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

Friday.....

This Friday
I flag down a bus
To travel some forty miles
Away from e-city
Winding
Through polluted streets
Honking alleys
Crowded lanes
Through market place
A bakery
A butcher shop
A curvy road
And finally
My comfort zone
Where I stretch out
My tired feet
And sip in
Aroma
Of my cozy
Retreat

Waiting.....

Much Ado over a Cup of Coffee

Hot sweet aroma of coffee
Mingled with fragrance of flowers
Together
We watch at seashore
Time and life brew
Angry waves lash at black sands
Undecidedly, they retreat back into the sea

I sip
I wait
I sip
I wait
Sip, sip, sip
Wait, wait, wait
Big sip
Still wait
Final sip, cup down
Caffeine laced words sing a tune, but
Your silence rules

It is almost dusk
What are you thinking?

Laloo Prasad Under William Wordsworth's Shade

After hearing Laloo Prasad’s speech at railway budget in February 2009, where he translated his Hindi poetry in English saying

“Everybody is apprresayting, ki I have done a tremeedous wark. Each and every year, I have earned crores and crores every day.

“And they are saying, Laloo Yadav has phlanted a foot tree, and every year, it is dooty of my, to grow foot tree,”

I was quite impressed and I applied for membership to his fan club. The criteria for enrolling were to offer him an invitation for some free lunch and a glass of milk.

I invited him for a read-meet to share his brilliant work with my pals at our Oooty resort.

Surprisingly, he accepted my invitation and even read some of his poems!

This is his poem which I loved it so much……..

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw from train
A host, who was a black buffalo king
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
All ready with a bucket of milk

Continuous as the stars that shine
Couldn’t resist that taste divine
On next station I immediately alight
With 9 girls and 2 sons of mine
The crowd at station saw I at a glance
Ask me of new railways budget, I frown.

They all happy with crores I make
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee
Laloo (that’s me) had never been that gay
The euphoria that I experienced that day
I speak and speak-but little thought
What wealth the new budget brought!

For oft, when on 2-tier sleeper I lay
In vacant or in pensive mood
They don’t appreciate the English I say
in first class language of NRI today
I gulp down last glass of milk
making new plans, will ask them to chill.

Writer's Block?

Writer's block?
fear not
keep writing
words will arrive
they are like our best friends
unhappy, sulky or annoyed
but only for a brief time
they always come around

Wings of Fate (55-er)

Indians in Madrid envied everything about Mister Anand, his Mercedes, his huge bungalow, five retail outlets, two carat diamond ring on his middle finger and his friendship with Bank director, Pedro.

One Sunday Morning, the Newspaper headlines screamed of Pedro’s transfer to Barcelona.

Mister Anand, took indirect flight, early morning at 3am, back to India.

photo source: photobucket

A Memorable Moment

And then she smiled, one more time
Through her broken teeth
Wrinkles deepening on her face
She glanced at me
Then tilted her head
Happy and assured that this one shot
Would be preserved forever
In the lens
Of my memory lane

She stretched her palm
Bony and withered with age
To hold the camera
And see the image
Of her beautiful face

She sat on a bed
Unable to move
Feet curled under her lap
Her eyes searching me
Focusing for recognition
Of a forgotten face

Still uncertain
Asked me
Whether she looked good
Or was she better
In good ole days
When she was young
Had creaseless smile
And could even walk
Without a cane

Go To Hell!!!!!

Pink, not Red, is color
I shall wear
As a pub-going, loose woman,
You say, that I am

In the biggest democracy
Around the world
Will you still infringe
on my private land?

Go to Hell! Go to Hell!
You bully, old man
You can’t roughen me
I am tough,
Don’t you dare!

Whisky, Rum
I share with my friends
I clap for boozers
Who dare to bare

I'll hold his hand
And peck his neck
I will call my Valentine
In the backyard of your tent

It is the day
For you
To hide your skin
If you peep
from your window
You will face
pepper can

You will see your troops
On their knees, they beg
I bought some ‘Rakhis’
to tie on their legs

Go to Hell! Go to Hell!
You bully, old man
Don’t make silly rules
Grow up, old man

*There were many contests held during the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival in Mumbai in February 2009,. During that time, we all were frustrated by threats imposed by Muthalik for Valentine day, and in that frustration I had written this lyric and posted for the contest on 'Lyric writing'.*

Star Bugs

Many years ago, during my formative years, I would tag along with my granny to a Gurudwara for morning prayers and patiently sit through the discourse and hymns, its not that I fully understood any of the hymns that were sung by people inside the Gurudwara, or enjoyed accompanying my granny everyday, actually, my purpose was solely to eat the sweet Prasad that was served at the end of the discourse.

During those years, my granny taught me the importance and power of prayers. “Prayers alone can give us strength to cross any hurdles of life” she would say, “and if we pray hard enough and ask God to fulfill our desires, God shall never disappoint us. But,” she had added, “you must never ask for the impossible or you shall be sorry.”

Therefore, initially my simple prayers included chocolates and hugs and simple things as such which were granted easily, and that stimulated a faith in me. I became more and more greedy, and soon, my desires graduated from possible to impossible, until one day, I prayed for a groom who was a film star.

During those days, Rajesh Khanna (a Bollywood star) was the man I desired and I had tough competition. All the girls, who traveled with me in the school bus, also raved about him and I hated them all. I was holding out for deep romantic love and had a fantasy that this level of passionate intensity would make me happier. I had no clue as to how I could meet him personally and express my desire to marry him. Prayers were my only solace. I prayed to Lord Shiva, starved on Mondays, visited temples and poured one liter of milk on black oval stone and I even kept a special fast called ‘Karva Chauwd’ (that was common with the women, double my age.) Nothing extraordinary about that, every woman I knew-no matter how successful and ambitious, how financially and emotionally secure-would feel panic, occasionally with desperation if she found herself unmarried beyond the marriageable age. Higher the age, the more frequent were the fasts, sometimes forcing them to add extra days to try their luck with other deities as well. So my prayer for a groom was neither extraordinary nor impossible.

My desire for Rajesh Khanna had clouded my vision and I could not focus my attention on anything else. I saw all his movies, some of them multiple times I imagined his romantic songs sung just for me. I raged inside them and lived a double emotional life (half real girl, half inhabitant of a distant world). I bought his pictures, from roadside side-stores and stuck them on the last page of my school diary, in my text books, on my room doors. In my diary, below his picture, I had scrawled in neat script ‘My heart belongs to YOU’ and drew two red lips in a pretty hand made sign just below the message. Sometimes, something stirred inside me so much that I would be embarrassed by it. I was in worse academic shape and couldn’t concentrate on any school subjects although many trusted friends had assured me that I’d have a bright future, provided I passed that damn course. And I prayed every hour, every day, in most inventive yoga poses.

But, God had different plans for me, or maybe he was residing on another planet and was unable to hear the loud chimes of the temple bells. Red-eyed, I read the headlines in the local newspaper, one Sunday morning, screaming that Dimple Kapadia had stolen my show. I lingered on his dialogue “Pushpaaaa, I hate tears!” that had graduated from being mere dialogues to evergreen iconic statements! Did he really hate tears? Fresh tears of self-pity had rolled down my smooth skin!

Hahahaahahahaa and Ha! On a second thought….

Was God to answer my prayers that year, I wonder, if I would be related to Akshay Kumar today? Eeeeeeeeeeeeks!!!!

In case you didn’t know, *Rajesh Khanna was the Bollywood super star of early seventies and Akshay kumar is an actor, married to his daughter, Twinkle Khanna*

Change Ho!!!

Jumping into a pool of shit
Scavenging through garbage to seek gold
Licking out morsels through rich men’s plate
Spooning off eyeballs to get some dough

World sings ‘Jai ho’ around this globe
While the poor man sits outside a gate
Wearing garb of poverty
His tattered crown bringing fame and show

From rags to riches, the world rejoice
While we tread through those narrow lanes
Seeing hollow eyes, bloated tummy
Can we be proud of our helpless folks?

SMS poem- Murder

I sat 2 string d rays of d sun
2 garland d yellow half moon at night
It startled d waves that leaped from d sea n
Murdered d silence within me

Valentine Jinga-la-la

While all of Mumbai is busy discussing the safest way to celebrate the V-Day and there are cartons of ‘Pink Chaddis’ packed for this special day, my live-in maid, who is just twenty two years old, is unaware of such a campaign. She has no idea about our ministers’ threat to young couples or the extremity of anger from various nodes on the network. Her day activities are just cleaning my house, cooking meals for me or sit by my bedside and watch TV with me. Off late, I am aware that she has a boyfriend who is a security guard in some building, which is on the other side of Mumbai, and my suspicions have been confirmed on many occasions, when she has burnt my chapattis and fed the crows, or cooked the onion, too browned, during her long, long conversations on her mobile.

This morning, on Saturday, the 14th, when I return from my early morning jog, she announces that she is going out to celebrate the Valentine’s Day. She is a young girl and a cupid arrow has stung her and her hormones as well, I am not sure if I would like to ask her as to what ‘Sex’ means in her dictionary, nor is it my business to probe into her personal life. The fact is that I cannot grant her a leave today because I am expecting a guest for lunch.

She pouts, rolls her eyes and walks swiftly out of my room. I follow her to her room, towards the back of the kitchen and I see her jeans and ironed blouse, with frilly collar, spread across her bed.

I am feeling terribly guilty of offending her.

“Try to understand,” I plead, “Who will do the cooking and help me with work, if you go away?”

“I have an idea” she says and a smile returns to her face

“I will cook fast and finish all the work before going, I promise.” She says

I contemplate on an idea of taking my guest out for lunch, although I would still prefer to eat home-cooked food.

“I am planning to go after lunch,” she continues, “So I will cook enough for both of us and also for your guest.”

“Oh! Your boyfriend is not taking you out for lunch?” I say

“No, He is taking me for an afternoon show ‘Billu Babar’ and then for a Pani puri and chaat at Juhu beach.” She says

Well, if she has planned to cook for herself, then it will not be an extra effort for her to cook for me too, and since she will go after lunch I think I could manage without her help, on the contrary, I might even enjoy some privacy with my guest.

“See that you finish all the work before you go.” I warn her and return back to my bedroom to check my e-mail.

After an hour, I hear the door bell ring.

“Maam! Can you please answer the door?” she says

“No! You answer the door! I am busy, can’t you see that?” I say, irritated by her interruptions. My score graph on ‘Lexulous game’ at ‘Facebook’ is dipping and I am trying hard to concentrate on a seven letter word to revive my score board.

“Please Maam! Please, I am feeling shy to answer the door like this” she says as she stands at the entrance of my room.

I look away from my computer screen and turn to face her, I am shocked, to see her face grey and chapped. She has a face-mask!

“Please Maam, Your driver is at the door, he wants to ask your permission to drop me to the nearest train station.” She says

“My driver will not leave you to the station.” I say, raising my first finger and pointing at her, “You must take a bus.”

“Please Maam, let him drop me, it is just few minutes away, I will be delayed if I take a bus.”

Forcibly, I steer away from my computer and answer the door and permit my driver to reach my maid at the local train station.

Phew!

I head back to my game on the net.

My guest arrives at one O’clock. My maid offers him orange juice and peanuts and I wait for her for another fifteen minutes, hoping that she will bring some snack for my guest, but, none arrive.

I go to the kitchen to see what she has prepared for lunch.

There is only yellow Jeera rice in the rice-cooker; vegetable curry and a salad.

“Maam, I don’t think I will have time for lunch, I am running late, I will eat Batawada-Pav at the railway station, can I go, please?” she says

I glare at her from top to bottom. I look with displeasure at her straight and shiny, blow-dried hair; thick black belt around her mid rib, separating her tuck-in blouse and jeans, white sandals, unmatched purse and a strong smell of a cheap perfume.

I don’t want my guest to see her like this. If I had a magic wand, I would swirl it around to make her disappear immediately.

“Go soon before I change my mind.” I snap at her.

I am back in the living room with an apologetic expression.

My guest and I go out for lunch and then head towards the nearest PVR and watch the evening show of a film ’Billu Barber’

An Expensive Valentine

The Law says that ‘Valentine Day’ is a foreign concept and it is illegal to celebrate it in India

I call up Sunil early morning on 14th February to cancel my appointment with him.

“Why?” He says, “I have already booked a table at Sheraton, we have to close the deal today.”

“Oh! I am sorry, but I cannot meet you today because it is Valentine Day and we might get arrested if we are seen together.” I say

“But I am not your lover!! I am just a business consultant of my company in Bangkok” He protested

“Yeah, that’s true,” I say, “But how do I explain this to those cops who are patrolling the city, hunting for cupid arrows?”

“Look, be reasonable. I really have no day to waste, we have to meet today.” He argued

My mind reels back to different avenues in my area where it would be safe to meet. 5 star-Coffee shop?…no,Not safe at all! …Udipi?…nah!..can’t eat too many dosas…... Batatawala stall?….Nah!...unhygenic!..Juhu Beach?….hmmn…messy!...Local train?...too crowded!....Jogger’s Park?.. can’t jog while talking….My house?....Cannot!…neighbors are peeping!.....Where?. Where?, Where? ..It is important to meet him today, I know that too, but where the hell is the safest place to meet?….I cannot afford a ticket to Bangkok, just to attend this meet today!

We decide to meet at a fast food restaurant across the street.

At 1pm I enter the restaurant and request for a table for two.

“Sorry Maam” says the waiter, “We have no tables for two.”

I look around to take in the interior of the restaurant, the ambience is good, there is a sweet fragrance of food, beautiful pictures adorn the walls, all the tables in the restaurant have a clean, light blue table cloth with a small flower vase holding one stem of Orchid but each table has only one chair.

The waiter looks at me apologetically, shrugging his shoulder.

“Can you please join two tables so that I have two chairs to seat me and my friend?” I say.

“Sorry Maam” he says, “Cannot do that today, it is against the law.”

Sunil is surprised when he sees me sitting alone at the table and no chair for him

“I am afraid you will have to sit at your own table, over there, at the far end of the room” I smile

“And how do we discuss the deal?” he frowns his forehead

“Unworry. We have mobiles, we can discuss it on SMS’es” I say and turn my gaze to the menu card.

And so, for next two hours, while we enjoy the meals at our own single tables, we discussed the pros and the cons of the business deal by exchanging 325 SMS’es, nods and smiles between us..

Sunil insists on paying the bill for me.

Court hearing to our case is scheduled for the next week.

Unbridled desires

If you break my skull and peep inside my brain with a book-light you will see those ‘three ungoverned words’ lurking inside the fissures of my grey box. They creep inside, like some worms, crawling in and out, creating confusion in my mind and sometimes creating trouble for me. Those three words “What happened next?” keep my antenna up for information and the results that follow are sometimes good and many times bad.

This phrase ‘What happens next’ hijacks my activities many times. Sometimes I miss my train, when there is a bitter argument at the railway platforms. I seriously want to know who the final winner is in an argument, will there be some karate demonstrations, or police interventions, I want to know about how and when does juggling of the muscles end. The facial expressions and the loud decibels of the participants amuse me a lot. I know, it doesn’t concern me and I should learn to mind my own business but I want to check if the reality is any different from what they show on Bollywood films. A free show is always appreciated and I feel good if I am convinced that I am not wasting my money watching those foolish stunts in films, it gives me surety that those scenes are actually lifted from reality.

And that is the reason why I like to watch reality shows and read thick novels till the last page. The “what happens next’ makes me come back to TV to see the progress in a story.

There is one show (presently) on TV that I think. I cannot do without. It starts at 10pm from Mondays to Thursdays. (No, it is not Saas bhi.. or any of those serial sagas of K…nor those ‘Desperate housewives’ or ‘Brothers and Sister’…etc, etc...those are outdated and nobody seems to be watching it anymore). Anyways, I wait for 10 pm, adjusting my dinner time to coincide with this show, canceling my late evening appointments (if I can) and cursing the traffic if I cannot make it on time.

The other day I was invited to attend the spiritual lecture on Vedanta which was to take place from 6:30pm to 8pm. Since it was ending two hours earlier than my show time, I agreed to attend. But my friends had other plans. After the lecture, they want to go for dinner and that too in some other restaurant further away from my home. (After the spiritual lecture, they should go home and contemplate on the points that were discussed, isn’t it?) I looked at my watch. They had already wasted twenty minutes discussing the venue. I suggested that we dine somewhere close by, fibbing I had to plan for next day and getting home late would delay me (I could not tell them about my obsession for that particular TV program and my real reasons behind my fuss). My friends were in no hurry to go back home and although they agreed to my suggested venue at a fast food cubicle, they had too many topics to discuss. They ate slowly, munching each morsel, discussing the topics (which would have interested me if I was not distracted by the red dials of my wrist watch) and they even ate desserts.

It was 9:45pm when I raised my hand to say a quick good bye. I hired an auto, cursed the traffic and the signals and reached my building compound at 10pm. I didn’t want to waste a minute more by climbing up the stairs. I was glad that my watchman has TV. I stood outside his ‘4ft by 5ft’ room and asked him to switch on the TV to that channel, quite pleased that I was not too late. He offered me chair, at the doorway and I craned my neck inside the room, halfway, watching the first quarter of the show in black and white.

And during promos, I climbed up the two storeys, 2-3 steps at a time, ringing my door-bell eight times, rushing in and jumping into my big soft sofa, in front of my TV, to see the rest of the program.

I have to satisfy my urge of “What happens next”.

Selfless charity

Trees and plants sees not the color of the skin
Nor the caste or creed
Selflessly it gives the peace
Under the scaffold of its shade

Holiday Home

After ten long months Mr. Ghosh entered his house in Mumbai and this time he was alone.

Every three months (since last five years) Mr. and Mrs. Ghosh would come from Bangkok to spend two weeks in their house in Mumbai. This was their holiday home, away from their own family and friends, where they would come regularly to spend a quality time with each other. In Mumbai, Mrs. Ghosh never kept any maid nor rented a car. Such luxuries were reserved for enjoying in their home in Bangkok with their family. In Mumbai appointing a maid for just fifteen days was pointless. For fifteen days, they would pass their time, eating in restaurants, watching Bollywood films, visiting relatives and shop for Indian clothes to take back home for their children. They spend most of their free time at home, helping each other in cleaning and cooking, and in nagging each other.

“Did you dust the furniture?”

“Did you change the bed sheet?”

“Why can you throw away these useless things?”

“There is too much clutter here.”

“Remove the cobwebs”

“Bath room tap is leaking”

‘Fridge is stinking”

“There is too much work, I am not cooking today”

Both of them did their bit of work and at the end of the day, they compared notes and boasted about their own neatness at work.

At the end of fifteen day, the house looked clean and shiny and they would return to Bangkok to stay there for next three months.

But this time, after ten long months Mr. Ghosh enters his house in Mumbai and he has come alone.

He spends the first few hours sitting by the window, staring at the traffic. Slowly he gets up, removes the keys from his pocket to unpack his suitcase. He puts away his clothes in his wardrobe and then opens his wife’s cupboard.

“What should I do with all these sarees? I need to give it all away in the charity” he mumbles as he removes her sarees and her other clothes from the wardrobe, and spreads them on the bed. He opens the safe and checks the jewelry and the bank accounts. A photo album slipped out from the heap of clothes and falls on the floor beside his feet. He sits, squatting down on the floor and stares at her pictures.

Mrs. Ghosh is laughing

She is standing in front of Taj Mahal in Agra

She is adjusting her head scarf

She has no hair and is looking very thin and feeble

Tears blind his vision as he turns each page. He keeps the album on the bed and walks to the kitchen.

“Fridge is stinking”

“I need some help in sweeping and swabbing of the floors”

“There are too many cob webs on the wall”

He picks up the intercom hand phone to speak to the security guard in the lobby down stairs

“Listen, I need a maid for next fifteen days.” He says into the phone and then sits down by the window to stare at the noisy street below.

My internet friends

Many faces
Not seen, except
On the internet
A cyber space, that has
Just a virtual image
And a deep voice
A virtual hug
With emotion
An unposted thought
Sent across
Sending vibes
That touches the heart
Building relationships
That extends and seeps
Through this virtual space
And they are my friends
Whom I meet everyday
Through this
Unfeeling bright window
I stretch my hand
To grope for that touch
Of those meaningful words
That sounds so real
and I feel bliss and comfort
In having
My Internet friends.

An unsuspecting terrorist

A mad, mad scientist
My privileged guest

I gave him a soft bed
With frilly covers
In a cozy room
Where he would be
Comfortable
I even
Cooked for him
His favorite meals
Bhindi, Paratha, Biryanis.
Kulfis and Falooda

Little did I know
He was conducting
His stupid experiments
In his hush-hush room
Adjacent to mine,Until

Boom!

I heard a loud blast
Of his first
Successful research
Through my charred door

Wah! Taj?

One Taj built as an icon of love
Other Taj destroyed by hate and rage
Taj, the crown of pride
Will gild my skull some day
When I learn to shoot the sleaze
And bend the spine of the crime