelling

For next ten days, at cyber café
I shall visit during my afternoon days
Away from home, in a strange land
Cannot promise to access my regular mail

Days will be spent feasting my eyes
To enjoy the scenic and beauty of the world
Will savor the cuisine, visit the lanes
With fun and frolic and my cousins’ tales

Nights will be shorter, so will be the days
Have limited time to use up my pays
Laughter and teasing and all those fights
Might steal some time but I can’t promise to write.

Married or single..it is attitude that counts!

Firta hoon mai darbadar
Milta nahin humsafar

Two little women,
Married and single
Lived opposite each other
Confused and bitter

You are lucky
said one woman to another
Both loved to disagree
On each other’s comfort.

Both look towards the sky
As their tears mingle with rain
Both grow complacent
With their disillusionment

Two little women
Learnt new lessons
Single or married
Doesn’t really matter

Both decide to walk with
Their attitude high and fi
Each in their own cocoon
Happy at last

Each enjoying their own
Cozy solitude
As they hear a man
singing all day
Firta hoon mai, darbadar
Milta nahin, humsafar

Flop Show

She told him not to meet her this time
His presence made her forget her lines
But, he, too much in love with her
Couldn’t, for long, keep out in clear
He waved excitedly, through a silent crowd
And saw her faltering, her eyes on ground.

She could not read the prompting lips
All actors stared at her in disbelief
People coughed between the pause
But deep in thoughts, she lingered on.

When pause was too much like a pain
She felt her arm being whisked away
With apologies sounding on a mike
The show ended abruptly with a frown.

On her best performance on stage

Nervously, with quivering emotions
She rests her thin, long fingers
on shiny, black and white keys
As the melodious music envelops her
The audience slowly fade away
Replaced by dancing notes
That play the music of her dreams.

Marriages are no more made in heaven

People are more exposed these days and inter-racial/religious marriages are a norm ... but still old mindsets exist. There is always a raised eyebrow at the news of love marriage and if the couples are mismatched (according to their society) the conflict will continue to exist.

Marriage is a personal choice and it should only be the decision of two adult people who decide to venture in this trip of life, because every adult is a responsible individual and he is fully aware of the outcome of his decisions and is ready to face it.

What is important is to clearly define and accept that this is what you will be contributing to the marriage because you are bringing in your heritage, your cultures, your languages, your religious beliefs. Decide how the children of this marriage will be raised in what faith - faith is important to instill, when they are older they are free to choose but a path must be set.

The durability of a happy marriage depends on the attitude of the couple and the conflict is common to all types of marriage, inter-racial or one community. Compromise may be a dirty word. Acceptance and understanding are not. And they are both required in a marriage...

It is difficult for Indian parents to accept the decision of inter-racial marriage of their children. Indian parents care too much about their social status in their society and some parents feel humiliated for not being in charge of finding a spouse for their off-spring of equal status and culture. Moreover, because of their protective nature they are worried about their child being unable to cope with a cultural shock.

It is important to believe in appreciation of diversity and it is better to embrace the diversity, set the parameters and rules clearly before embarking on a marriage - because the external pressures that one faces will only be harder to overcome when they are still two very divergent spirits ... trying to strike a balance.

Stretching the incompatibilities beyond limits brings up the ugliness...and ultimately, breakdown of the relationship...even if the two continue to live under the same roof.

Marrying outside the community has its own advantages. There are no set community rules to follow and a new set of rules are laid down which are agreeable to both and worked out to their best of advantages. While one community may have strict rules within the community, the rules are lax and easier to adjust to, in inter-racial marriages.

Two adults in a relationship...there will always be some differences, some incompatibilities, in varying degrees. How these incompatibilities are handled by the two goes a long way in defining the strength of the relationship. Maturity - sensibility - mutual respect - valuing your own and the other's personal space - and deep caring, being the key words. It is a two-way lane.

Making the right choice or decision is very important. And I think there's nothing more important than honoring the decisions that one takes. If it was a mistake or a failure, it is better to accept it and learn rather than justifying. Failures and mistakes are like accidents...it should never become a habit.

Love, commitment, and dependence are essential for the success of any relationship. When there is no love, no mutual dependence, the relationship stands corroded even in marriage within same community..

What is most important is to make it work against all odds because it is the decision that you took in first place and was a responsible individual then.

Well! That is what you actually thought and stood firm in your decision then. Didn’t you?

Wah! Taj Mahal!

On my trip to Agra city
I met Mumtaz Mahal
In her pose of serenity

Do you know, it is one of the
seven wonders of the world?
she exclaimed as soon as she saw me smile

With thousand hits for a cell company
they voted for a monument that was just for me!

Will they dress the lawns around
In spotless, green, evening gown?

Will they clothe me in sparkling white
Make me glow, on a clear moonlight?

In Lisbon, Wow! What a sight
I walked a ramp with a pride
Did you vote too, is that right?
No Ma’am I said, I only write.

To Uncle..with love

This was an exercise I attempted on a forum.
Two letters, one sweet, sugar coated and other bitter, sour grapes, all for the greedy intentions of usurping the wealth from a rich, dying uncle.

Dearest Uncle Moron,

Guess what, uncle? Today, while I was relishing the taste of kheema Pav, my thought rested on the memories of you. How are you, uncle? Actually, often I think of you, especially during this feast of kheema Pav, that brings back all those treasured moments of you. I am so grateful to you for those colorful, enriching hours of sunshine that we have shared together. Do you remember, how we would go to those narrow, snaky lanes off Crawford market road, that were infested with flies and pollutions, where the streets were full of laborers and shoppers looking for a good bargain, you would take me there to that one particular stall, the one on the wheels, you would say that it was your favorite spot, because they cooked the most delicious, spicy Kheema? Do you remember the day when you had asked me not to tell mommy about that unhygienic feast, when I took to bed with Malaria for next seven days and you had to bribe me with that cute, little doll, with light brown eyes that went blink, blink? Ah! I still remember all the details. Those memories are so fresh in my mind that they refuse to go away. Oooh! Those good ole days!

You were my best uncle, always pampering me. I remember how you would carry me, piggy ride on your shoulder, and I would tickle your neck and you would almost lose your balance, and one day, your left foot crossed over a carelessly strewn boots and we both fell down and you laughed merrily calling me ‘sissy’ when the tears welled up in my eyes, also those lovely poems that you would teach me? What a lovely voice you had, I would close my eyes to feel the rhythm of those musical tunes. I remember all the poems till today and I often sing them to my children, Rahul and Pooja. Many nights when they are too stubborn to go to sleep, instead of reading a book, I relate to them the stories about your adventures to those exotic places that you would visit; get drunk with the locals and had to be carried to your hotel room. They get so amused hearing about your long funky hair and those one dozen gold chains around your neck, they have been so eager to meet you.

Uncle, I am so sorry to hear about your frail health. I lay tossing in bed all night, worrying about you. I am sure it must be quite difficult for you. It is pity that we have not been in touch for such a long time. It is almost ten years since I last saw you. Same story of every woman! After marriage we have to go where our destiny takes us and then we get entangled in the rut of life. I have missed you so much! Had you not pestered my husband, Akil, about returning your hundred thousand dollars loans, he would never have insisted on my breaking my ties with you. I am sure we would never have migrated to a place where you could not find us.

But, don’t you worry. I will take care of you. I will bring Akil and children too. You can finally spend some peaceful days, enjoying the innocence and playfulness of Rahul and Pooja. I know I can bring you back to good health by cooking for you all the food that you enjoy. You can send me four air-plane tickets immediately and two thousand dollars to buy for you some gift too.

You can relax, then, I will be there for you…forever!

Your favorite niece

your Titlie

Uncle Moron,

Everyday I see a postman from my window, I run downstairs, barefoot, almost begging him, hoping that he will have a mail for me. Sometimes I wait for Fed Ex and other times for a DHL and sometimes I shout through the letterboxes. You don't realize just how exhausting it is chasing mail-men all the time. 'Please,' they cry, 'leave us alone. Give us some dignity!' But damn it! Where is the mail? I am waiting for air tickets and money. Can’t you use those creepy, bony fingers of yours to write just a cheque of two thousand dollars, either? Huh?

Uncle you were always like that, stingy and selfish. Momma had always warned me about you. She had told me that you were just a swashbuckling, womanizing twit. I know you were kind and considerate to me, but that was because you wanted to please my momma. You were actually afraid of her because she was your wife’s best friend. She knew what you hid in your closets. Isn’t it? She knew about that whore, who visited you on Sundays, who painted her face with such thick cake of make-up, that her face showed cracks whenever she smiled. I believe she mothered your son too. Now, now, you wouldn’t want me to discuss that with anybody else, not now, that your one foot is almost touching the graveyard. Don't accuse me of vain glory. However, I am beginning to feel rather sorry for you. I didn’t expect you to make such drastic decisions at your age. What good the money is to those homes where you are planning to give away in charities? They will never hang your portrait in their vestibule with a sweet smelling flower garlands nor invest a penny on jasmine fragrant stick. No good, uncle, I say ya, no good! Believe me when I say that!

You are lucky that you have me, your niece, who cares so much for you. Tell you what. My bags are packed, and I have decided not to do any shopping for you, especially at your age, you may not even want me to waste any money on you. I will come next week, alone. Akil is willing to bring Rahul and Pooja later, when you decide to open your palms.

Don’t you worry, uncle. When I am here, there is nothing to fear. I tell ya, seriously, nothing to fear!

I enclose lots of hugs with this mail.

Shall wait no more for your mail because I am on my way

Your favorite niece…forever

Titlie

Attitude

With chin up in the air
I walk straight ahead
Afraid I am not
Of very hard times

They don’t last forever
Why be afraid? They are just guests
To stay for a while, after harsh winter,
There will always be,
A warm summer of happy times

It is better to follow a friendly star
Then to be confused by a cruel storm
Success comes to those, who are brave and strong,
Time is experience, it teaches us all

It is okay to feel the emotion of feelings
There is no shame in crying aloud
We giggle with joy when we feel too bright
Don’t we simply write, when words flow out?

Happy Birthday!

On a birthday, we get one year older
A trip, closer step to a grave

Yet we celebrate with cakes and sweets
And mark it as a memorable day

In childhood, we celebrate it as sheer fun
It is stacked with brand new games

In adolescence, we, with fresh pimples
We smile shyly during this day

In twenties, we are busy and on the run
With new friends, it can be fun

But in thirties, forties, fifties, sixties
It is just an another day

In seventies, we stop looking forward
We dread to see the next day

Afraid we are of our bad, siily health
That deteriorates with every age.

Silence is her friend

Silently he watches her,
As she breathes heavily through a tube

If this the same woman, he wonders,
Who nagged him nights and days?
She had opinion on every issue, be it good or bad.
The sun would never set without her approval
And the birds and the bees bloomed!
The flowers would whistle as she passed by
Life stood still if she disapproved.

But now, silence is all that envelops her,
as she turns on to her side
And he aches for a familiar command
And that roller-coaster ride.

Bhavishwani

Knuckles turn white, as I twist my wrists
Squeezing the drops from my wet,wet skin
I go berserk on this rainy day
And enter the warm, hut of clay

Pundit Maharaj, deep in his thoughts
Chanting away his magic glory
Cross-legged into a yoga pose
With fingers forming a perfect ‘O’

Entering his thick aura of meditation
I cough lightly at his repeatedly 'Ohm'
I break the chant of Pundit Maharaj
With wet finger, I dig into my bag
To remove my faded 'janam patri'
Hoping he can find me a sunshine or smiley
behind my grey, and very cloudy dream.

The thunder and the lightening are taking their toll
He turns my ‘janam patri’ 360 degrees around
Upside down, left and right, then looks straight
at me with a friendly smile, scratches his head,
blinking his eye, he says " Who are you, beti?
Are you stupid, emotional fool,I see war brewing,
and you look so cool."

“I am a dreamer,Maharaj, Look! My ink-stained hands.”
I show him my wet sling bag, bleeding notes,paper and pen

‘Nothing can be done for you, beti’ he says sadly,
Rahu, Ketu have gone to sleep
“bhavish hai bekar act immediately,change your profession,
all time writing se kabi nahi hoga duur tension"

“Maharaj bachoa! Uppay batao” I plead to him
to untangle my confused mind
I believe if he changes his posture
The lines in my janam patri will move
with his pressure


Alas! He is cruel! He can tell only the truth
I do not want to believe him when he says clearly,
"tera kuch nahi hoga, future is bad, don’t cry,
be brave, no need to feel sad"

I leave his wet, hut of clay, holding the drops
of falling rain, Foolish Pundit Maharaj of fame
I will never show him my janam patri again

How do I change my old, old ways
If I prefer to write every day?

I may not write.....

I used to write few summers ago
When I found a tune in every song,
There was a rhythm in my every move,
My heart was warm at every touch

But, one day, cold winds blew my face
They froze my smile into gloomy days
I now sleep all day in crazy dreams,
Wandering into a fantasy world

I don’t visit that writer’s lane
I have lost my pen and my sprite
Therefore, nowadays, leave me alone,
I am too bored, I may not write.

I spoke and

Speech traveled through the broken minds
patching up the doubts and fears,
spinning a new web of self-confidence.

Soul speaks while Silence awaits....

When soul speaks to a soul
the minds begin talking
brain controlls the action
heart chats with love
No research, no business,
no contact is required
the friendship moves in,
with laughter and joy
and silence waits patiently
to interupts a pause.....

Life must go on.....

Life goes on
Destiny decides
And we like puppets
Tied to the strings
Know not, what is
Our next move
But we move along
Because
Life must go on

Happy was our childhood
We knew not then
We thought grown-ups
Lived in happiness
And in total bliss
Without any stress
We tried to
Re-trace their footsteps
And walked but, a few miles
The strings pulled us
off the tracks
As soon as waves of life
came between us

We created new steps
In new directions
Painted new paths
Not knowing where we went
Just like puppets
We missed every step
For destiny alone decides
We can never do much
Just drift in those directions
and let the life go on.

A coward!

Cowards are those
Who don’t protest
In sin, they are silent.

Mind is thundering
a thousand fights
arguing the left from right

but silence, a coward clown
under the rug, it frowns.

Attitude is all that matters!

We can excel in what we do, by simply setting our goals and striving to reach them. Many people have low self esteem and cannot believe that they can do everything if only they tried harder.

My friend has bought a car, but cannot muster enough courage to drive it herself. She joined the driving lessons, but one small scratch at the butt of her car and she won’t ride it. That means that she needs a driver all the time. It is very important to believe in yourself. One fall should not discourage us from walking an extra mile.

Life is full of ups and down and each day, we are learning new skills. To master the skill, we need dedication, disciple and willingness to learn. We start scribbling the minute we have a pen in our hand, no thought, no art is required for scribbling. But if we have to make a proper sensible sentence, we need to learn the art of writing, the art of putting our ideas across.

In a strange country, we are able to communicate with the locals by gestures and few sounds, but to understand and have an inter-active conversation; we need to polish our language skills. The greater the desire to communicate, the faster is our learning ability. There is no substitute for formal, systematic training.

Ability when subjected to systematic training becomes proficiency.

Substitute ‘I cannot’ with ‘I can’
Let negativity leave from back door
There is nothing that is beyond our wave-length
If we have our attitude and willingness to learn

Please take 'her' with you...

Gr-r-r! Past twelve in the middle of
The night, blasting TV serials, at all times,
Hear her hoot? Pretend not! Don’t
You ever say, “Who?”

Stamping on my moans and frowns,
From dawn to dusk she rattles on
In decibels louder than waterfalls, I
Know not, what do I do?

You are cloaked in aprons, out
On seas, I bend double on my knees, for
Moments that I creep out there, I
Tremble at her string of ‘boos’

I know, she masters in menial dreams
Me, a naïve, on a narrow beam
Knotted to you, two summers ago, her
Shadows glued on to me, too?

Your next trip on that odd ship, I pray
Let me be, sailing with you, or take
Your mom, on those glorious trips, to
Teach her a trick or two

No, I am not jealous!

I see that blond
sit next to you
How versatile you are.
Stories, anecdotes,
jokes, and chats
Come spilling out
from your closet
You animate
foolishly trying
to please her
with things that
don't suit me.

Well, go head
and impress her
For she doesn’t
understand your
simple jokes
But, when, you are
In an intellectual moods
Of some brighter topic
to discuss
Be sure to come back to me
I promise
I will make no fuss.

A trip to hell

I once died
Went straight to Hell
Was not surprised
To meet all friends
Maya, Anita, Sudhir, Tarun,
Laid back attitude
Joking around
Exchanged a fiver
Doubled twice
With fun and frolic
Laughter and wine
Smiles everywhere
All was bright
I turned to Satan
“Pen, please.”
I cried
He growled and scowled
With all his might
Looked fiercely as he
Screamed twice
“Look Madam, you
Return to Earth
Here in Hell
We never write!”

First showers of rain

Rain-drops
falling down
Window panes
Splashes splash
Wind breezes
Swoooshh swap
Net curtains fly
Whoozzap zap
Sweet smell of earth
rises above to the
second floor flat
enters silently
into my bedroom
surrounding me
with its dizzying spell
Fingers busy
tapping tap
too lazy to see
the wet floors
below my balcony
but still aware
of weather change
with soft moan of sky
that goes thud, thud
and a sudden blink of white
light, click clack.
No more drops trickle
Down my spine
Cool air caressing
My bare arms
I whisper silently
As I glance at window
To welcome rain
For it’s first
fresh showers
Clap, clap.

When Lightening turns cold

How he hated those shiny, reflecting surfaces! Did they speak the truth?

He had stopped looking into them. He decided to explore his talent skills instead. Through rough paths and bumpy roads, he traversed for miles, for nights and days, he searched for clues.

Then one summer day, he bloomed. The aura of poetry and song surrounded him. He felt the warm breeze of its beautiful colors, vibes and shapes. It had a flow of its own. He grabbed them up, one by one, those precious pearls of knowledge and planted them into his garden that was behind his mind. Each day, the knowledge grew, and he discovered the new spacious world. He lived happily into his own enchanted world.

Then, one fine day, he decided to stroll into another world, the one that was layered by those reflecting surfaces. He wanted to share his joys, his summers, his smiles, his treasures.

He gathered the fresh fruits of his treasure, packed them into a small box of talent and set into the unknown world. With pride glowing on his face, he started to talk and tried to tell all those who would cared to listen, “Look here, friends! There is beauty in here, life is intoxicating. There are no tears. My muse has some magic spells. Come, share with me!!”

But nobody cared! They would not believe him. They just passed by, ignoring him, as though they passed yet, another lamp-post. He and his muse charred in their piercing stares. His voice reverberated and bounced off, unhappily, into the deep, lonely valley. But, they could not hear him.

They scowled at his knotty hair, at his dark tanned skin, at his deformed face. The world was very cruel to him. They could see nothing beyond his strange physical profile.

The lightening
Turned cold
Mirrors don’t lie.

Beyond his large wheel-chair, they could see nothing, not even his glossy mind!

Power of Tears

Men! You know not how naïve you are
How we bathe you with our hydraulic power
How we replace ‘Yes’ from your firm ‘No’
With our tears that can easily flow.

You think you can win every battle
But seeing you squirm makes us crackle
At board room, you may have loud sound
But with our tears, you stay on ground.

You strongly detest our shopping a bit
We too abhor your drinking habit
You gossip more than we ever can
It is we, who are busy, rearing your clan.

Sundays, you are stretched lazily in bed
Watching cricket or endless news
With easy tears, we can fool you
And succeed blowing off our holiday blues.

Stay still! Men! At our mercy you are
You cannot win by our wet, wet power.

Silent Night

Silent night
wholly night
all is clear
all is fine

Down I hear
this watchman
fight
a theif has
stolen
our stairway
light
around are
people
confused and quiet
I need to
go down
and show my might

boom!!!#*#&

Silent night
wholly night
all is clear
all is fine.

What should I do?

Seasons change
People change
You were cute
Now you a pain
I wait for you
You want to fight
You go for trip
Come back with frown
Your shirt is loose
Your taste is bad
Are you same
The one I saw
Twenty years ago
That summer day
With dimpled chin
And curly crown
Buying coke
In middle of town
And while I stood
embarrassed
You bravely wrote
A sonnet
That flew over
The traffic light.
Now
with your
grumpy eyes
You stare at me
I get depressed
What should I do
To bring you back
Will you change
If I write?

Tragedy strikes Hyderabad

"Three people killed in a powerful bomb blast at Meeca Masjid near Charminar in Hyderabad."

"The blast occurred when the Friday afternoon prayers were being offered... an hour ago!!"

"Thats bad,real bad. Donno what to say."

"oh no! what's happening to our country?"

"Now they are saying 5 died and 15 injured."

"No words to condemn those who did it. "

"Equally worried about the aftermath!"

"Sigh... whats happening to our country??????? :-("

"why kill innocent people.... why this shadow fight?"

"Tu hindu banega na musalman banega,
Insaan ki aulad hai insaan banega."

Charminar,
This day,
lies in ruins
A secret place,
with thousands blessed
Explosion at this exit gate
Brought tears
that flowed through
stones of doom

How can I,
so helpless,
fight?
And show those
cruel soul
a hope of light?
If they could read,
I would drag them off
Hang them
By their peanut head
show them pain
And people’s plight
What is not right,
From the way
I write.

बोम्ब ब्लास्ट इन Hyderabad

I and my Lord
In silence we converse
He hears my words
Silently spoken

The aura of his blessings
Surround me
Enveloping me
Filling all the voids
And I am at peace
Rejoicing
Until

A Loud Blast!

Foolish Men!
Why do you hate
This silence so?

Redevelopment

Suddenly the building seemed too dank to her.

She sees the paint chip off exposing its raw, grainy skin; a deep, dark scar, its mouth split open on its firm, flaky skin stares at her as she slowly climbs up the rickety stairs.

She has lived here all her life, She would hear the squeals of joys that were hidden under it’s walls during her growing-up years, She had read thick volumes of books, escaping from the curious eyes, under its stairway lights. She would hear the echo of her frilly laughter trapped under the dark corners of its ceiling. She had loved it then.

But now, she wondered if she likes it anymore.

Her knees ache as she laboriously climbs each, high step, grasping for her breath, her knuckle turn white as they fold over the wooden rod, wrapping the segment of a long railing, always afraid that she might miss her fragile step.

But still, these seventeen feet by twenty feet is her mansion. She loves its fragrance and the warmth,a rough floor massages her soles under her bare feet. She walks fearlessly into her treasured space, stroking its strong, shaded walls that are stuffed with her smile and song, reverberating around her happy cubicle, intoxicating her dizzy spells.

“Oh dear! There is talk at those meeting these days. All they talk about is the redevelopment with claims that will kill all the pains.”

She moans as she stretches carefully on her cool, soft pillow.

A withering rose
Unhappily replaced
A new, fresh, red bud, blooms

It was time for summer to go to sleep

“Déjà vu!” at a cyber space.

I would introduce myself
were I assured a kind friend
in this virtual world
of dots and blinks
Someone whom I could click

a friend
that would cling to my memory
long after this screen blackened on me.

Who would listen to my ranting
and yet keep a smile.

Guide me when I am wrong
and lead me to her
upside down world of bytes.

Well.
Till then
I wait
at a cross road
and watch
the crowd
pass by!

**************
At crossroad, I stand
to watch the crowd pass by.

Beamed faces, I can see
who are known to me from other times.

Few, turn and wave their hands;
New, whisper with me, online.

At my ranting and my Wow! Wow!
They all but, have smiles.

A compassion, I seek not
If, blessed, at all times

In crowded bytes, I merge
And drift happily with them
For miles!


***************
As I happily drift for miles
In a cyber space of bytes

I see
A lone stranger
At a crossroad
Confused, lost,
Gaping absently
And wondering
Why this crowd passes by.

She thinks and she dreams,
I wave my hand and smile
and continue on my journey
in “Déjà vu!” World of bytes

Its a lonely planet

Friends with friends
They chatter on
While a lonely traveller
In a crowd she waits

Her words die
As soon as they are born
Being lonely stranger
In a crowd she waits

Cheerful greetings
Constructive ideas
Friends with friends
They sing along.

Her thoughts remained
As raw as curse
While those with friends
Have brighter verse

Hundred turns
in lonely valleys
That’s for a stranger
for a friend who awaits.

This is the way I was meant to be…

Just because small group of people
Do not accept as I am
Should I strip my originality
And live a life displeased?

Do I have to clothe my soul
with frilly strips of charms
For some one to envelop me
In their pleasing, pleasant arms?

Should I stoop down on my knees
To dig a wealthy recognition
and forfeit my own true values
to win a fake relation?

And what happens to me in long run
when I lose my greatest glory?
My uniqueness is my recognition
Can’t shed it for a confirmation.

There is kingdom for each of us
I as queen, reigns in my own
I can’t ape, but I’ll wait
for gracious world to find me

Existence had loved me much
That it broke the mould
That made me

Another ‘Me’ cannot be created
So let me be
Just ‘Me’

Critic- a critical issue.

Criticism is a moot, or so it may seem to be. It is a difficult thing to accept it even if it is true and it tends to hurt the sentiments of the person who had least expected it.

But in all rights, it should be acceptable because if the work is not to its standard, and we seal the mouth of a well-wisher, be it friend or a stranger, with a strip of anger and disgust, we stand as a lone loser. The opinion will still be expressed, in our absence, in the group of comedians, who might have a hearty laugh at our short-comings, and we may never know.

By braving an honest critic, we get a chance to defend our self and learn to respect each others different point of view. Yes I agree, sometimes the blows are real hard, we bend over in shame, we may even cry for days, or try to scheme ways to seek revenge and to get even. But that doesn’t help; it does dawn on you, eventually, that the truth must be faced.

But, sometimes it is difficult to deal with those critics who are there to seek attention. Sometimes a critic can be very cruel and is looking for a killing field. It may be due to his inability to produce his own good work, or maybe his focus of looking at things is at ninety degrees away from yours, or simply, because, he fails to register the message that we wished to convey.

So, how do we deal with such a situation? Do we strike back and get even? Or, we simply ignore and let it pass? If we strike back, we stand as a loser. The groups that witness these outbursts get an entertainment for free. If we ignore it, we fan his intentions and he will be back with some more.

The best solution, I think, would be to expose these dishonest critics sincerely, without malice. If we catch someone intentionally trying to undermine us, we can eliminate their unscrupulous tactics by exposing him.

By keeping an open mind, we will eventually, learn to stand on our own two feet without stepping on other people’s toes and we can avoid being hurt or causing hurt.

Who is the winner? Time will tell.

Dowry..an evil necessity

While reading the ‘Sindh story’ by Kewal Malkani, I was fascinated by the fact that Gandhiji was quite-horrified by the Sindhi custom of ``Deti-Leti'' (Dowry) particularly among the Amils.

Gandhiji added: ``The Amils of Sindh are probably the most advanced community in that province. But in spite of their entire advance, there are some serious abuses of which they seem to have monopoly. Of these the custom of ‘Deti-Leti’ is not the least serious.... The parents should so educate their daughters that they would refuse to marry a young man who wanted a price for marrying and would rather remain spinsters than be party to the degrading custom.''

That was way back in 1934, more than seventy years ago.

In this era, women are more educated and independent, and have faith in themselves, some of them are also in higher positions, earning four figure salaries. But the ‘Dowry’ custom has still not been eradicated from our culture. Only it is done in more sophisticated way.

Recently, I had attended a wedding which was done in a very lavish way. The exchange of gifts and parties between the families (brides/groom) was astounding.

And

Grooms family says, “We don’t want anything, whatever you wish to give, it will be for your daughter” and in whispers they will say ‘Keep the honor of my family’ (whatever that means)

Bride’s mother says, “Do I have to give such a lavish party?’

Groom’s mother says, “What can I say. You know the rules. Honor must be restored. Just keep my family happy” and I wonder why bride’s family should worry about pleasing the groom’s extended families.

Sometimes I wish young boys (groom-to-be) make it very clear to their parents that they are not up for sale. He should use his own money to bring a bride for himself and not tax her parents. If, on other hand, the bride’s parents insist on giving some gifts to their daughter then a Sindhi youth is supposed to be sensible enough to invest all the money for their better future rather than waste all that money in the lavish parties.

But, what can we really do to educate the illiterate parents who embarrass their children by asking/or giving a ‘price’?

The give-take relationship that is done in casual way, out of friendship, is the normal way of life in Sindhi society but give-n-take transaction, if done out of compulsion, or to keep the (honor) of the extended family, is an unnecessary evil.

These practices have been so deep rooted that until we ourselves take effort to eradicate it from its root it will be difficult to fight against these social menaces.

The world is changing and I see youth of today are more mature and self-reliant. They consider gifts as unnecessary charity and some of them even feel insulted with these gifts. Time has come for young people (who are now earning more than what their parents made in their life time) to take a firm stand and just refuse to exhibit themselves in the retail-marriage-market.


Today when we see the wedding celebrations in the cities, it reminds of the gloss and glamour of Bollywood movies. Even the middle class families celebrate their weddings in Bollywood style.

Today, just like any other commodity in the market weddings have also become commercialized. There are people to plan your wedding. You don't have to spend extra time in thinking about the menu or the venue of the wedding.

And all this luxury costs lot of money, which rich people can afford it and they start these trends which demands an excess burden from not-so-rich families.

Many parents feel obligated in indulging in such practice because they are afraid about their failure to please their daughter’s in-laws might result in endless taunts for their daughter all her life. They are also afraid of being isolated from their relatives and friends if they do not reciprocate in similar lavish parties.

About living the life of endless taunts and allowing people to bully them….....It is deserved by those who have no faith in themselves. How do you feel obligated for not getting him any ‘Dowry’?

Some youngsters are opting for love-marriage outside their community to escape from this menace.

To get married to a non-Sindhi to escape this ‘compulsory exchange of funds’ is not a bright solution to eradicate the social menace called ‘deti-leti’! Getting married outside our own culture requires lot more of adjustments and sacrifices, which is even more painful in the long run.

Only the youngsters of today can end this menace. If they make it very clear to their parents that they are not for 'sale'.

So Be It.

A man who had faith in himself, and a woman, who is brave enough to take a firm stand, can easily survive with dignity.

World laughter Day

Whole world laughs today
On this ‘Laughter Day’
Laughing away blues,
The pains and aches,
The exercises that were meant
To clear the frowns
Makes me feel fresh
and proud tonight
To take out the slate of delight
And share my joys as
I laughingly write…..

Hello Critics. Should I like you?

The other day I got to meet one of the writers whom I admire a lot and have a great respect for her talent. We got to talking about the posts and the feedback and I asked her to give me her harsh critique for my work. I reasoned that the harsher was the critique, the harder I would try to re-write it and she looked at my face and wondered if I was serious.

I was serious because I feel, if we want to improve then we should be brave enough to accept the honest critiques. I am reminded of the ‘doha’ that I had learnt long ago and it went something like this:

‘Keep your critics as close as possible, make him a house in your courtyard, for without soap and water, they cleanse your nature’

But, in reality, how many of us admire our critics?

Many of the post that I see, with the captions ‘feedback wanted’ hardly have any feedbacks. And there are many who complain that they are not encouraged to write because that they get zero comments. (Such reasons cannot be an excuse for not writing!) If I feel strongly about something, I will write, it may or may not reach across the people, but it will surely reach those whom it matters and I will be glad if I am able to express it clearly.

As a writer, one should not be upset, if he/she gets zero comments. There can be many reasons for zero comments. Either you are too good and you have no friends to cheer you up, or you are no good and people do not wish to be impolite or, people are not sure how you will react and sometimes, people are not brave enough to comment on your work.

I don’t consider myself to be a very good writer, but still, there are some people out there who believe in me and who think that I can write better than them and I will be able to help them for some time before they find somebody better than me. (One person is always better than the other person, so they say ‘In the land of blind people, one-eyed person rules’)

Some days back, I received a story from a person, whom I know. She wrote: ‘hey, am sending you a story i wrote.....give me your honest honest opinion.....where i can correct myself.....what i should do right......let me know...thanks..’

She wanted me to read her story and tell her what I think about it. I warned her that I was going to read her story as objectively as I could and I gave her a very frank opinion as I found her story very hazy and disconnected. I think I was very rude, because I dissected her whole story and wrote it differently, with examples, explaining to her why it didn’t work for me.

After posting, I repented. I wished I was not so honest. I thought I had lost a friend.

Hardly a day passed and I received her email.

I was expecting a rude answer, but she wrote back: ‘i cant begin to tell you what i feel.....this has been the best ever ever brilliantly given criticism i could have ever got......seriously!! i am so bloody grateful you have no idea...all this time ppl have told me how it is and how it should be but you actually showed me and explained to me in detail what i needed to know....its easy to explain but its better if examples are given...and thanks for showing me how to rewrite it....really.... i always used to send my writing to my friend...but next time im gonna go through you first....:)

I don’t mean to boast here. But her note of thanks touched my heart.

I think if the opinion are given honestly, without personal attacks and are not biased, then they are always appreciated. And it feels good to know that there are people out there, who may or may not be your friends but they still honestly care…….

And are eager to help you fly with them, smoothly, into their writers’ world…….

a Crow

From morning to evening
He gives me a head ache
With his monotonous caw-caw
On my window sill

I give him bread crumbs
And he stares at me
With his head at an angle
To the left, and then right

I speak to him
As if he understands
He picks the bread
and glides away

Expertly flying,
breaking though winds
resting on a branch
opposite my grill

To refresh a breath
and rest for a while
pruning his black feathers
after a short flight

Far on that branch
amidst the green leaves
I see his black beak open as
I begin to write.

Roller Skating

The children play a balanced act
As they skate on their roller feet.
They miss a turn when they pause to greet
And down they go on their knees
Slowly, quietly, they rise again
Dusting palms above the streets
And once again they play happily
Skating on their wheels

Young adults, too, play a balanced act
As they skate out from their seat
They miss a turn as a careless wreck
When to goodness they paid no heed
They cry for long for a wrong move
Of life, and for years they meander
Aimlessly, trying to find their way back home
So that once again they can peacefully sleep.

But, they sleep too long
And time passes by
and in the past, they continue to live
Instead of grazing into
new pastured land
they prefer to die as a creep.

You like Mangoes?

I know
You like mangoes, but
How do you
eat mangoes
Like that,
Licking, smooching,
By nights and day
Its juicy fibers
Spoils my tray

Sit here,
let me wear you
an apron
Let me peel it
And chop it
fine for you
I don’t like that
sucking noise from you

Let me grind it
to make a milk shake
Will add some ice,
Some syrup and
And an essence to
make it something
cool and refreshing
for you.

Look, come here
Let me wipe it clean
Your messy hands,
mouth and cheeks.
You wait not for me
To prepare the dish
You just slurp
These mangoes and
Gulp them all
in a swish.

Mangoes

Summer time
All fruits disappear
The king of fruits arrives
Mangoes flock
the market stocks
I see them all around
At every street
At every signal
The urchins run behind
Every car
Offering the yellowish
Green, pulpy fruit

Speaking, er… writing
Of mangoes, sorry sir
I no like mangoes
Nor I care
My visitors no understand
And bring in a heap
They lie in my kitchen
On a shelf,
in pitiful state.
I wait in vain
For guest to arrive
Who would slurp
These mangoes
Before they crumple
And lose their grace.

Am I a bad writer?

I paint on
Staining the canvas
with disjointed words
Sans punctuations or spell check
Pouring my emotions
Into meaningful colors that
Shuffle like a jigsaw puzzle
To form a rainbow that seems
To you as an
‘ Incomplete art’.

I understand it all.

Chuma! chuma! aie la!

Ole Richard kissed Shilpa Shetty
Liya Diyaa oh
And that kiss lasted two full minutes
Liya Diyaa oh

With lorries here and police there
All getting horny, burning effigies
Public going berserk everywhere

Ole Richard kissed Shilpa Shetty
Liya Diyaa oh
So they got sued for a crime
Liya Diyaa oh

Happiness!

I looked for happiness
Travelled for miles
But nothing could compare
With the joy I derived
from bringing out my slate
and re-reading those pieces
that so laboriously
I wrote each day.

Happiness was immense
Reality was a farce,
A unhappy jungle
with no signposts,
landmarks or boundries.
I would just walk on.

In writings
I lived into my dreams
with my own government
and my own rules
I made war,
I made peace
but the rules of my land
were that
The happiness rules!

A Gentleman

What can I say of a man
Who is a gem?
His gentlemanly ways
Impress me everyday.

He holds my arm in protective way
Smiles or grins at my silly ways
Cancels his appointment
To be with me
Makes a fuss
Just to please me
Calls on nights and days
To check if I am alright
I wish to thank him so
I decide to write…

Searching for me when I am lost
stands far away when
I tell him to get lost
but never meanders away too far
He never is out of range

On Rakhis’ days, and festive days
He comes to me
with Gifts and Honey
and a firm promise
that he believes in
protecting me against all odds.

Joking, laughing, all in sprite
When his moods are warm and bright
I dig under my manuscripts
Of endless yellow-stained pages
to show him what
I write.

Dear Publisher........

Hello Mr Publisher
Have you ever
learnt to dream?
Have you walked
on an arc of rainbow?
Have you heard
window plants sing?

Here, sweep a glance,
Through this script
Taste the words
Swallow the drops
Of emotional words.

If you really like it
How about
buying the script from me…?
I need some money
For coffee and tea.

Books' gossip....

Surrounded by scripts,
notes and drills
Listening to the manuscripts

Said Bestseller to a Paperback
Here are more writers
Be aware

Sitting around us in cane chairs
They chatter and blabber
Without a care

Clock strucks five
Hear their names, let them
Enjoy their two-minute fame

I-T, Florist, Tarot queen,
Have you , so many talents
Seen?

Ooooh! La! La!
Do you feel the thrill?
They are here for a refill!

See that Rohin’ tough and proud
Commands the script,
leading the crowd

Suni-Jugal! hear! hear! all!
One lazily stretched,
while other clicks on

Crazy moods and silly expressions
Helplessly trapped
Glued into a film

Tea/coffee sip what may
Look they waste
No time today!

One by one,
their stories call
For nod, or smile or betrayal laugh

New uns’ stare at ole uns’ around
happy to have found
a ground.

Young writers are alert and smart
Ready to grasp
the cliches that fall

Meet is over and
still they meander
Staring at our sisters’ walls.

(Pssht! Nudge’sh!) I heard them say
They plan to come back
Once again!

Mysterious Affair

She stepped onto the deserted platform and looked about her. She felt the drop of perspiration drip slowly down her back. Where did Mr. Murthy disappear? Damn! There was so much traffic on the road, with cars, auto rickshaws, bullock carts, cows and hand-carts, all occupying the same strip of the road! If only she had followed him discretely but kept a safe distance!

She fumbled into her bag and fished out the cell phone.

“Hello Mrs. Murthy. I lost him again.” She whispered into the phone.

“Oh! No! Search him! I need to know where he is going. I heard him talking to somebody on phone this morning. Whom does he meet on a Sunday mornings at this hour?”

Urmi looked at her watch. 9 o’clock. The morning sun was warm and pleasant. She walked up to an empty seat and sat down. ‘Patience’, that was the first lesson she had learnt at ‘Rammu detective agency’, who took up the most challenging assignments, cases ranged from financial and property thefts to government overthrows to murder to infidelity. And the agents always got their man (and woman)

It was better to wait here. Maybe, he might come here if he has to go to town by train.
She removed a magazine from her hand bag and started to leaf through its pages.

“Hi, excuse me puhleez, may I share your seat?”

Wow! Holy Cow! She couldn’t believe her luck. Mr. Murthy wanted to sit next to her.

“Er…Ye..es! Of course! Please!” she said as she shifted to the end of the seat.

Mr Murthy wiped his thick brow as he looked from left to right.

“Are you new here?” he asked casually as he neatly folded his kerchief and pushed it into his pocket.

“Yes.” She said as she shifted her gaze from his long stretched legs

She heard the horn of the approaching train, few more people had gathered at the station.

They got into the train and sat facing each other.

While the train moved, they talked of many different things… when they reached the town after an hour; they were chatting as though they were old pals.

“Would like to join me for a coffee? I have fifteen minutes to kill.” He said as they crossed the street at the green signal.

“Are you meeting some-one?” She couldn’t help asking.

“Yes. Just a friend.” He smiled and he passed his hand through his thick brown hair.

They had coffee in silence, enjoying the jazz from the juke box.

He shook her hand and took leave of her. She followed his movement as she saw him enter a dental clinic that was facing the side lane.

She waited in the coffee shop and ordered more cups. She saw him leave the clinic after an hour. It was time to follow him to see where else would he go now. She followed him discreetly as he walked towards the station and boarded a return train.

‘He came all the way to meet a dentist? Eh?’ she wondered. He had said ‘a friend’, not ‘doctor’? ‘But why didn’t he say that he was visiting a dentist?’ ‘Was she a lover?’ ‘Was he unfaithful to his wife?’ Should she inform Mrs. Murthy?

She decided to investigate. She went back to the clinic and read the nameplate that said “Dr Suman Dutt’ she went inside to speak to the receptionist.

“Is Mr. Murthy in?” she asked innocently.

“Mr. Murthy? What about him?”

“I need to meet him.” She said

“Meet him next week. He just left.”

“You mean to say that he comes here regularly? Why?”

“Sorry Maam, it’s personal. I cannot discuss with you.” She said as she continued to look into her files.

For next 2 months, she watched from a coffee shop, and saw him enter the clinic regularly, and she was convinced that Mr. Murthy had more than one reason to visit his dentist.

“Mrs. Murthy. You were right. It is serious!” she spoke on phone, giving her all the details. “You can confront them.”

“Oh Miya Goodnesh! He comes to Mumbai regularly and does not even visit his sister, who lives in the same town!” she exclaimed as she made a note of the address.

That evening, Mrs. Murthy casually asked her husband whether he knew any dentist by the name of Dr.Suman Dutt. But, he faked ignorance.

Following Saturday, Mrs. Murthy took permission from her husband to stay with his sister for few days in town. How could her husband cheat on her? She was feeling miserable. His sister, too, was unaware of her brother’s visits to her town.. She had to put an end to this. She needed to teach that dentist a lesson!

Early Sunday morning, she reported at the clinic.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the receptionist as she looked into her appointment book.

“I need to see this doctor immediately. I don’t need any appointment.” She said as she barged her way through the door.

“Wait…you can’t……”

But Mrs. Murthy was already inside the cabin. The soft breeze poured into the cabin as the door shut heavily against the wall. Dr Suman Dutt raised her brow and stared at Mrs. Murthy.

“What the hell…Who are you? Coming forcibly like this…..” said the doctor

“I am Mrs.Murthy. Does my husband visit you often?” What a question. How many women go round to dentist clinic asking questions like that? She must have treated more than two thousand husbands on record and most of them visited her many times.

“Mr. Murthy?” said Dr. Suman as she turned to face this angry woman and took a deep breath.

“Now, now, now, don’t pretend, I know he has been visiting you” She was standing so close to the doctor that she could actually count her cavities. Even her teeth needed a little bit of whitening. The strong odor from her breath made her turn away

“Excuse me please. I have many patients. I have no time to discuss my patients with you? And why should I” she said

“Because this particular one happens to be my husband” as if she cared! She wished that all women gave enough care and comfort to their husbands so that they wouldn’t go barging off like that and making a fool of themselves?

“Oh really, then why don’t you ask him, huh?”

“Because he won’t tell me, and he actually faked ignorance. But I believe that you are having an affair with him.” Thank God, she was alone in the room. If her children were to hear this madness they would have laughed heartily. Theirs was a happy family and they usually laughed away at the dinner table when they discussed the moods of different patients.

“I don’t believe this, you must be crazy, please excuse me I have to attend to my other patients.” She said

“Oh yeah! You have more patients to attend? Who? My husband? He will be coming any moment, isn’t it?” She was shaking now as she spoke.

The cabin was small and her loud sound reverberated in the room. Dr Suman was tempted to bodily drag her outside.

“Mrs Murthy, please lower your voice.” She told her politely.

“Okay, you want to tell me what treatment are you doing for my husband? Huh?” she said as she approached forward, her hand dragging against the smooth, glass surface of the desk and dropped a book on the floor scattering all the loose sheaves on the floor.

“Calm down Mrs Murthy. Sorry! I cannot discuss this with you. It’s confidential.” said Dr Suman as she bend down to pick her book and the papers from the floor.

“You cannot discuss with me? Confidential? Huh?” she walked two steps and came closer to Dr Suman, and pulled her arm with her tight grip. Dr Suman wondered if she had gotten up from the wrong side of her bed.

“Please Mrs Murthy. You are hurting me!” said Dr Suman as she released her arm from her grip.

“I am his wife and you cannot tell me? Why? Eh? Tell me the truth! I know about your affair. Just let go of my husband…Do you hear me? I will not allow it…” she was almost screaming now as she came forward and suddenly pulled doctor’s hair hard, almost plucking it out from its roots. On an impulse, Dr Suman took a sharp turn raising her elbow up in the air, gave a swift punch and Mrs. Murthy went stumbling, losing her balance, two steps backwards and was down on the floor on her back with her feet up in the air.

Dr Suman was surprised and embarrassed. She had not intended to hit so hard. She went closer to Mrs Murthy and sat down on her knees and held her hand. “I am sorry! But believe me. There is no affair. The secret is his, not mine. I am only his doctor, sworn into secrecy”

“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Murthy, as she straightened and tried to get up.

“Listen, your husband lost his eight front teeth in an accident when he was twelve years old.. My dad had made denture for him then. He came to me for regular check-ups. Three months ago, his dentures chipped off. He needs to make new sets.”

‘And why wouldn’t he tell me that? Why are you so secretive?” she was whispering now

“He did not want to tell you, because, he was embarrassed, because, he loves you too much and he was afraid of your rejection on knowing the truth.”

There were tears in her eyes as her husband entered the room.

Time heals all wounds

Time heals all wounds
That’s what they say

But miseries may last for
Very, many days

You cross the long tunnel
to reach the other side

and see a new valley
on your horse ride

Some butterflies kiss
A baby blooms

The birds learn to sing
A colorful tune

And in the midst
Of green, new, fresh hay

You throw back those
Painful memories away

sigh! sniff! sniff!

Cry not, Oh, my broken heart
Life is just a dream
If tears could built a moving stream
I would swim across the seas
to reach the back door of his heart
and destroy all his peace.

Dance with me

I sit bored across the room,
Deep in thought, watching you
As you swirl to rhythmic nights
Of loud music and blinking lights

Wondering if you can find me
In the left corner of the room
Yes, the one sipping rum
The curls overshadowing eyes

Back is drooped, titled head,
Waiting for music to pause
So that you can disarm her
Lead her to an easy chair.

Lift your smile and walk ahead
Relax on to my side, I want my
verbal dance tonight
You promised me candlelight.

When Pragya Thakur, of ‘Shakespeare and Company network’ on Ryze.com, came to Bombay to meet Shakespeareans friends,

I was wondering ‘Should I go? Should I not go?’ Now, Churchgate is one hour drive from Bandra unless I decide to take a train of 30 minutes (but then we have to climb up/down bridges) they don’t allow active people to cross the tracks! (Only lazy people are allowed to cross the tracks that too, secretly.) But I was keen to meet Pragya and her Family and decided to hit the road.

The venue selected was Astoria Hotel. I enquired at the concierge and he directed me to go to Tea Centre. He asked the watchman to show me the route, he came with me all the way to the road and asked me to go the building next to subway (wrong directions) but when ever I ask for direction I don’t ask one person for directions before proceeding. When more than three people told me to take the subway and go to the other side of the street, I was convinced and reached the venue.

And it was worth it! It was nice meeting John Mathew, Archana Kombrambail, Jane Bhandari (who runs a poetry group called Loqations), Shilpa (a television script writer), Anil Siqueira, Prabhakar, Ravishankar C, Maya Sriram (My coach in writing), Raamesh Gowri Raghavan, Pallavi Bhattacharya and Pragya's husband Anil and her six-year-old daughter Anoushka. (Sorry, if I missed anyone).

The ambience was warm, group receptive and laughter with joy was a packaged deal. I was amused when they wanted to laugh aloud after I read my piece on ‘Laughter club’

“Shoo!”
“No! No!”
“Small laugh please!”
“People are staring! “
“Nah!”
“Nahi!”

So all we did was to postpone the laugh for an open space some other time.

Anoushka was a real treat and her chatter was music to me. (I love kids) Thirty years from now, I hope I am alive to see this famous writer-to-be.

I was glad I could make it.

I need a new maid

Who will clean my floor?
Who will answer the door?
Who will set the table?
I am quite unable.

Head is throbbing fast
Eyes are wet and red
Back is bent and blue
Bai, I am missing you

Don’t ever take a break
Don’t you know it’s hard
What is easy for you
It’s tearing me apart

Who will boil the milk?
Who will iron the silk?
Who will answer the phone?
Oh dear Bai! I am all alone!

You are resting at home
But I have reading to do
Now my day is waste
Doing odd jobs of you

Who will swab the floor?
Who will clean the clothes?
Who will massage for me?
Get me a new Bai please!