Creativity: a prodigy of design

What if world was just black and white with just few shades of grey? One brick over another brick lay without a design etched in clay

Would we hop from place to place, traveling over seven seas? To trace the intricate design on bare walls of just white paint and lots of grease

It’s the creativity of our artistic mind that creates the design without haste. Each curve has different story to tell in our book of our creative taste.

I stand under the iron eaves, the design clings on to my skin,The shades of light reflect from my face, is this another phase?

A pyramid under the roof forms designs with slabs of unequal shapes, It’s the colored light that marks the curves giving shades of florescent taste

The glassy shapes of different shades, look, how they reflect the light, Brilliantly shining on each mosaic of tile, its creativity of design

A pillar, just a leaning stone on which rests one floor, but, Its shapes and structure round or square highlighted when in gold

Art can have many forms: cylindrical or spherical or square, Its placement, in relative to different shapes results in amazing pairs

It’s the frequency of same curves and shapes that we would call a design, Only a person with artistic mind could create such beauty, truly divine....

It's All in the Days Work

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 5; the fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

In the morning I put a comma
In the evening I erase it
All day, round the clock, the words taunt me

They bring me the messages
From flowers and trees
In a basket full of fragrance, I feel pleased

They come in smaller groups
With their sweetest melody
Happiness and love, I hear them teach

On days, when they are blue
They sit crouched outside my door
Sulking and flunking, wanting to be eased

And when they are sad
Weep, wetting my porch
With my hope and balm, they feel relief

On days, when they are cheerful
They are welcomed with some grace
Commas and periods, in calm retreat

On sofas they sit,
Under cabinets, they crawl
The verses and sentences, to each other they greet

It’s all in day’s work
The words are my friends
Metaphors and similes, we all have a feast

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Baby's Smile

A baby's smile glowing on a chubby face

bringing us joy with its lovely gaze
What better wonder can in this world makes sense
than to feast our moments in child's presence...

Butterfly

image source

A matrix of design

sheds off from the body
of a beautiful butterfly,
on an artists' paradise
tickling out the inspirations
of a painter, who
collect all its pastels
to paint....

Dedicated to my cousin on her 60th birthday

For your big day
I wrote a lovely tune
But it got buried
Underneath a big tomb

So one day, sat I
With my thoughts and wishes
To extract that tune
From the heap full of richness

Slowly unfolding
The layers of the verse
Songs exposed within were
Of your kindness and your love

One song I remember
Had fragrance of your cooking
With bloated tummy we sat
Overeating, lip-smacking

Another was laced
With your laughter and your grace
That reverberated across miles
Do you remember the embrace?

Verses spoke of your concern
Were shared by everyone
Questioning, periodically
You asked if all was well

Deeply concerned
To bring comfort and charm
At very tiny injury you were
Greatly alarmed

Cared you may not
For your own little joys
But happiness you could give
To those whom you surround

On this your milestone day
Of your 60 odd years
My wishes overloads
With joyous happy tears

May you always be the one
Who is pleasant and nice
A sister, soft spoken
With a tag of 24k gold price.

The Sun Set

On a cloudy day
I wished for a moon
But suddenly
The sun peeped
Pushing the clouds aside
Mirroring its reflection on
Vast Ocean beneath
Grinning loudly
Blinding me
Waving me a warm goodbye, for
Unless the sun
Don’t climb to go down
The moon may not arrive

Living Abroad

Yes, You are right
Its beautiful out there
life is cool with so much
luxuries and no cares, but
Cold parathas from freezer
No helpers all day
All earnings stowed in insurance
Not seen a smile all day
Why must I stay in a foreign land ?
My life could be wasted this away

If I were a baby again

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 4; the fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

If I were a baby again
I would crawl to a nearest IT home
The tricks of net, having learnt in womb
Would know the paths to a twitter zone

Would surf the net for branded sets
And shop for diapers on my own
Of pinks and greens or blues and
Browns, scented with perfumed rose

Would chat with babies of other world
Share cuddles, airs, coos, and burps
With fingers tracing on a screen
Would exchange messages of our love

Would form a group of baby gang
To stop the rhymes of silly tones
Who cares what Ba Ba Blacksheep sang
Would hum film tunes into our phones

So glad would I be in that infant mode
In fantasy world of fairies and gnome
Eat virtual meals and ice-cream cones
Playing games sans smashing all our bones

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Fishy World

It’s a small world in a fish tank

Swimming in limited waters
With supply of air in a smaller dose
Fish knows not
The beauty behind the globe

Foolishly
Haphazardly
It moves
Not reaching any goal

Mogri owns a transit home.

Mogri loved her privacy and her solitude. She chose to live on her own- six months ago - when her son got married.

Whenever she had gone house-hunting, she had enquired about the neighborhood. She did not want nosy neighbors who would open their doors and peep out each time her door bell rang, nor did she want a neighbor with children under five, who asked too many questions or made too much noise. She had seen more than forty apartments before she had zeroed on to an apartment in a building with no lift and no next-door neighbor. The three more apartments on her floor were vacant and belonged to some rich NRI. She chose third floor with no lift to guard herself against any unwanted guest. She was sure that nobody loved her so much so as to climb three floors to visit her.
What she didn’t realize was that she chose a house closer to the airport and she would have guests who would want to use her house as a transit point.

Her first guest arrived two weeks after she moved in. Her cousin from London called her to give her the news of her arrival.

“Hey Mogri, guess what? I am going to Bangalore but will come to Mumbai for two days. You know, you are so lucky that you are staying closer to the airport, will you come to pick me up?”

“Why don’t you take a taxi? I will give you my address.” She said

“Oh! I don’t trust these taxis, and since it is such a short distance, no taxi will be willing to ply, not even the prepaid ones, I am sure of that. Come on, be a darling, you are just 15 minutes away from the airport, please come to pick me up.”

“Do you know that I stay on a third floor and there is no lift in my building? Won’t it be inconvenient for you to climb up?” She said, hoping to discourage her.

“Oh, what does it matter, it’s your companionship that I love, and I would not like to hurt you by checking into a hotel, would I?”

“Bloody stingy!” she said under her breath as she made a note of her flight details.
Mogri hated Mumbai airport which was more like a refugee camp. There was no room to rest one’s feet. Many people who were tired of standing, squatted down on the dirty ground. It was always too crowded. While she waited, leaning against the wall, she saw a family of twelve people, with the garlands in their hands, welcoming a youth with a dangling medal across his chest. They were all crowding around him, blocking her view. As soon as she saw her cousin, she walked up to receive her.

And for next two days, silence exited from her back door.

Her cousin was a radio with no ‘off’ switch. Continuously she ranted about the weather in Mumbai, about the pollution, about the poverty, about the unhygienic food on Mumbai streets. She boasted about her life in London, about her investments, about her jewelry and clothes, about her popularity amongst her friends, and also about the vast contrast between Mumbai and London.

Although Mogri was not too fond of Mumbai but still, she was getting offended at her cousin’s abusive rant.

‘It’s only for two days’ she kept reminding herself, taking deep breaths and counting slowly from one to ten. She fumbled with TV channels but no program was interesting enough to distract her cousin. She tried to hide in her bathroom, but her cousin stood outside her door and raved on. Mogri craved for her routine activities. She missed her yoga sessions. Her magazine rack sulked. His fingers itched to go online and meet her FB friends, to play scrabble with her friends, to plant seeds and decorate her virtual farm. She desperately waited for her cousin to pause so that she could also express her own opinion, but it seemed like her cousin was on powerful vitamins which gave her an extraordinary stamina to talk and talk and talk.

Two days took two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes to arrive and she chopped them up by one hundred and eighty minutes by calling a cool cab, three hours before the departure time.

But that was not the end of it. It was the beginning of a new episode.

Mogri was to get used to the stream of visitors that looked for free accommodations, closer to the airport with a good hostess.

Diwali Festival

Wearing spotless garbs,
he smiles at friends,
hogging sweets,
praying retreats,
bathing in festival of light
all in celebrations,
but blasting crackers?

What does he gain?

Covered with thick smoke,
polluted air
imprisons his mind
in a filtered progression
paralyzing his imagination
killing his capacity to
warble emotions.

Is that not a pain?

Boom! Boom!
he rejoices the loud sounds
that knocks him aggressively,
upsetting the acoustic of his mind
thoughtlessly,
breaking them into fragments
of fractured verses.

he calls that a game?

During Diwali festival
bleats he
gloating to the tunes
of rhythm and fun
but his love is crushed
to a deafening silence
by sparklers with a noisy head.

Has not his happiness failed?

Boom! Boom!
his hard earned cash
of sweat and labor
melts
into a
thin
air.

Oh! What a shame!

Winter blues (55-ers)

I spread one more blanket over three layers of sheets, but I am still trembling. I turn to my side, wrap my arms around my breast, and bury my head underneath the blankets, breathing out the warm air to bring comfort. In the next room, mom is comfortable, so is my dad. They exchange heat.

My Faith

I stand poised
into yogic posture
unmoved by distractions
The reptiles of desires
crawl all over me
seducing me
hoping that I could bend
just one miniscule of nerve
but determined and stubborn
I stand there merged,
stagnant,
into the walls of faith
until I find
my ultimate goal
of salvation

Witches' World

Liquid dreams
Escape
Passing through the crevices
Of deep sleep
Into the make-believe world
Where witches are friends
Sitting on golden throne
Making magic broth
That sits on their palm
Sprinkling the mischievous desires
That led to an impossible world
Nothing is evil no more
Gloom is unknown
Wicked laugh reigns
Sin is intoxicating drink
Cherished and nurtured
Until
The first ray of light seep in
Knocking
To end this bliss

By the sea-shore

The calm spread all over the sky as it saw its reflections on the smooth layer of waters, it waited patiently for the hours to pass, soon, there would be twinkling stars dotting the sea and dark blue sky would merge into night with only the stars guiding the moon.

Copy-Paste

Copy-paste is easy way
To escape from
Tumbling thoughts and
Risk damage to my nerves

Why break my spine
When facts are out there
Carefully logged by some one
with better wit than I

I would rather use my mind
To plan my progress
Towards my next station
Of comfort

If you force me to write
Something
That does not move me
Nor stir any chord within me
I will copy-paste for you
Wrap it with a ribbon
Of great new idea
And present it to you

You must not nitpick
Nor carp my verse
Cause you were too lazy to
Research it yourself

Truth is out there
Millions years old
Reshuffled, churned, dyed,
Squeezed, battered, recycled

I did not want to touch it
Nor feed my own core
You forced me, knowing not
That I had a mind of my own
That celebrated each moment
With a new untouched goal

Just for me, I sing
The original love song of my soul

Greetings to Preeti Bose

For a friend, Preeti Bose, whose every status post on FB is poetic verse. I think she deserves something written especially for her in a poetic language that she understands..

So, when the opportunity arise to wish her on her birthday, my muse swings with joy and sings a special verse on her special day:

"The white face of moon blushes turning deeeep red, reading your lines. as u play with your words unfolding the nakedness of a verse, it turns its head slightly, shyly. wishing you well on your great day......I push the moon aside cause its now my turn to wish u......
Happy Birthday..May your muse shine upon u."

And why not?

She writes so beautifully.... I luv it...Once she wrote:

"I wish to reach out
and touch your smile
for now, will gently caress
my memory of you.
wonder if you are in the know
when we walk together
fondness walks next to us,
in that sinuous aisle
of a make-believe world......."

......and many more of her beautiful poems are there on her blog.

so an ordinary birthday greeting won't do, na?

Volcano

Write I must
But words must flow
Erupting from deep inside
The volcano
Full of heat and fire of my soul

How do I write for you?
I need to be inspired
I need to be moved
or may be tickled up in my raw bone

I honestly cannot write for you
If I don’t really feel that glow

Blog Swapped Into Pockets of Inspiration

If you like this



Or this




then you must visit Pockets of Inspiration a blog which has lots of great ideas to keep your self busy on a rainy day when, (even your computer does not cooperate) and you are able to while away your time producing beautiful, creative stuff from the materials such as paper and odds and ends.

I stumbled upon this blog when I signed for blog swap at netblogging. What was a poet like me doing at art corner? Well, poets get inspired by anything that moves (or doesn’t move).

During the time away from my poetry, when my muse looked for inspiration, Melanie’s blog appeared in blog swap and here I am, hooked for days, learning the tricks into another creative world……at

I love this blog because it is meant to offer inspiration for creating your own works of art with the use of rubberstamps.

And I am loving it….

Do visit Melanie's blog and enjoy the joys of inspirations. I am going back to her blog, come on, come along........

Agony

We constantly tire of tedious peace
And look with yearning
For the challenge of agony
And when it arrives
Its painful now
Its bitter arrows sting
Till it bleeds
No balm eases the mental wounds
When deeper the poison seeps within
Killing the soul that could fly
Over the oceans of happiness
Its wings are clipped
It lies wounded
Forever obstructing
The tranquil and peace.

Painful

Nothing lasts forever
Nor fame, nor name
Nor friend, nor foe
Everything comes around
To haunts us even more
Foolishly
We get entangled
Knowing its results
What brought us laughter
Someday
Is the cause of our pain
Today
Hindering our thoughts
Hijacking our emotions
Smile is just another curve
To hide the actual shade
We feel hollow within
Something chewing up our brain
Helplessly, we move on
Yet again
To another station
Where they sell
New supply of pain

Sometimes

Sometimes

Poetry can paint true feelings
Even when laced with random thoughts
Colors, designs, shapes inter-locked
Captured inside an intricate prints

The eye within sees the colorful shades
With different hues at titled angles
Thoughts mingle with greater ease when
Words emerge refreshed from painted canvas

They jump off easel with renewed verses
Unlocking rhythm of compressed thoughts
Colors, design, shapes, unzipped
Poetry jumps to express the feelings

Godawful poems # 15

RIP to 15 Bad Poems

A poem without a thought
A thought that leads to a poem
No edits no cuts
Emotions may sometime rust
But messages were clear
In godawful fortnight they were normally sneered
In rhymes with chimes
The verses brought tears
To those who cared
And nursed their muse
Now I too rest, this nonsense must end
Shall be back to normal poems
RIP bad poem, will pamper you again
Maybe
Next year.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 14

My Online Friends

I wandered lonely as a cloud
Over the virtual webs and popular links
When all at once I saw a crowd
On FaceBook they were having chills
Beneath the super pokes, beneath the quiz
Flittering through my inbox streams

Continuous they would kill the time
And chatted on that gossip line
They stretched their words on my personal wall
Along with thoughts and quotes of day
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Pollute my news feed with words that dance

I looked for a friend who meant much to me
But his news feed was most unwelcomed to me
Until I went visiting his personal page
And saw the activities of his day
I read and read his every space
Then surprised I was that he has a new mate

The game of scrabble is on hold
Words twirl and Mafia wars he plays no more
The games he plays now, obnoxious to me
I am sad, conflicted, unpleasantness surround me
It lasts for a moment, just a while, when
A group of better friends come on line.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 13

Jai Ganesha

This Ganpati festival, I visit my friend where Ganpati is the Guest, I want to talk to the idol but my voice is drowned under the loud sound of music, and I cannot hear myself speak so I decide just to eat the Prasad that is delicious and which Idol may not eat.

I tell my friend that Ganpati is too uncomfortable, lower the volume, so that He can hear my prayers, but she argues that to get into the groove and get positive vibrations the loud decibels need to seep through her skin pores to enter her stream.

I tell my friend to sing soft hymns in praise of Lord, the sweet melody of vocal chords have much devotion and is soothing to the nerves but she prefers to play the recorded tunes so un-clearly sung with Bollywood themes

I tell my friend that if Ganpati go deaf, he may not hear her plea, her unfulfilled desires and her grief but selfish that she is, she plans to scream into His ears her fantasies and her impossible dreams.

On the beach she stands with Ganpati in her hand, before her final goodbyes, she is shouting “Ganpati Bapa Moriya, come again the next year”, again another scream!

I nibble my nails, I am too much under strain and I wonder whether Ganpati will forget the cruelty in one year and come back again? Maybe He will not, not even in her dreams!

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 12

Sinner

I hate to sin but love the sinner
In every act I am still all time winner

Under the table, I offer him cake
Icing done above, though it is all faked

Ministers, constables, or any corporate sister
All are in a team to extract something sinister

Nothing can be accomplished on a straight path
Zigzag I go, curving on their wavy heart

Forms and reforms have invisible dotted lines
I give them some bribe, they appear in no time

Long queues are cut for influential caught in rut
Over a glass of beer, all the obstacles are shut

Foolish I would be if I was not ready to sin
Why waste time at judicial courts,
When it is so easy to win?

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 11

Reply to Raamesh…

Oh well! Oh well!

You think of suicide by drowning in the well? But when you think of her, you say, “Save me, save me!”

You opt for a dope, though you wanted to take a rope but when you hear her sweet voice, you say, “Save me, save me!”

Poison might work for you cause your neighbors are not so rude, they love her melodious voice, and don’t hear you say, “Save me, save me!”

Guns are shunned when she walks over the barren land, the birds begin to sing and smile but still you cry, “Save me, save me!”

Ink is surely a relief but venom is never cheap. Somebody tell this Ozy to stop saying “Save me, save me!”

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 10

King Khan

Humpty Dumpty
And the King Khan
Were stopped at the immigration
Though it was not their fault
Both were famous
Both were smart
Still, media jokers promoted them to a
Publicity mall

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 9

Writer Wins

BJP party is full of ‘characters’
All pretending to hate Jinnah book
Forcing the writer to resign
For a crime of his personal expression

Members yawn as they see
The books disappear from the shelves
One by one,

Curiosity rules,
History emerges from the graves
Jaswant’s daily stingers rock

Expulsion from a party
Was not a dirty game
After all

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 8

Worthless, Waste of Time.

To rhyme without a dime is the waste of time
Even a wayward singer, on the road he sings
Collects a glance and a dime or two
But a writer or a poet
Will write and write and rhyme and rhyme
But he may never ever collect a single dime
For his time

Now isn’t that a crime?

Its a matter of utmost prime, when
His words are appreciated at a shrine
Sees his loved one depart before time
His memories he wants to make it shine
Telling the world about his clime
He doesn't think it is a waste of his time
So he gets words published in rhyme

And doing everything free was all fine?

But he saw his rhyme was used
At inner circle it was misused
If he wanted he could choose
To his sell godawful muse
So stuck-up he was in slime
Reached the scene out of line
None would hear his chime
They told him he was not on time

Alas!
Do poets have godawful worth of time?

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 7

NRI-Non Realistic Indians

They bought for me gifts
My NRI friends, relatives, uncles, mausas, mammis
Flashing their dollars, jingling their pockets
While I drooled over chocolates, they showed me their dental pearls
But that was years of seventies and eighties
When visa was rare and only rich relatives dared

But look at them now, in these times of recession
They envy our comfort, our capacity to race,
Our power of spending, and sometimes we are lending
Every common man on our street has a rich taste
Of mobile, and internet and web and surfing
While they carefully separate dollars without any grace
They have out-sourced their offsprings on to our side
while they sit thumb dwindling in this bad phase

We visit them now with our Indian goodies
They love our ethnic, colorful booties
They watch our movies, dance to our tunes
Even our local TV Channels they prefer over theirs
Our reality shows have NRI's participating
They grab our discards, which we don’t really wanting
Our gravies, our spicy food they too much liking
They are all now thinking of coming backing.

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 6

# 6

Suniti writes:

"O your eyes! O your Eyes!!
Like twin stars in the skies.
They make a storm
in my bosom arise!!

Lo! Behold !! they are
Peeping at me,
from a cloud of curls,
they slowly unfurl,
Pushing me towards
an early demise
Your eyes!!"

Reply to Suniti.....

Why do you ode to starry eyes
And compare it to twin stars in skies?

There are million stars shining up there
But in your bosom they cannot… All lies

They cannot peep from cloud of curls
Nor have I seen them slowly unfurl

Because stars, unlike eyes, cannot shine all day
They are visible only at night

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 5

Daring Ole Women

They hide behind a veil
They stare at every male
Hey ho those daring ole
Women of Mumbai trains

On Face book they often come
And pretend they are very young
On video clip and u-tubes
They show their pink, pink tongue

They play all virtual games
Flash quizzes without any shame
Flooding every news feed
Wanting to be framed

They steal the password of folks
And send those painful pokes
Hey ho those daring ole
Women of Mumbai trains

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 4

Stupid Blogger

Why does he write when none will read?
Why does he send his links to me?
What do I care if his emotions touch the sky
And bring the stars at his feet

I am not humored by his rant, nor
His ceaseless comparison to the birds that sing
His staying awake to see the sun go down
To hear the melodious song of early spring

And what should I do if I knew the precise date
When he broke his front tooth at tender age
When he took his first step before he crawled
To grab his clumsy bite from his maiden plate

I am pulling strands of hair from roots
And focusing on his scrambled text
He knows not of my this god-awful mood
When the poets of such cadre interest me naught

I am standing on my head, upside down
To get the rhythm from my feet

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 3

Twitter

From link to link
I tweet, I tweet
With feathers ruffled
A friend I seek

They take me an unknown zone
Of contents that are sometimes bore

With limited letters, messages sent
Make nonsense words, they later repent

Grammar, spellings, phrases, words
Jumbled up for thrash dump cans

Oh. How I long for my offline friends
They became invisible
Because of these trends

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 2

Swine flu

Swine flu to my country it came
Unwelcomed, shameless, giving pain
By thousands people down they drop
Dead, no vaccine can stop this dread

Take back you, USA, Mexico
Your swine come here with much ego
We don’t need such illness any more
Have HIV, poverty at our store

The masks are fashionable on our streets
In every lane, crazy media bleats
Spreading stories of horror pigs
That frightens, weak hearted flicks

Tamiflu, we don’t even trust
We never ever taste anything first.
Godawful Poetry Fortnight

Godawful poems # 1 A challenge

Godawful poems are back again Once more to be crazy and splutter nonsense verse Dabbled with humor if we can A challenge from nineteenth to thirty first Of August? Godawful Poetry Fortnight godawful poetry fortnight

Independence Day

Those tiny, little feet
Run, snaking through a busy traffic

Street urchin knocks
Awakening the love gurus
From their deep slumber
Pleading them
To lower their glass windows
And buy just one unit of
Tri-colored flag on
This Independence Day

His back drenched and soaked,
Clinging shirt against his skin
Droplets of sweat drips on
Feet coated with thick layer of dust,
Hair uncombed for days, maybe
His first meal of day is not yet earned
But holds the promise of freedom on
This Independence Day

Somewhere far away,
In an elite neighborhood,
Soft pair of feet runs up the shiny floor,
Through the spiral steps
To reach the open space
And sway the paper flag
Against the fierce winds
Innocent laughter fills the air on
This Independence Day

Tiny little feet pause, to hear
The murmurs of joy that dilute the
Thick air of pain

.Offline Wedding

Rahul looked at the clock on the wall that struck 9pm. It was time to shut the cash box, take the money, deposit the earning of the day into the bank and then head home and enjoy the bliss of meeting Karina online. His computer table was always cluttered with soft drinks, snacks and water bottles. The only time, he left the screen was when he got this urgent need to pee. She would giggle coyly into her webcam and ask him to hurry up. On the days when server was down, he was miserable. There was no cyber café closer to his house and on those days, all he would do was to fantasize and re-play the memories of their chat. And she had a way of turning him on. Her words jumped off the screen and strummed the chords of love into his heart and he was filled with ecstasy. They talked for hours, sharing links, photographs of their family, friends and their city’s favorite spots. She would show him the busy streets of Kowloon, the narrow street markets in the bye-lanes of Hong Kong, the pictures of the food markets that she visited regularly, she showed him the photographs of her room mate, the pictures of her family in India and also the pictures of her work place at her department store. He would share the pictures of cobbled streets of rural areas of Tenerife, those long, tree-lined promenades along the sea shore, the silver beaches and those exotic cultural festivals of the Canary Islands. He, too, like her, stayed alone in Tenerife, away from his family in India.

When he proposed to her, she was not surprised. Rahul called his parents in India and informed them about Karina and told them to meet her parents who lived in the same town.

“Are you sure, you have told her everything about you?” they asked repeatedly

“Yes Mom, we are very much in love, we really wish to get married.” He said

Rahul’s parents were still doubtful about their son’s honesty. They wanted to talk to Karina and tell her the truth that their son suffered from psoriasis, a skin disease which, although, not contagious, had made him suffer social exclusion and discrimination. They wanted to warn her that under stress, the skin burst into blisters that covered his whole body and his bed would be covered with white sand of dead cells.

“She wants to marry me against all odds, you don’t worry mom, everything is going to be fine.” He convinced them.

The wedding date was approved and arranged by their families. One week before the wedding, Rahul, from Tenerife, and Karina, from Hong Kong met for the first time on Indian soil. Their happiness brought smiles to strangers too. Both the families talked endlessly about the wedding plans and were happy that they had found a perfect match.

Many guests arrived on their wedding day. The couple stood smiling on the stage, greeting each guest, as their guests snaked through the queue to greet them with gifts, cash-envelops or flower bouquets. Rahul looked handsome in his branded suit that covered his flaky skin underneath his suit, only a small red patch on his face was visible. Karina would return her shy glance at him and smile when he whispered some funny comments. Suddenly, Rahul heard Karina mumble that she is feeling tired. The guest in the queue stared, aghast, as they saw Karina lose her balance and crumble down on the floor, with her eyes rolling and her body go stiff, then relax and go stiff again.

‘Oh no” whispered Karina’s mom as she watched her daughter getting her seizures. She quickly walked to the stage and rolled her over onto her side in the recovery position and let her sleep.

Rahul sat down on the floor next to her, shifting his gaze from Karina to the guests and back to Karina again.

Wiping the froth from the corner of her mouth, he wished Karina had warned him about her epilepsy fits.

Thick Wad of Notes....

My friend writes in face book status “A book, shut tight, is but a block of paper”.
And this I found it really philosophical and was inspired to add few lines...

The block of papers comes to life
When loosened off its strings
The knowledge overflows,
Wetting you from head to toe
With wisdom, u never knew
That it was possessed within you,
Your soul trapped
Under thick layers of doubt,
That had sent you wayward
To unknown zone,
As you thread through its grainy path,
The truth then
Slowly unfolds,
You enter into the gates of bliss,
Such powers lie within
Those thick wad of notes....

pic source: flickr

Mumbai Trains

People of Mumbai travel dangerously,
They just cannot wait,
For, empty train may not arrive,
You see their body protruded out,
Against the polluted air,
They reach home with a cake of dust,
Masking their body with dirt and sweat.

Many not sure
If they will arrive
In one piece when they will reach home,
So dangerously, travelling in this style,
Not afraid of banging on any pole...

Or sometimes,
Because of a ruthless killer,
The riots break loose and break the roof,
Of train, that throws many people around,
Their mangled bodies don't ever reach home.

Yes, this is Mumbai,
That we all know.....
It is made of people
Who just live each day,
Will they see one more day,
As a lone Mumbaite,
One never knows.....

Read My Script

Writers need just readers, my friend
Just read what I write with my blood
Don’t judge me, hammer me or kill my soul
It’s what I feel
Just so, my words flow

Happiness is not just success, my friend
I need the food for my lonely soul
I have burned the oils for many nights
To cook these words
And bring them life

Don’t compare me with other accomplished stars
I cannot ever even think like them
I tame my words and dress them up
Do read their performance
Just once more.

So, stand alert, hear them croon, applause,
Dear reader, applause once more

Twittering Muse

In a concrete jungle
Birds are silenced
But humans are happy
To steal their tweet
Fluttering, twittering
Exchanging ideas
Jumping from link to link
Savouring ideas, comments, suggestions
Learning songs
That birds would sing
While raven, crows, cuckoos, sparrows
Are lost
Into the maze of bricks
Internet yogis
Having field day
Twittering about
Their tweedy twits
They even share
their love notes in tweets
Now isn’t that not really tweet?

When Two Poets Whisper

When two poets whisper
In melodious verse
Lifting moods to
Cloud nine
The birds, the bees
And all human beings
Can taste flavors
Of sugar, sweet and brine

The verses sweep out
From under the skin
Flushing cheeks with
Color, shade and hue
The moment is paused
Turning senses divine
Under its sweet music
Eternity comes alive

Faded Tapestry

“What is that?” said the father to the son
“It's squirrel running down the tree”
“What is that?” asked father again
“It's squirrel running up the tree”
The day was warm, but the shade was cool
Under a tree sat father and his son
Father scratched his ivory head
His eyeballs moved from right to left
Son was deeply into a verse
No time he had for chatting or fun
One more squirrel passed under a bench
Father asked again “What is that?”
“Squirrel, squirrel, squirrel” screamed his son
“Don’t you understand this, you old man
It's a squirrel I say it for final time
Don’t cross me again, shut up for a while”

Father’s eyes then filled with tears
His memories flashed back to those lovely years
When son was raw and he was young
He had hugged his son for his every quest.
Patience was the order of day
Happily they had played every game

Not once had father yelled at his son
Who in his innocence
Had questioned every pun

Kisser Boy (Script Writing)

10.36 INT-NIBANA SOCIETY OFFICE CORRIDOR - DAY

WATCHMAN sits in the corridor, outside the society office on a low stool. He is watching from the door at the meeting session that is in progress inside the room. There are five committee members sitting in a circle. He can hear them all talking at once arguing amongst them selves. SECRETARY is examining the log book and accountant is making the bills. WATCHMAN sees EMRAAN HASHMI walk past him towards the room but he stops him from entering the office.

WATCHMAN
Hello! Where you going?

EMRAAN HASHMI
I need to talk to the secretary

WATCHMAN
You can’t, he is busy in the meeting, come back later

EMRAAN HASHMI
Don’t you know who I am?

WATCHMAN
(looks closely then blinks)
Oh yes I know who you are,
you are the serial kisser, right?
I have seen you in
Bollywood movies,
do you also give kissing lessons.

EMRAAN HASHMI
Yes I do, but I will give
kissing lessons only after I
move into this building

WATCHMAN
You mean to say that
you are buying an apartment
here, in this building?

EMRAAN HASHMI
Thats right, and that is why I want
to meet the secretary

WATCHMAN
(lets out a soft whistle)
Wow! I really want to learn kissing.
You wait here, I will tell the secretary.

He goes in excitedly inside the office and starts to speak loudly pointing his finger towards the door.

WATCHMAN
Saab, there is EMRAAN HASHMI
waiting outside, who wants to meet you,
its that same guy, you might know him.
The one who goes moochy moochy in all his films

SECRETARY
(irritably)
Yeah, yeah, we know him,
tell him to come later, we are busy now.

WATCHMAN
Saab. talk to him na,
it will be so nice if he is lives in this building,
imagine our meeting will start with new
kissing postures every month, *kitna maza ayega na*?

SECRETARY
Now, that is the reason we cannot give him
NOC certificate. We have *jawan choris* in the society,
there will be no morality left

WATCHMAN
Morality? You mean kissing is like losing one’s morality?

SECRETARY
(Nodding his head)
Exactly, the way he kisses, *Besharam!*

By this time EMRAAN HASHMI has already followed the watchman inside the office and is standing behind him

SECRETARY
(talking loudly)
Hey, you kisser boy, we told you na
that we cannot give you NOC certificate,
didn’t you understand?

EMRAAN HASHMI
Why? You are being very unfair.

SECRETARY
Unfair? arrey you will corrupt the *chokris*
in our building and then Shiv Sena will
make our life miserable

EMRAAN HASHMI
What has Shiv Sena got to do with this society?

SECRETARY
Don’t u know that Shiv Sena is very much
against foreign culture. In India, we don’t
kiss mouth to mouth in open public, *Bhaiyas*
on the road get very excited. In India, we only
hug, body to body, full length, but no kissing,
you understand, you kisser boy?

EMRAAN HASHMI
See mister there is nothing wrong with kissing,
it is only mouth to mouth, no body touching at all,
you don’t want body touching, I don’t touch,
if that is the way you like it. Come,
I will show you how harmless it is.

EMRAAN HASHMI walks towards the secretary and gives him a long kiss.

SECRETARY
(shrieks loudly)
Hey, move away, help, oh! you bloody gay

SECRETARY falls on the ground unconscious and the other committee members run out of the room. WATCHMAN looks at EMRAAN HASHMI hungrily, smiling ear to ear.

Poverty Line

Poverty line runs a curvy path
And finally fades away
With hard work
It normally
Crushes under its weight...

Pity Party

Will you come to my pity party?
I am having it on a rooftop today.

Together we will talk
About our imperfections, and
Pity those opportunist who failed.
We will honor and tame
One ‘Ms Perfect’, then
Snub hearts that are drained
Of trying too hard,
But reaching nowhere
On a crossroad
They die of shame
We will talk and chat
With perfect friends and
Play a dirty game
With egos boosted
By rich and famous
We will pity
Our poverty stakes.
For snacks we will serve
Some shrewd cruel words
Half baked by senseless brains
When you feel hurt
We will pity you then
With a sweet desert of pain

After attending my pity party
You will never ever feel the same

Script-writing - Auto Rickshaw

14.38 EXT – AUTO IN A CONGESTED AREA-DAY

SMITA looks worriedly at the auto driver (PAKIYA) as he drives through the congested roads of Mumbai. There is a big queue under the subway and there are lots of cars honking continuously.

SMITA
Why have you taken this route?
I told you that I was in hurry.

PAKIYA
This is the shortest route Ma’am
We will reach soon.

SMITA
Soon? You really think so? Huh?
Don’t you know that the traffic
Hardly ever moves here, we can
reach soon only if the traffic
moves. Here it only crawls.

PAKIYA
Have patience Ma’am, there is red
Signal there, as soon as the
light turns green, the traffic will ease.

SMITA
I had told you that I have to reach
Goregoan early and you are delaying
me by taking me through this congested
street.

PAKIYA
(IRRIATED)
Every darn street is crowded in
Mumbai Ma’am, What do I do?

SMITA
You should have taken the express highway

PAKIYA
(snorting)
Ha! And you think that express highway
is not crowded? It is more crowded
than the Link- roads. Ma’am?

Smita looks out of the auto and sees a big queue of traffic behind her. There is no space to make an U_turn. There are more cars double-parked in the lane ahead of her. People are crossing the streets and squeezing through the traffic; children are skipping and walking between the autos.

SMITA
You auto-drivers are all stupid.
I wish you guys had brains and
could make proper judgments and
knew which route would be easier
to follow.

The traffic begins to moves and PAKIYA rev up his auto to drive ahead. Soon, the traffic eases and he starts to drive faster and reaches the express highways.

SMITA
Look! Be careful, you are driving
too fast. Why cant you drive slowly,
you could cause an accident and then
you will be sorry.

PAKIYA
Okay, can you please shut up and
let me drive peacefully?

SMITA
Shut up? Did you say ‘Shut up’?
huh? Aren’t you supposed to be
polite to your passengers?

PAKIYA
(rudely)
Ha! Polite? You expect me to be
polite when you chew my brains
with your yakitti yak yak . If
you interfere and distract me
what do you expect me to do?

SMITA adjusted her purse and brings it close to her chest, staring at him through his mirror in front of his auto.

SMITA
Stop the auto now, I said stop
the auto now.

Pakiya continues to drive, revving up the speed even faster, looking straight at the road ahead and honking and driving on

SMITA
Are you deaf? I said stop the auto now

She looks out of auto and starts waving her hand to the passing traffic

SMITA
(screaming)
Help! Help! Somebody help, I am getting kidnapped!!!

Kophi with Mogri

Mogri puts away her pile of clothes into the cupboard. It has been six moons already since she arrived in Spain. Every evening, her cousin has been taking her out, sometimes to the sea shore to watch the sunset and sometimes to the market to check the freshness of the tomatoes. Last night, her cousin took her out for dinner to a typical Spanish restaurant. They order Paella, the traditional rice dish that contained assorted sea food like clams, octopus, shells, shrimps, fish and also meat like pork and chicken. She had loved it much except that it was too bland for her taste. The food was not all that spicy and she wished she had carried her pickle bottle in her purse.

Nevertheless, Mogri is enjoying her stay in Spain. She decides to go down alone and asks her cousin to join her later after he has finished his errands. She walks down the street to get a cup of coffee. There are chairs and tables spread outside the coffee shop. Mogri is amused because she has never seen tables and chairs out side the cafe on the foot paths. In her city of Mumbai, only beggars or street hawkers are allowed to use the footpaths, sometimes, the beggars are even allowed to cook for their families who come back to that footpath after their hard days work at begging, none of pedestrians in Mumbai ever use foot paths, they always walk on the middle of the road, Mumbaikars are always dodging and tricking the traffic. Things are so different here; European countries have tables and chairs to enjoy a meal on the footpath? This is something new for Mogri. She likes this arrangement very much and decides to sit down and call for a waiter.

Mogri does not notice that there are no waiters in this coffee shop. She does not see that the people go inside the café, read the graphic menu board that is displayed on the wall, place their order and bring it back to their tables. She sits relaxed, enjoying the cool weather of Spain. She watches people on the street who are dressed in stylish clothes and wishes that she could also dress up like those Spanish ladies in jeans and T-shirt, or even a long skirt would do, but this salvar-kameez is so darn cumbersome and it is attracting too much attention on her. When she had walked down the street, most of the people on the road had given her a second glance. Some of them had even stopped halfway, stepped aside to allow her to pass so that they could admire her ‘Arabic costume”. It was like walking on a ramp, only the applause was missing.

“Puedo sentar aqui?” says the white-skinned man as he stands by her table with a cup of coffee in one hand and croissant in other.

Mogri does not understand that this man is asking her permission to sit at her table. She looks at the coffee and croissant in his hands and wonders how a waiter can bring her order without consulting her but she does not want to argue with him because of her limitation of speaking the language fluently. Luckily she has memorized few phrases so she happily beams “Gracias, Si! Si” and takes the cup of coffee and croissant from his hand and keeps it on her side of the table.

The white-skinned man smiles and sits down next to her. She looks suspiciously at him. She is not used to sitting next to a stranger and never next to a waiter. She does not like it one bit. The man stretches his hand and pulls the cup of coffee and croissant plate toward him. Mogri does not understand how these waiters behave in such an odd manner in a foreign land. She stretches her hand and pulls back the coffee cup and croissant to her side.

The man smiles and says, “Vale, si tu quieres eso, voy comprar otro mas para me” he gets up and goes back into the coffee shop. Mogri does not understand when the man tells her that he was going to buy some more for himself, since she wanted to have his coffee and croissant. She just nods and says, “Si, Si, Vale.” She is so grateful that she can speak few words.

She likes the taste of the croissant and munches it slowly, savoring each bite and takes small sips of coffee between each bite. She has almost finished her share when she sees that man again with another cup of coffee and croissant.

“No! No, No!” she says shaking her head from left to right and then right to left again, several times, trying to send the message across that she is too full to have one more ration of the same stuff again.

The man sits down again, opposite her and starts to sip his coffee. Mogri wishes she knew Spanish fluently then she could have told him that in her country waiters don’t share their coffee break with their customers. They normally have it in the kitchen. Mogri is now getting used to a strange behavior of this man. She is thinking whether she should pay her bill now or wait for him to finish his coffee.

“Hola! Que tal Amigo?” she hears the familiar rumbling voice of her cousin. The loud voice of her cousin had the power of frightening a sleepy child, of defusing the traffic sounds and even for breaking the ear-drum of elite politicians. She could recognize his voice even if she were few miles away.

She looks up to see the white-skin man get up, shake hands and peck on her cousin’s both cheeks.

She knits her brow, bracing herself.

“Mogri, I am so glad to see you with my friend Pedro, did you ask him about the new schemes that his bank is offering this week?”

“New schemes at the bank? Er? This waiter? Do you know him?”

“Waiter? You mean to say that you don’t know him and you are having coffee with him? Don’t you know that he is the bank director of ‘Banko Santader.”

“Really? He is 'the' Bank Director of Banko Santader? Oh my God!!” she says stressing on the word 'the'.

She is glad that she does not know enough of Spanish, else she would have made a fool of herself.

Journey Of Life

Came into this world
Empty-handed
Weeping gallons of tears
In spite of being liberated
From dark confines of womb, that
I believed to be a secure place
Knowing not what freedom exists out here.

With careful steps, have trudged
This rough road of life,
Going through those dark tunnels
Of disappointments and misery
And yet, have wished to find bliss,
To earn a name of honor
Towards the end of the journey

A name, I need take it with me
Packed into my bundle of happiness
Along with the accessories
Of hope and joy
I don’t wish to go back empty-handed
For, it shall not be my turn
To weep any more tears.

Nothing is Worth Reading in Newspaper Today

From a ‘Favorite’ list of my web page
I scroll down, down the links
Selecting an oven-baked e-paper
To read the news of the day

Headlines pop up and scream
The bad news of the day
From the dais of the first page
Fresh news is in poor shape

Bandra-Worli Sea-link crowded,
Seven minutes was the game, but
The race is won by that old route again
Slow traffic blinks in shame.

Petrol prices hike, doubling
The bills of vegetables, fruits and rice
How will the common man survive?
Begging will be high on scale.

Andhara’s Mp slaps bank officer
For dragging feet in disbursing loans
Is violence a theme of the day?
Slapgate needs to be tamed

Three kids killed in bus mishap
Girls fall prey to Nigerian scam
College students held with nasty drugs
PC warns of strike again

Phew!

Nothing is worth reading in papers today
Better to listen to woes of angry rain
Who this year, is already late.
Because sun played its dirty game

img source:
http://nie.lancasteronline.com/

Stop Singing, Cuckoo!!!!

Stop singing Cuckoo your false alarm
The pregnant clouds may not deliver
Scorching sun pushes clouds under my skin
Blisters of sweat are all over me
Mouth is parched every minute
Thoughts are sans directions
Your singing gives me no consolation
I am beginning to believe there will be no rain
This year, summer might never end

So,

Stop singing Cuckoo, your favorite song.

img source:Google

Silsila of my FB friends

Main aur meri tanhaai aksar yeh baatein karte hain

K, would I ever meet you, my FB friends
Strangely separated by virtual bytes
Would I read your notes, laugh with you
Share my stories and hug you back?

yeah kaha aagaye hum tere saat chatle chalte.....

Through silence we walk and carry the verse
Playfully the words match the tune
Everybody sings the same language of love
yuhi saat saat chalte......

mere saat saat mehkee..tere chandan ki khusboo

The essence and the aroma of this silence
brings fragrances to my virtual world
The scented candle of friendship burns
yuhi saat saat chalte...

yeah kaha aa jaye hum......tere saat saat chalte......

Random Thoughts on Heart and Mind

There a direct link between the state of heart and state of mind. Whenever we are disturbed and agitated, we cannot concentrate and we lose interest in everything. Our mind is all the time preoccupied with worry and we cannot find solutions. We have no interest in food, play or in any other sensual activities. What do we do? Will talking to people help?

I think not. Talking will not help. I think nobody can help us. People might be sympathetic to us, try to give us some solutions and might even try to pacify us but they cannot help us overcome our agitation. Only we can help ourselves.

First and foremost, it is important that we don’t expect any kind of help from anybody, people standing by us in good times and in bad times is a myth, nobody can really help us, and we must solve our own problems and learn to deal with it. There are many things in life that we cannot change, so why do we struggle in trying to change them? Isn’t it wise to just accept it? Okay, we can try to do our bit to change the situation but that is all we can do. Only try, whether we succeed or not should not be the cause of our agitation, we cannot expect others to do what we think is right.

For example, there is so much corruption around us. Everybody is out to cheat us. They expect bribery and will make things difficult for us if we do not oblige. So what do we do? If bribery and corruption is against our principle, we stick to it and not encourage it and face the discomfort. We can do our bit by standing firm by our principals and face the consequences. But can we stop our friends to stand by our principles? No. We cannot. They have to make their own choice. Every body has their own priorities and it depends how they train their intellect. If they make wrong choices, it is because their mind is weak or is fast-a-sleep. They have to awaken their power of reasoning so that their mind decides what is right.

We all have to do our own obligatory duties; we cannot expect fruits for every action that we make, but what needs to be done, should be done. If our concentration is shifted from our duty to do what is necessary, to expecting fruit for our action, the quality of our work will suffer. And quality is the most important factor in our life, with quality, we can attain class, with class come satisfaction of doing the right thing and the happiness follows, filling our world with sunshine and warmth.

For maintaining a healthy balance between our mind and heart, it is important to do what is right and not agitate our intellect by compressing it against our senseless desires.

Stormed by Beauties

Calm down and relax. This is the message coming from the natives of Baldeosmourita, a village in the interiors of Sudeansthan, that is located just behind Himalayas in the northern part of India as the tension is brewing in the village since the local authorities decided to forfeit their plan of appointing and honoring one 'beauty of the village' per month. On Tuesday, the Nawab of the Baldeosmourita asked the villagers to show ‘maturity’ and focus their attention on more important things like doing household chores, producing babies and serving their lethargic husbands.

The comment came as the backdrop of the growing desire in women folks of the village to occupy the lime light as the most beautiful woman of the village for one full month and their frustration at not being selected and honored like their peers.

Since the decree was announced by local authorities of selecting and honoring the beauty of the village, all the women in the village had changed their life style. One beauty was appointed by the authorities each month, which wore the diamond studded crown during all times of the day, at home, when she sat in her balcony, or when visiting her neighborhood and even in the market place. The experience was very rewarding, woman who had succeeded in wooing the organizers and making it to the dais of honor, enjoyed the respect and love of the villagers. She enjoyed the pampering, attention and the gifts of the villagers for one full month. She was allowed to brag about her hidden talents, gossip to her heart contents and even visits any random house in the village for a free lunch. Every woman waited for her turn while she envied her peers who enjoyed the limelight and she secretly nurtured the desire to be the lucky one during the next month. Most of the women had make-over, some of them going to the neighboring villages to change their dress sense and some even attended the finishing school (taking loans from banks) to learn some etiquettes and ‘the right behavior’ as they called it.

During the last six years, more than seventy such candidates have already been selected. Some deserving and some, not so deserving. The villagers have not been able to figure out the criteria for the selection of the candidate by the organizers. Like, for example, one beauty was selected randomly because she was not available for comments when the organizers had selected the wrong candidate. Yet, another one was selected, while she was on holiday and her presence was missed by the organizers and they wanted to know her whereabouts’. There were some who were shabbily dressed, some lazy and bored and some completely disinterested.

But the genuine ones who really deserved the status waited patiently for their turn.

Now, for some unknown reasons, the selection of ‘beauty for the month’ had come to rest. This has angered the women of the village, who had invested so much time and effort in maintaining themselves in the hope that they would be selected some day. The angry mood has been splashed on the web too, with viral messages spreading through videos, blog entries and discussion groups. Consider a video of a well dressed villager in native dress exposing her bare skin, just enough to arouse an interest in her anatomy, protesting inside a police van that has been uploaded on You Tube, “ This is the ******* police who arrested us in two groups,” the blurb for the video reads. “Now we will do something about this. Now they should protect themselves from us.” Such video, picked up after the arrest, have embarrassed the organizers of the beauty pageant and are asking Nawab of the Baldeosmourita for some help and solutions to this uprising.

In the bid to introduce some peace, Nawab of the Baldeosmourita has urged the villagers to calm down and relax and concentrate on more important activities that are reserved for woman only, such as doing household chores, producing babies and serving their lethargic husbands.

He has assured the villagers, that he will have ‘high-level-dialogue’ with the authorities and that the matter will be soon sorted out.

“The selection of beauty pageants will be continued as soon as some hiccups are iron out” he shouted with an air of confidence, during his speech on local TV channel during the prime time slot.

Release Me..Let me go......

We choose to wind ourself with tantacles and chains
When they soffocate us, we gasp
Freedom is something, we all can have
If only we learnt to loosen our ropes......

Please Call Me Soon......

Believe me not
when I say that
I don’t wait for your call

Or

when I say that
you mean nothing to me

Call me
hear the beat of my heart
hear the soulful verses
that tickle forth

Hear me
soar up the sky

Only you have the power
to lift me from dumps

Call me
I anticipate your muse.

So we decide to cook........

We drive through hills, valleys, and plains
Winding up through those narrow streets
It’s our day with family, friends
And much cheer and laughter, a special treat
We munch on peanuts, gulp few drinks
Not wasting our time for any eats
Till it is dark and hunger screams
And then we desperately hunt for place to eat
But it’s too late in this small town
Villagers have an early sleep
No eatery open, no fireplace warm
Nor fast food centers, no motels found
Round and round in circles, somersault,
No chefs, not even in telephone books
We come back home and grapple fruits
And yet couldn’t control our hunger pangs

So, we wash the pans.
In apron, dressed
Cross-legged by fireplace
We decide to cook.

Cricket

Much can be watched
Over a cup of coffee

The sports men
Highly tanned
Running across the field
Chasing a tiny ball
Behind the wickets
Sweat dripping down their cheeks
Soaking and damping their spirit
Failing to prevent
Their opponent from
Scoring one more run
Once again

Much can be watched
Over a cup of coffee

Scrabble

I secretly swapped
letter ‘I’ with letter ‘S’
during our game
Of Scrabble

Your score
was too high
and my letter-rack was
odd and unscrambled

Forgive me

I have dusted
The shelf
Of my furniture
To place the
Winning trophy

Cat has Nine lives

They say
Cat has nine lives
What karma is that?

To be re-born
As a cat
nine times in a row
again and again
before you can reach
Salvation?

All I want is for my friend to smile

All I want is for my friend to smile
To greet me
And extend her rhyme

She had been cold for too long
Not spoken a word
Nor shared a song

All day long she sits by the window

Is she
Admiring the clouds
Talking to the birds
Listening to the waves of the breeze?

I see her
Empty eyes
Crossed arms
Grim expression

Cannot read what she is thinking

I want her to spot me
Touch me
And walk beside me for a while.

All I want is for my friend to smile

During beach party

During the beach party
I disappeared briefly
To show my swimming costume
to your boss

What can I say?

He had liked
the blue bikini that
he had bought it
especially for me and
wanted to see
if it fit me right.

Forgive me

He said you wouldn’t mind
since you knew
that he was hundred percent
Gay

Fortunately he was not……

55-er story.......

Read the book ‘Snow White and Seven Dwarfs’ and went to sleep, pretending to be dead, expecting a kiss to break the spell.

I heard him enter my room, approach my bed, bend down, put his fingers closer, then, snatch my soft pillow from under my head

He truly deserved a whack for his prank.

April Haiku

Showers knock again
Droplets on my window pane
It’s April rain

April breeze on trees
Yellow carpet spread on streets
Fragrance coat cars

Petals cry all day
April is the cruelest month
Tear drops splash in pools

Farms tend rabbi crop
Night sky fills with Lohri song
April once again

April heat kiss air
The weights of thirst bend the trees
Birds and Bees resign

Want No Routine Job

Fresh new day
Want to do something new
Don’t want to cook
Or wash or clean
Nor check my list of e-posts or mails
Don’t want to go shopping for wares
Nor see the kids pass across my lane
Make no plans
For a smooth Passover
Nor walk in the evening
On those warm cobbled street
Don’t want to watch those endless
Soap or opera queens
Nor spend this day
Like a daily routine.

My Painting....in oils

White canvas with a stroke of blue
Dotted with some circles of red
Shades of pink, yellow, green
A flower blooming into a stream

I wipe my brush with apron string
And stand few meters from easel
Contemplating on some more lines
To make my painting beauty and divine

In solitude, this hobby I chase
It helps me as if to meditate
With colors, hues and shades of white
Keeping me awake till late, late nights

Leave my canvas
Let it dry
I will sent it for exhibits
On new stands

Do you remember?

Memory still fresh
On those summer afternoons
With our tiny feet
We would ride
Behind those horse carriages
One foot on metal rod
Other foot dangling
Over the edge
Hitting the muddy ground
We would spread a spray of pebbles
Under our feet
Ready and alert
And quick to run
To escape the lash
Of the horseman
Wishing he would
Concentrate on road ahead
And happily ride on
Oblivion to our noise
And we laughed at our prank of
Having cheated him
For a free ride
To the end of the street