Friday, February 05, 2010

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

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

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)

Monday, January 25, 2010

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.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

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

Monday, January 18, 2010

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.

Friday, January 08, 2010

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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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.

Wednesday, January 06, 2010

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!!



Monday, January 04, 2010

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.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

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....

Friday, December 04, 2009

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...

Wednesday, December 02, 2009

Butterfly



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....

Friday, November 20, 2009

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.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

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

Friday, November 13, 2009

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

Friday, November 06, 2009

If I were a baby again




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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

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

Friday, October 30, 2009

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.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

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!

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

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.

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