The original Simile

Silly man knows not the rules of the game
He is praying like a bird in a golden cage

How does he ask for impossible things?
Is happiness as expensive as a computer screen?

With precious stones, he makes travel bands
As pretty as air tickets to distant land

He travels in style, from New Jersey to Detroit
Running wild as if there are bombs during riots

He sells his wares, flaunting high and low
As loud as vase in the shopping window

Silly man loses his wages, his interest, oh!
Turns as blue as non paused radio

Muttering things that nobody can ever trace
Talkative as if he wants to win the race

If he won’t in time learn, he might as well rot
And die as lonely as old woman on cot

ps: In response to ‘The Original Simile’

Pills

The pill sits there on my table top
White, round, fat and serene
With the group of other playful pills
Square, round, pink, red, green

The pain in my waist is on increase
Nerves slapping under my skin
I stare at pill with hungry thrill
In hope to find some relief

“Think twice” says pill “before you chill”
“Are you aware of my side effects?
“I may jump, skip, dance and crush your pain
I may also cause some defects.”

“The twitch you see, the bump you feel
The red sore under your knee
All white blood cells that pained like hell
Was mischief played by me”

I purse my lips and glare at pill, screaming
“I thought you were my best friend!”
Ouch! Excuse me, I shall squeeze,
Now your end you shall see

One by one, I crush them all
And crowd them into a pan
Those square round fat, pink green, red pills
All powdered in dust can

Villanelle

What would I do without your grace?
You are the reason I learnt to smile
You are my spiritual hero at every phase

Lonely in this desert, hot, lost and misplaced
Friends trot with me, but just for wee bit while
What would I do without your grace?

I see your powerful magic at every place
The nature is the haven spread across the miles
You are my spiritual hero at every phase

Unafraid, trusting you, I ran every race
With prayer in my heart, I crossed every tile
What would I do without your grace?

When I forget myself, then beheld I the face
Of my Lord, and then I feel that everything is fine
You are my spiritual hero at every phase

Seeking pleasures of this world, I wasted time
But patiently you showed me your path divine
What would I do without your grace?
You are my spiritual hero at every phase

Limericks

There was once a blogger who wrote to say
That she wanted from Microsoft her daily pay
She went on to tweet
That sounded quite sweet
Now Bill Gates her on twitter everyday.

Limericks: (5 lines. Rhymes - aabba.)

Clerihew

Mirza Sania
Crossed beyond border wagah
She cashed it with a tennis ball
By tossing it over heavy media toll

Clerihews: (Clerihews: It is four free verse lines with an "AABB" rhyme scheme.)

Mumbai Streets – A Cinquain

Mumbai
Street light turns red
Beggars like swarm of birds
Peck on my food packet I gape
Perplexed

Note: A Cinquain (2/4/6/8/2) is kind of an extension to the haiku, but more direct. 22 syllables.

I hate you

I loved you once
But now I hate you
I need to end this game
Let’s pretend
We are still friends
Our interest is still the same
Let’s pretend that
Your absence has not
Killed every wave
Just for a day
I want to revitalize
Memorable moment
That prey my dreamscape
I want to choke you
Grip you into breathlessness
I need to end this game

Bollywood style

Together, they share, cramped up into one room
Strangers in text, their interests divide
He sits to watch TV, while his room-mate croons
Stuffs cotton into her ears to concentrate on her book

Standing back to back, they snarl out of spite
The reptiles filled the room, poisoned by their bite
Over every cup of coffee, they find reasons to fight
The moon hangs its head and hides behind its light

Until one day, on that cold rainy night, he sneezes too loud
Her nerves get a fright; she watches in vain, his health decline
In a Bollywood style, she prays for a while, in church, in mosque
In filmy style, she kneels on knees and crawls for a mile


Hate transforms to love, like it always does, in Hindi films
To be villain till the end is a curse, the hero never dies
The end always shines, the strangers in text
Sings love songs divine.

Together they share, cramped up into one room
Strangers’ no more, lovey-dovey style
Movie-goers happy, their money worth well-spent
Fully satisfied, ear-to-ear, and all smiles

No Poem Today

Only ten minutes left
Yet no poem came
Knocking on my door
My efforts decayed

I waited all day
Outside my door
For the phrases to pass
And frill up my verse

Roses I displayed
Sweet fragrance glazed
The music was loud
To distract the brave

No sonnet, no haiku
None crossed this way
This day shall pass
With no poem today

Check Mate

Twenty three times
I entered your room
It still remains unchanged
No chair has moved,
Nor your style
Your unpolished shoes lie by the window
So is the packet of your cigarette
Untouched
Where is your mind?
What has got into you?
Come-on
Make your move
Your king stands unguarded
You have been check mated
There is no escape
This game must end
To start afresh
Your new game of love

April Haiku

Foolish assumptions
The only words that you hear
Me whisper are true.

Capowrimo

I am not a poet, not as yet

I just dress up few lines of the prose with gaudy frills, and send them to a party of poetry. During this month of April, I will try to attempt one poem per day. Yeah I am joining those poets who are attempting to stretch their muscles and produce one poem each day. Not sure if I will be able to do that, can’t promise cause poetry is not something that I plan to write, poetry is something that knocks on my door and I just let it in…

Well this month I hope it knock everyday cause I plan to participate in Capowrimo and will also read Napowrimo

If you are participating too, send me your link and I will visit you everyday :))

Life is like that only-part 5

Pain visits me today, uninvited,
choking me till I am charred by its heat.
I welcome it knowing
that if I didn’t feel it I would be in wrong place
Together, under soft covers,
we stretch for a while
Pen lays untouched, inks dry;
muse awaits till pain exhausts its pride

Betrayal

Once again it failed

To serve my words
seasoned with lust
It swallowed up my verse
That I had meticulously fed
Into its black hard tummy
I had planned a surprise of
Shower of love with
Jingle of music
On his birthday
While he cut the cake
It just burbed

I swore that day
Never to trust
Internet again

Enjoy this moment

One of my FB friend ask me this question
"If I were to die tommorrow what would you say to me?"

In response, I had this to say to her

If you were to die tomorrow
How would you have known?
Had angels crooned into your ears
And tipped you about the heaven?

Don't listen, stop, enjoy this day
Where bliss is all we can know
Why worry about what people have to say
When happiness is here to stay??

Need Relief

OUCH!!!
Each day I quarrel
With my limbs
Cause they too lazy
Always complaining
Pretending pain
From knees to the sole

Who will walk for me
If I don’t
In this journey of my life
I need to reach
Someplace
Where I can find peace
And tranquility

But my body knows not
Nor understands
Plays its tricks on me
Piercing thorns under my skin
Hammering crazy on my nerves
Won’t sit still, fidgeting
Until I let it rest
In luxury

It wants to creep
Under covers
On a warm bed
craving Nirvana
Pampered
With a hot bowl of soup

Hello! Can you read me?

Each day I wait for you
To say something to me
Just a whimper will do
To let me know that you care for me

I make noise
Stamp my feet
Snap my finger
To draw your attention to notice me

But lost you are
Into your own world
Where I don’t exist
Nor the memories of me

Have I lost you to the world
Where nature never speaks
Has your love turned to stone
And crossed overseas

Sometimes I wish
I could walk into your mind
Steal your thoughts
and coat them with graphic of me

Life is like that only... part 4

For every person who belittles me, there is always someone who lifts my soul and to that one person I smile back and I am unhappy no more

Life is like that only... part 3

Eyes burn, blistered by the smoke, fire is everywhere, surrounded by laughter and song, women circle the bonfire with sweets and happy wishes and then, there is splash of colorful madness and eveybody giggles with festive air, a colorful festival of Holi begins, family rejoice the pleasurable moments.

Life is like that only... part 2

What we learned was never what we were suppose to: It just exposed us to bitter truth, a smile of complex meanings, and living in the shadows of hopeless hope

Life is like that only... part 1

When I was looking for love, I was looking for peace, didn't know that they lived on the opposite directions and no friendship existed between them

Vodaphone, I am unhappy with you

Twenty five times I came to your desk

From cabin to cabin, I pleaded with your man

"Set my phone, check my bill
Have installed BB, want connection to my tone"

Your man in uniform only smile
Behind that mask, there is thick blank line
How can you explain if you not too sure?
Your tactics of customer satisfaction are quite poor.

Once upon a time, a pre-paid line I had
Just recharged my phone, Rs200 was fine
But Blackberry
Brought me to your front door
Pre-paid to post paid
You made me buy one more
Now I have two mo-lines, both post paid. Alas!
Poorer by fifteen grands, cash running fast
You are not clear with your hidden cost
You shock me, I am sorry, it’s so gross

In this competitive world, I can see
You want to survive, but I don't believe
You want to beat Aircel, Tata Docomo
And even exploit their private zone
But your ‘Happy to Help’ logo merely shrills
Doesn’t give me any friendly thrills
Such cumbersome interaction
doesn't please me a fraction
You fool common man online and in person

Vodaphone,
Can you hear me scream
I am terribly bored, I want to be released

I don't wish to rhyme
I have no time
I want my money back

You can take back your
Both post-paid lines.

Love-less Day

Once more, on these V days

The wind walks in through my window,
All alone
I pretend that I care no more,
There is no love in the air,
Parched are the thoughts
Under currents of hate
Fire burns the streets,
Power rules,
Egos glare from every threshold,
Unsecured emotions,
Hide under the skin.
Patience lay cuddled under silent rugs,
Blocking loud voices beyond stubborn walls,
You may un-friend me this time
I will not stray
Nah!

This Valentine day,
Love shall sleep all day.

What If.....

What if Sena behaved themselves and
prepared some soups
of sanity
We could live life, king size, colorful style,
and savor the sips
of equality
We would readily embrace the rules of trade
and even learn some
Marathi
If they didn’t crush us, beat our souls,
we would help, punch head
of instability.
Mumbai, a common umbrella for all;
we could breathe the life
of quality
Together we could grab the stars and the moon
and bathe in the world
of glitterati
Mumbai City, Spiritual Master to all,
be it Bihari, Sikh or
Gujarati
Why waste our breath in idle chatter
when we could be discussing
prosperity
We have cultured
gracefully,
our expressions,
mixed curry
Street food,
very tasty,
be it Vada Pav
or Pani Puri
In crowded trains,
we create space,
squeezing thin,
always in hurry
At every signal
we shop crazy,
be it inky quill
in words blurry
Tears stirred 
with laughter, sing,
vibrate at
every thrill
Weather too,
unafraid,
never scorching
our tender skin
We walk freely
at all hours
be it morn or
late nights
On our left side,
is the mansion,
and the slums,
on our right
Alas!
If only Sena
could be our friends,
we could create the magic
till eternity
something’s wrong
with our Mumbai city
It's mocking our
tranquility

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 7; the seventh 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.here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.


The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked

Strangers give me Fright

Strangers give me fright

When they’re smoking
I see them pull the match,
My heart is beating
They could make me choke
before this smoke is
through

Something in that smoke
results in fit of coughing
They don’t seem to care,
they keep chain puffing
Even if I faint
they will still be
unmoved

Strangers give me fright
specially those people
Who may look quite bright
until that moment
Their fingers grope for match
while the cigar hangs limp
Between their lips
and they think they are
cool

Its something in their eyes
which is so frightening
Behind those smoky rings
I see them bleating
I want to punch that lad
till he is black and
blue

Puffapuffapuffa
If they don’t stop it
Soon I will catch them up
and lock them all in the
looooooo

Sung to the tune of Frank Sinatra (stranger in the night)

Foodie Poem

Mom made breakfast just for me

Omelets, eggs in ghee

Ate bread butter, drank some tea

Crushed roasted almonds

Mixed with some peanuts

Served nicely

Geezh!

Indian food so delightful
Roti aloo dum
Add some spice, and butter, rum
Lay back and have fun
With some lassi churned
From that urn
Yum!

This form of poem is called Epulaeryu


The Epulaeryu is a short poem that describes or features culinary delights. Author Joseph Spence, who invented and named the form, put the Latin word “Epulae,” translated “feast,” with an Asian term, ”Ryu,” which means “form” or “style.” Accordingly, “Epulaeryu” would come to mean a poem about a feast or other culinary art with which the poet is especially fond.


The form typically describes various courses of a feast or meal, and ends in a singular interjection and an exclamation point, portraying the author’s excitement in the cuisine and its presentation. From the description in total, the reader should have a good sense (and taste) of the main course.


The Epulaeryu is a seven line poem consisting of thirty-three syllables, arranged in the following manner: 7-5-7-5-5-3-1 and “!” (seven syllables in line 1, five in line 2, and so on). Each line has one thought relating to the main course. The last line ends with an exclamation point, expressing the writer’s excitement and feelings about the poem. In this form, rhymes are a bonus.


As with many other short forms, there is no rhyme or meter. The title is at the poet’s discretion.

Catch Them Young

Catch them young, let them learn

To inhale the fragrance of the ink
Clothe them with the pictures and the words
Let them see the toppled world
Books that can be felt with soft, tender touch
Cannot be compared to keyboard feel
Child who learns to read a book
Will never experience that aloneness streak

Sea Shell Woes

Hide all sea-shells if you must
Invite your close PETA friends as chief guest
It’s not wise to sell at stalls
Trinkets made from live organs

Sea shells come out from the sea
To soak in sun and little breeze
If poked or tickled under your feet
You lift them slowly and let them be

Don’t take them home and pierce their bones
To make that gaudy jewelry
They do have life, if you must know
Beneath the sea, amidst greenery

Shells are beauty of the sea
What use can it be as an activity?
The soft mollusks pierced, removed from crust
Its’ abode dressed up for your vanity?

News: Chief Guest Maneka Gandhi informs police about the sale of sea-shell jewelry at Dilli Haat annual craft fair.

Muscle-less

Just a moment more and shall be done
Have sat too long on this muse, lonesome
Inspirations dead, muscles lagged
Had to peel off my skin and the fat

Cured and curried, bottled with rum
Surprisingly it melted, now feeling numb

Intoxicated, unmatched is your love
Bundled, twiddled, slowly I wrote
Ghazals, poems, text and prose
Something balmy to augment flow

Wrote about fire, charred my soul
Squashed, smashed under heart-ached glow
Scratched the pen to write folklore
But, now I am done, can write no more

I give up, I want my muscles back
To give the shape to my skinny self

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This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 6; the sixth 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.

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Ferry Ride

Just few days back I made a short trip in the ferry...and the ride was during the sun set eve-Oh yeah!

The seagull followed us for a long distance, greedy for some more of our popcorn, while the red sun happily posed for my lens as it set down to disappear behind the waves......Lo behold!

I stood, leaning on the railings of the boat, swinging happily on the crest and trough of the sea....La la!

The breeze so strong that I had to hold on and not bend down my knees..Chee chee!

There were tired travelers returning from their hard days work, some fishermen who had fishes that they had caught in their net, and some commuters sipping their tea ..Sip sip!!

I shared the boat with hundred odd people, they too were watching the boats and ships that sailed in front of me....See see!!

In the forty-five minute ride from Mora to Mazgoan, I drifted from an old fishing village to Mumbai South, by sailing across the sea..Yipee!!

Mogri's Best Friend Gets Married

What Mogri fails to understand is why people ever bother getting married, especially if they have no relatives to show off their status. Live-in relationship is much more convenient: live without ties, no danger of extra-marital affairs and no ego crisis. And if people really want to fill up their homes with children, then there is no shortage of orphans, you can always adopt as many as you want. She knows that there are many people out there who produce babies accidently and are willing to donate their trophy to anyone who is foolish enough to take up such responsibility….


"Remember Sushmita Sen, see how well her adopted daughter is growing and I hear she is adopting one more child” she said.

But her friend, Sunni, was adamant as she was tired of her fourteen-year-old-live-in relationship and was very keen on settling down. She implored Mogri’s help in arranging their marriage. Sunni had told her that besides her reasons to start a family, she also wanted to have full control on the financial status of her spouse.

“Are you going to follow Hu Wang’s Chinese traditional marriage or you would prefer a typical Indian customs?” she asked.

“Indian customs, Indian customs, oh, I love Indian customs, I am sure Hu Wang will like that too” she said clutching Mogri’s arm.

Now Mogri had attended many Indian marriages but she had not closely watched the traditional customs. She knew that Indian marriages, like festivals, are celebrated for many days and people spend most of their time eating, singing loudly and laughing without any reasons, but research was important to understand the details of the customs. She Google searched for two days, making notes on the wedding procedures, the list of things required and other important details. Next she bought the DVD of several Indian films including ‘Hum Aapke hai kaun” and watched it carefully to understand a typical Indian wedding traditions.

“First and foremost, we need a Pandit to perform the marriage” she announced one day.

“What is Pandit?” asked Hu Wang.

“A Pandit is an Indian priest who performs the marriage. He is normally dressed in dhoti kurta and is usually bald and fat.” She said confidently. Most of the films that she had seen on weddings fitted such description.

‘Where do we find him?” asked Hu Wang

“We will have to call the marriage bureau, the agencies that arrange the match also provide Pandit, sometimes, just in case….” she said.

Hu Wang brought out the yellow pages, called few marriage bureaus and enquired about the Pandit.

“Have you made a guest list?” Asked Mogri

“Huh?” said Hu Wang and Sunni together, looking at each other

“Arrey, you have to invite people for the marriage na. Haven’t you seen that in the movies and also at the weddings that you must have attended? We need witness and a bit of crowd.” said Mogri.

“All our friends are in our home town, in China. Here, in India,we hardly know anybody, you are our only trusted friend” said Sunni, pursing her lips and raising her brows

“I have lotsa friends on the facebook” said Hu Wang excitedly, “I will create a Facebook event and invite all my friends. I am sure they will come.”

So, the event page was created on the Facebook with three choices: confirmed, maybe or no. It was an open event and guests were allowed to bring their guests.

Fully satisfied they then focused on other things.

The venue booking, the caterers, wedding clothes shopping, flowers, decorations, lights and other formalities were booked over the next fifteen days. Chinese cuisine was arranged and Hu Wang, very much pleased, complimented them on their thoughtfulness.

"You can pretend that they are your relatives" said Mogri, winking at Hu Wang.

Mogri had read that all the significant rituals are performed during the ‘mandap’ ceremony. On the D-day, they waited under the decorated mandap for the Pandit and guests to arrive. When Pandit did arrive, Mogri felt cheated, because the he was neither fat nor bald. It was too late to argue. But where are the guests? Although there were assured of 200 confirmed guests and about 50 ‘maybe’s on the RSVP of the facebook, only four guests actually arrived, smiling ear to ear. Mogri wanted to wait longer for more guests to arrive but Pandit grumbled that auspicious moment could not be delayed

The ritual and rites of the wedding were performed, garlands exchanged and Mr Hu Wang and Sunni legally tied the knot and the wedding was witnessed by Mogri, four FB friends, hired musicians, caterers, waiters, mandap laborers and few party-crashers.

Luckily, the food was not wasted.

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

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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.