The best day of the year!

hApPy BiRtHday to mE !

Helas! Ce Monsieur

There was a young man, Jose Blaine
Who came to Paris from Spain
When he jumped in the river
The Frenchmen all quivered
"Helas! Ce monsieur, In Seine!"

I Love Me

I take myself out on a date
And say, "Im looking fine"
I choose a most romantic place,
For me to wine and dine.
And when I compliment myself,
I oh so nearly blush,
As I confess, that I love me
And Im my biggest crush!

Charity

We are good Catholics.

Every summer we come down to reality from the plastic world in which we live. Yes, we come home, to India. On our first trip home, we felt guilty….was it that we had realized our cowardice in having run away from life as we saw, nothing had changed. There were as many beggar children malnourished and dying on the streets. At the other end of the spectrum, the rich had only found newer means to evade taxes and further their prospects in life. The divide was glaring and ugly.

One of the holiday rituals is giving to the poor, needy and deserving some of our wealth which should be rightfully theirs but which ironically, we ‘earn’ for doing a 9-5 job in air conditioned offices. We call it charity. It isn’t very different from pardon-certificates, if you consider the manner in which it is done – crisp new bank notes are sealed in virgin white envelopes and handed over to the organization head who will promise prayers and blessings for the family. We walk away with our conscience absolved and convince ourselves that we have indeed ‘done our part’. Next year, of course, the tradition continues.

Yes, charity is supposed to be a humbling experience.

"...."

This is beautiful and so true. Does anyone know who wrote this?
....
.....
.......


Don't walk behind me I may not lead

Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow

Just walk beside me, and be my friend.

My Pets

(1 dog. 1 cat. 1 rat)


First….
The dog chased the cat

And….
The cat chased the rat


THEN

They all chased ME
Around my flat!


.....and this (i hope!) should end all the pet poems for a while :)

I Never Need To Cut My Nails

I never need to cut my nails
They are quite neatly bitten
By my dog, who turns a nervous wreck
Each time he sees a kitten!

Pet Peeve

My pet can scratch
My pet can stretch
He barks all day
But hates to fetch
He always finds
A bone to pick
Or anything to
Sniff or lick
He’ll laze all day
Sleep like a log
No wonder that
All men are dogs!

A Clerihew

The Mystery of the Boil

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Developed a mysterious boil
But how it evolved and came about
Even Sherlock Holmes never found out!

"Special" Kiss

We knew that something was amiss
When bro' refused her "special" kiss
And asked instead for G I Joe
For having got a brilliant score
So mum was glum for half the day
Then sprightly she sprang up to say,
"Money can buy that and this,
There's nothing like a mother's kiss"
Beofore her son could even speak
She grabbed his shoulders, kissed his cheek
And with a most triumphant air
Sat back proudly on her chair
Till brother smirked and in a flash
Said....thanks, now could I have some cash!"

She

The lonely train chugs into Victoria Terminus railway station, the wailing siren, almost a signal, forewarning of what is to come. The Mumbai air hangs heavy, thick with soot like a demon god clutching in its hold, everyday lives and reducing life to ‘existence’. She picks up the folds of her cotton sari and with a silent prayer on her lips, sets her left foot down. A tide of commuters embarks the same train, the 6.00pm evening train to Jabalpur, where she had gone for her mothers funeral. In the death of her mother she had lost a part of herself. In the haste, the shoving and pushing through the mob, she realizes that she has left one chappal behind. In order to live from one day to the next, one must give a part of oneself; losing and living through the loss is the way of life. The weave of life is near thread bare but the human spirit does not give up easily. And the soul wills survival.

The stench of stale urine fills her nostrils; she scrunches her nose, grimacing, while waiting for her husband to receive her. She plays with the string of withered jasmine in her wispy hair, yearning for a fresh garland to adorn herself. After an hour long wait in futility, she decides to make her way to the bus stand, past the lustful stares of auto rickshaw drivers who with glazed eyes and betel stained teeth, motion her to enter into their vehicles. She ignores them and they shout out filthy dialogues from cheap pornographic films.

A deathly cold settles into the pit of her stomach as she waits at the 155 bus stop, unwelcome thoughts, realities that were buried deep inside her now clash through every nerve to slowly seep into her consciousness. The journey home is the longest ever she has had to make. She returns to find her husband lying, like a slovenly dog in the midst of shards of glass, broken bottles of cheap liquor. Her children hold on to each other in a dark corner of the chawl. Their faces are unforgiving and in their eyes, she sees death. Her daughter’s wormy legs are slashed; there is no longer the innocent fear in her eyes. She is physically betrayed, emotionally broken. Here, there is a crime that goes beyond denunciation.

The Alcoholic

Estranged
By self-consciousness
Wasting dignity
With every drop
Of the drink
Losing face
Losing love
Life is a stumble
Degraded
By the reeking
Stench of piss

The Last Leaf

As the leaves take on the autumnal hues,
Ushering in the fall, the end of year,
The red and gold it seeks my inner eye,
Until my soul fills with a quaint nostalgia.
My heart gives of a part, with the winds of change,
Now I surrender all to winter's blues.

Laadli

Snatched away her childhood,
Unaware of future's doom,
A four year old girl child
Given to an aged groom.

Hope left behind, she's lost a home
Is marriage a kind of game?
A man, a stranger to call her own
She does not know his name.

Here upon the mandap,
She makes a pretty bride,
Unknowing of the years ahead
That will burn her inside.

At thirteen she is a widow, watching
In horror, her husbands pyre.
For love's sake or for life itself,
Shes laid upon the 'sacred' fire.

My Dear, If Once...

My dear, if once I could but hold your hand...
And lead you gently, by the rhythmic sea
And 'neath the solitary moon, like love birds, we
Shall walk upon these grains of golden sand
The moon smiles down upon us, ever beaming
Your tender heart beats in perfect accord
Those waves, they break the silence like a gallants sword
Then they caress the shore, like love-beams streaming
I sing to you a ballad, just for old times sake
Of lovers on a summers starry night
So innocent are words as beautiful as this
They drift into my mind, as it awakes
Amidst the sands of time, two lovers reunite
Our souls are sealed as one with but a single kiss.

THE RAILWAY STATION

Here are a few poems written by Arun Kolatkar, that I have particularly enjoyed because they depict a very real picture of what a railway station in any small town of India is like...

1 the indicator:

a wooden saint
in need of paint

the indicator
has turned inward
ten times over

swallowed the names
of all the railway
stations it knows

removed its hands
from its face
and put them away
in its pockets

if it knows when
the next train's due
it gives no clue

the clockface adds
its numerals

the total is zero.


2. the station dog

the spirit of the place
lives inside the mangy body
of the station dog

doing penance for the last
three hundred years under
the tree of arrivals and departures

the dof opens his right eye
just long enough to look at and see
whether you're a man or a demigod

or the eight armed railway timetable come
to stroke him on the head
with a healing hand

and to take him to heaven
the dog decides
the day is not yet.


the tea stall

the young novice at the tea stall
has taken a vow of silence

when you ask him a question
he exorcises you

by sprinkling dishwater in your face
and continues with his ablutions in the sink

and certain ceremonies connected
with the washing of cups and saucers

Water Water Everywhere, Not a Single Drop to Spare

From Tuesday night, ever since the rains lashed out on the city, Mumbai - the city that never sleeps- has been thrown into a state of chaos and pandemonium. North Mumbai suburbs have been submerged in water bringing all activity to a standstill. School children, the working class, elders, preganant women trudged through waist deep water, throughout the night, drenched in the rains that with unrelenting force beat down on the city.
In places like Kalina, Santacruz, Vikroli, people waded through neck deep water, water infested with cockroaches, human faeces, dead cattle. Thousands of lives were wiped away. Mumbaikars have lost all they owned and the slum dwellers have been hit hardest. Colleges and schools, educators, principals came forward at this time and offered all possible help. Several good samaritans offered their homes as shelters for the night as thousands, yet, stood stranded in the middle of the city as all public transport came to a halt. The reporters of several News Channels, NDTV, Aaj Tak must be commended for their bravery and commitment toward the masses at this critical time and for keeping every Mumbaikar abreast of the situation and the magnitude of the disaster. Still, there are several questions that remain unanswered. The predictions of the meteoroligical department leaves much to be desired.
The responsibility of the Bombay Muncipal Corporation towards checking on the encroachment of forest, marsh areas for concretization.Unscrupulous building activity, bribery, cheap constructions... it has been going on for years unchecked. The city drainage system is a 100 years old! This is the wake up call that Mumbai was waiting for. At what cost? And isthere a solid reconstruction plan in order? Who do we hold responsible at this time? It is the first time in a 100 years that Mumbai has witnessed a natural calamity like this due to the monsoons.

The Teacher

The foreigners have come from a land where all people are beautiful. They have blue eyes so deep, like the ocean and golden hair, so soft you cannot help but want to stroke it. Our teacher is one of them, but now, she has lived away from her home for so many years, that she says she is "Indian". She tells us about great thinkers who spoke out for "Liberty, Equality and Fraternity". Then, she begins to talk about the struggle, our "fight" for freedom. She tells us that we should not need to fight for it because it is a human right. She supports the moderates.

Big words, our teacher speaks out from our textbooks. We do not understand most of them, but her expressions tell a story of their own. “What is that?”, asks a young boy, “What is freedom?”. Our teacher does not answer him, but instead looks away with a lost look in her eyes, as if cherishing her own thoughts as a hint of a smile comes over her pretty face. Then she tells us that the imperialists will take the loot, convert all of us to Christianity by force and like lambs we will comply, because we must remember our place in society. She begins to cry as she shakes her head and tells us “Our battle is far from over”.
Maya offers her a handkerchief, but she shuns it. “Do you know that because you have bought their foreign cloth, your father is out of work? You should be ashamed of yourself.” She tells us to be proud of our countrymen, of our heritage and of what is rightfully ours. She tells us that the days ahead will be full of misery and despair and that through it all, we must be strong for each other and carry hope within our hearts because without hope, there is nothing.

Ravi’s father pulled him out of school to work in the fields. “It is useless nonsense” he muttered, when Ravi asked him what freedom was”. “Is that what you are learning in this English medium school of yours? In that case, you might as well make yourself useful and learn a trade that will get you on in the world. There is a new factory coming up a few kilometers away and they will certainly be able to exploit your nimble hands over there and earn us a few rupees. And keep your smart mouth shut and don’t ask silly questions like this to your bosses, else you’ll be turned out like all the rest of them fools”
Lucky fell terribly ill, there was no money to go to a doctor or to buy medicines for his illness and so he stayed at home, everyday growing weaker and more lifeless. Some of the boys would escape from the pressures of home and on the pretext of going to school, jump into the lake or make mischief with the other lads, sometimes stealing sweets from the grocery store, to satisfy their cravings.

And this is how, one by one, so many children left the school that by the end of the year, we were just four of us left on those dusty benches.
My teacher asked me to promise her that I would become a teacher when I grew up. She was going away, to live in another colony where her husband had been posted. She gave me her old diary, which had a few unused pages left in it and she told me to practice my maths in that. “I want to become just like you”, I told her one day. And she told me to study well and make her proud. I promised her that I would.

A Knock Off The Old Block

He invented something famous
He invented the door -knocker
We thought, “A silly a thing to make”
“The dude was off his rocker.”
But mum and dad, they disagree
Think he was really wise
And do you know, my grandma said
He won the NO-BELL prize?

An Excerpt...

(....from "SILENCE! THE COURT IS IN SESSION" - by Vijay Tendulkar)

Our feet tread on upon unknown
And dangerous pathways evermore.
Wave after blinded wave is shattered
Stormily upon the shore,
Light glows alive again. Again
It mingles with the dark of night
Our earthen hands burn out, and then
Again in flames they are alight.
Everything is fully known,
And everything is clear to see.
And the wound that is born to bleed
Bleeds on forever, faithfully.
There is a battle sometimes, where
Defeat is destined as the end.
Some experiences are meant
To taste, then just to waste and spend.

The Pay-Back Pimple

You ranted raged and cursed and cussed
Conveniently squeezed out my puss
Well, your sick life is far from simple
I'm the dreaded pay-back pimple

I stuck by you, right on your face
But boyfriends teased, left you disgraced
And so you gave me one hard smack
I went away, but now I’m BACK!

And now I’ve grown a bigger head
Don’t mess with me, or you’ll be dead
Don’t poke or prod and pretty please
Make-up will not make me decease!

So let me grow and safely sit
Let all admire the mega-zit
And when I leave, don’t be too well
For I’ll return to make life hell!

The Poetry of Lives

I tell her, “Amma, poetry is magic”
The voice of OUR souls.
Recite a few verses of the Bhagwadgita
And listen to your heart
It is our chat under the banyan tree
When nightfall silences the village
It is the baby’s full-throttled cry
Out of a mothers’ womb
It is the first rain that falls to the cracked earth
Breaking the long spell of summer
It is the river that sings of
Wars and heroes, glory and tradition
I say to Amma, life may take your heart
But it can never steal your soul
Speak your mind, my mother
That will be your poem.

Barbie

Through rose tinted glasses
She has seen the world
She is a plastic piece,
Nothing penetrates the surface
Aqua-emotions escape her
In fleeting moments of boisterous show
The spectacle of materialism
Barbie

Kids Have The Last Laugh!

WHY CAESAR WAS A GEEZER

Caesar was Rome’s greatest king,
Yet he was quite a geezer.
For his dad was Crassus Idioticus,
And his mum was Stupida.


KNICKERS

Nick has lost his knickers
And he's looking rather flushed
Just watch him as he bickers
The poor young dude is crushed
It puzzles me, befuddles me
And Nick is really ticked
Perhaps it's possible that
Nick's knickers have been knicked!


WHERE HAVE U BEEN ?

Where have U been?
I've been looking for U
I looked everywhere
Didn't know what to do
I looked in the backyard
I looked in your room
Just where U were hiding
I couldn't assume
And just when I wanted
To throw a big fit
I found U after T
In the alphabet!

Untitled

Hunted down by wolves,
They stalk in the cold wintry bed
Of my dreams; they mystify the placid moon,
To enact her final ruin.
Across the seven seas of thought,
Meditation weaves its magic;
The cats howl, the ravens make a mockery of thought
The second life cycle begins.

I'll Pay You For Your Pimples

I’ll pay you for your pimples
Just give them all to me
Ripe and plump and juicy ones
I’ll squeeze them all with glee
I will befriend your pimples
I don’t think they’re a disgrace
And soon a pimple garden
Will be blooming on my face
I’ll gladly welcome grime and dirt
In every open pore
For pimples only blossom
When nourished with manure
I’ll pop them so that they explode
I’ll burst them all with glee
I’ll pay you for your pimples
Just give them all to me!


NOTE: Thought I'd gross you out before I go back to college (day after tom.) Most likely I'll now only be able to blog once a week with limited internet access and more importantly, a heavy schedule. So, in the meanwhile......you can puke your guts out on my comments page! :P

Happiness in Freezing Winter Wonderland

(This piece is purely fictional.....unfortunately)

Here I am holding on for dear life, as the bus hurtles along the busy streets of Mumbai. I have just been yelled with the choicest of Hindi abuses, because I selfishly refused to share the last inch of space on the bus step where I managed to squeeze my fat foot.

If life isn’t complicated enough already, we have to keep up with the Jaffrey’s (who by the way have sent their children to Canada “in search of greener pastures”). I use the in-born linguist in me to retaliate, “The grass is always greener on the other side”. Think about it, the Jaffrey kids are probably knee deep in snow and hardly even see grass!

If the fact that we are struggling to survive in this chaotic metropolis city isn’t bad enough, Mrs. Jaffrey spares no effort to boast about the multitude of extra curricular activities her children are pursuing. “Karan is learning skiing, rugby, ice-hockey and flying. And my daughter is president of the Cultural Society. It is important for the overall personality development hai na? Now, they are very happy.”

Driving her kids to Canada, she didn’t stop there. Her husband was the next poor victim. Harassed enough by a resolute wife, they too had applied for immigration to the land of “opportunity”. Ever since, there has been a cold war between our families and mother is forever defeated in her meek attempts to defend her “izzat”. Yet, we are not easily beaten :)

“We are not less, we will show them”, my mother says. This is translated as, “I will give that woman more mental torture, than she has ever known in her life”. How does she accomplish this delicious strike of revenge. It is quite simple really. She very tastefully brings up the conversation of the nightmare - the "firang bahu". The devil in disguise who will break all family ties forever. And more importantly, "who will cook those hot hot chapattis and sabzi for beta Karan?" Or even more nightmarish, “Nowadays, these young people live together before shaadi”, she adds in a devilish whisper. They become strangers to their own kind……foreigners to their parents. Mrs. Jaffreys face takes on a pale hue as mother looks on, smug as a bug and pleased as punch. Her victory is complete.

You don’t have to go to Canada to be happy. Just torment the lot of people who have decided to move on. That my dear, is sweet, sweet happiness.

Noses and Feet

Some peoples noses and feet
I find are built in reverse
Their feet smell, their noses run
Now what in the world could be worse?

Frankie The Fantastic Fowl

(The Animal Hero)

Frankie was a bird so scared,
As I have never seen.
His feathers were always ruffled,
Though he tried to keep them preened.
And all the chickens in the coop,
They gave him quite a lickin',
The cocks around all chuckled
Saying, "Frankie's such a CHICKEN"
When they played at chicken race,
They cackled, fought and howled.
And when old Frankie won a game,
The chickens shouted "FOWL".
Yet though poor Frankie thought by now,
He wasn't worth a CLUCK,
We must confess that he was blessed
With a grand leg of luck!
For when the chicks heard "KFC",
They almost nearly died,
As Frankie fled, the chicken shed,
The rest of them were fried!

The Divide

Beyond the border
We cannot see into the lives of men,
Lay down your armour,
The world bleeds.
The sword, it steals
The whisper of a heartbeat;
Shield not yourself, but the children,
They fight the inner battle.
In the cold wintry bed of dreams,
The boom of cannons roar,
The air is rife with fear,
Voices prophesying war.
Chained to the idealism of democracy,
It cannot work, it will not work,
If I sit high up on the shelf,
A spectator to savage brutality.
Miles upon miles of land separate us,
Yet beyond this physical divide,
My soul knows of an inner stirring;
We are a greater Indian,
We are humanity,
Your brother
Is only a heartbeat away.

Look to your dream...

Look to your dream; reach out and touch the skies
Let nothing fight your drive to carry on
Don’t ever let your spirit drown or die
So will you walk ahead; you must be strong
In every child there is a little light
So leave the darkest nights and come away
The sun will light our souls, and make them bright
We will come through, we’ll make a better day
And when it’s tough remember, say a prayer
Then you will never walk your path alone
And in your heart, know always, someone’s there
To help you grow and come into your own
So shine dear child, you are a shining star
So shine dear child, and cast your light afar

Enigma

Another work of art by my ex-roommate SARA.
Your comments, appreciation, criticism and interpretations are welcome :)

SARA

What does your Birthdate Mean?

Have to say this was pretty accurate or at least I'd like to hope it is ;)
The part about being artistic couldnt be more wrong though!!!

My Birthdate: December 30

Your birthday on the 30th day of the month shows individual self-expression is necessary for your happiness. You tend to have a good way of expressing yourself with words, certainly in a manner that is clear and understandable. You have a good chance of success in fields requiring skill with words. You can be very dramatic in your presentation and you may be a good actor or a natural mimic. You have a vivid imagination that can assist you in becoming a good writer or story-teller. Strong in your opinions, you always tend to think you are on the right side of an issue. There may be a tendency to scatter your energies and have a lot of loose ends in your work. You may have significant artistic talent and be very creative.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Charcoal

This is done by an extremely talented artist, my ex-roommate SARA. I think her artistic style is so unique and wonderful, that her work needs to be seen. I've used "Hello" to post this. Unfortunately, I can't see pictures on my own blog and on some other blogs. Can't figure out why. So I hope it's clear and all. So...whaddya think?


SARA 

The Legacy of The Braganza's

Braganza & Co. that now stands proud on Marquis street, Kolkatta has risen from humble beginnings. Today, it is the primary music store in the city and true to its slogan, “Everything Musical” is a dealer of pianos, electric and acoustic guitars, drum sets, manuscript books and a host of other music related paraphernalia.
It is interesting to go back in time, re-live the days that put this enterprise in operation and more importantly the people who were behind it all. It all began when Francis and Thomas Braganza, an amazing partnership of brothers invested in a venture that they could only dream would become as huge a success as they witnessed later in life.

Already, musicians in several bands, Francis a drummer and Thomas a saxophonist would play several nights a week at clubs in the city. The profession was certainly not “paying” and compelled by the needs of growing families, the two brothers realized the necessity of an additional source of income. The owner of the music store where they were employed part-time, was handing over his business to his own son and so the Braganza brothers did what they only knew best- set up a music business of their own. They began by buying old pianos, refurnishing and repairing them and then renting them out. With the beginning of the world war, the demand for musical instruments, from British soldiers only grew. Also, distress sales of instruments owned by many British families helped the brothers to set up shop. Thomas was quick to learn the technical operations of the musical instruments and taught the trade to a few other employees. Francis, the naturally charismatic, people-loving person was equivalent to an entire marketing team! And this is what was so utterly mesmerizing about the partnership. In their starkly different personalities, the brothers complimented each other and together saw the business grow before their eyes. Having taken off to good start, the income from the business went toward buying a small plot of land on 1/6 Collin Lane where now stands tall, “The Braganza Building”. A flat was built for each of the two brothers and their families and later a second floor was added. This enabled them to move out of the small place at 5 Collin lane where they were formerly residing as paying guests.

Is this another remarkable rags to riches story? Undeniably. As I recall my grandfather, Francis Xavier Braganza tell stories of his childhood, it only re-instates the admiration that I feel for him. He told us of how he was adopted by an uncle, taken away from his home in Goa, to live in Rangoon after his father died. At the age of 9 or 10, an earthquake forced them to flee to Calcutta and this is where he made his life, ever since. Money was short and hardly enough to go around for little luxuries like a “haircut”. He would have his hair finely cropped so that it would see him through the next few months. His pants were made a size too large, so that he would not outgrow them quickly. Yes, it is these little sacrifices that made him a man of character. And a man who will be remembered for his determination, sincerity and goodwill.

Today, Braganza & Co. has passed into the hands of the next generation. Music is in the blood and it is a tradition, that every Braganza must learn a musical instrument. Thus, with music in our hearts and in our souls we carry with pride, the Braganza name.

Nonsense Verse

SING SANG SONG
(a tribute to Spike Milligan)

At the sing sang song
Where the words go wrong
And the audience all go BOO!
There’s a song sang sing
It’s a teacher’s thing
Where they all go jibber jabber joo
At the song sing sang
All the students bang
On the piano, till spanked blue
So its sing sang song
Words go wrong
Song sang sing
Teacher’s thing
Song sing sang
Students bang
A raucous squeal of a song
It’s the sing sang sing sang song!


THE SAD DEMISE OF THE VEGETABLE

I lost my head the lettuce said
A bounteous mop of green
And someone even spilled
An agitated string of beans
Then Potato lost an eye
And Corn Cob lost an ear
A pink and sentimental onion
Shed a lonesome tear
A mushy heart of artichoke
Welled up with such compassion
A hand of bananas was chopped off
In such a ruthless fashion
No rib of celery was spared
No neck of squash released
And sad to say, this was the way
The vegetables deceased.

Prostitute

Sweety bar and past midnight,
She throws herself to the neon lights,
It’s not a job, this is her living
Losing herself in this soul giving.
Seductively, she will allure
A sleazy beast to buy this whore,
Not for love, but for the money
For one night, become his honey.
A one night stand, used and abused
A 100 bucks and AIDS infused,
A last resort to make ends meet,
Up for the money, slave of the streets.

Rain

The rain came like a blessing
From the glorious skies of heaven,
And it poured and poured
Tears of simple joy, crystal clear beads,
The earth soaked it in thirstily.
And I...the rich girl, with a beautiful house
Born to riches and spoiled with luxury,
I ran out and danced in the rain,
Free at last...from a promising future
That I could only see as a demon.
And then, when the rain let up
I felt the nip in the air, tingling my neck
And creeping down my spine,
I shared a quiet moment with the sweet man,
A man with no ambition and no desires,
We gazed above, as a rainbow smiled at us,
I looked on at the colours, as he whispered,
"Walk on my child and climb on high
But never miss the rainbow in the sky."

Children of Our Nation

Children of our nation,
Babies, born under the burning sun
On Indian soil.
And they grow, only naturally
Pot-bellied and nearly limp,
Eyes dull, weak and tear-lit,
Festering wounds on their arms and legs
Infested with sickness and disease.
Little bodies, enlarged heads
Undernourished and dying
Like mounds of dirt on the footpaths;
Infants, children, mothers
Breeding in filth.
Poverty-stricken streets
Where beggar children, like flies
Hover around eating houses,
Breathing in the stale air
Of yesterdays cooking smell.
Hungry stomachs, big hearts
They beg the feed of dustbins,
Letting not one scrap to waste.

A Match Unmatched

(If you think marriages are made in heaven, well, think again!)

There were no telephones in those days. And yet, certain bits of news seemed to fly across the globe at lightning speed. Never underestimate the power of “word of mouth” - especially, when it’s a woman’s mouth. The next visit from the city aunt would confirm the worst. Time to get married. The sparkle in the eyes, the hushed whispers and the letters that you were not allowed to open, lest you fall in love with the wrong man. They had been finding the man of your dreams all along. And you knew zilch about it.

Now, when you try to open your mouth to speak, to tell them that you have no intentions of getting married, they dismiss you, wondering how you could want to pass up this opportunity for eternal happiness! The woman who will change the course of your life forever, the matchmaker, the destroyer of destiny, comes in all disguises. Sometimes she is the favorite auntie who always served you a big bowl of pudding. Other times, it is that haggard old lady who has been “on her way to heaven” for the last seven years but managed to hold her breath for every last wedding. It was no different this time. On hearing the news, there was an unmistakable twinkle in her eye as she unconsciously decided once again that life was worth living.

When all family members have been consulted and everyone is convinced that the boy decided upon will be a match “unmatched”, the day is set for when the two should meet. Instructions are given on how to behave and the manners expected of a girl from a fine family. You are taught how to make good tea and how to serve, how to blush at appropriate intervals and never voice your opinion. “Never look him in the eye” adds Auntie Sheela. So you practice looking up at an imaginary “hero” while looking down at the same time. It wouldn’t really matter if you went cock-eyed in the process considering you couldn’t see straight anyway, since the last few days. Then begins the practice sessions, all aimed at converting this modern good for nothing. The right outfit is chosen, something stylish from a good boutique, yet making sure not to expose too much skin.

The moment arrives. By now, you are actually quite excited about meeting this Casanova.
As the doorbell rings, Auntie Sheela gives you one final look of warning and then a pasty smile. Mummy comes over and whispers – “just be yourself”. He enters with a hoard of people accompanying….Pink shirt, hair slick back, reeking of coconut oil, Elvis like pants under a huge paunch. The huge black rimmed spectacles accentuate ogling eyes. He puts on a fake American accent and all the aunties look impressed.
Mother makes a lame excuse and follows you into the kitchen. So…what do you think?
HE’S A TOAD!!!

Outside you can hear the ladies talking about how you make perfectly round chapattis and excellent sabzi. Perhaps they all believe that while you cook, feed him, keep his stomach happy and produce children by the dozen, the frog might turn into prince charming!

Platform No. 6

From the rusted tin roof, rainwater drips on to the worn frayed chattai and throughout the night, there is a spray that enters through the skylight. The men had climbed up there earlier, to patch up the opening, to no avail. Instead, they got into another feud with the policemen who chased them away with sticks, laughing as they watched them run for their lives. Curses were sworn at deafening decibels, enough to invoke terror in all who lay there that night. It was always the platform dwellers who were at the receiving end of the policemen’s frustration. Sometimes, these poor people were pounded until they lay limp and near lifeless from the bashing. They had no voice to raise in this city where you learnt to keep your mouth shut or otherwise die. They had no money to give these policemen, yet the little living space that they had created for themselves was regularly raided. On finding nothing but a few rupees, the policemen would get further outraged and turn them out on to the streets.

Ramu returned, feeling less than a man, for his inability to defend his family and further dismayed at the state of their lives. Yet, he was lucky to have escaped without too much of a beating, this time. He could contain himself no longer. For the first time, his children saw their father weep, rub his nose on the dirty railway platform and shout, “we are lower than the pariah dogs, we are nothing”.
“The family is fortunate enough, to not have to sleep on the cold platform floor, like some others”, says Meena who lays a few cloths on the chattai for her two girls and holds the baby close at her bosom, providing whatever little warmth that she can provide. The baby is hungry and cries for hours, but there is nothing that can be done. There is no more milk to give.

Outside, the rain pelted down in torrents, refusing to let up until the wee hours of the morning. The children slept through all of this, safe in the lap of their mother. Meena, pretending to sleep, was filled with a deep fear for her husband’s life. Their troubles were far from over. They would be back, to harass her family. Why didn’t they instead go and bring down the houses of those rich politicians? The ones who were eating well, drinking well, sending their children to good schools and year after wretched year, winning the elections on the poor man’s vote?

Under the midnight breeze, Ramu dreams of life before the city and a time when there was enough to go around for everyone. Lives were simple, yet dignified.
Then times changed, corruption raised its ugly head. The industrialists came and set up big industries that dumped toxic chemicals into their agricultural lands and the rivers. They brainwashed the villagers into believing that this would create huge job opportunities for them all. The famine that followed, took away so many members of Ramu’s family. The field that would not yield any produce was the reason that forced him to take up a job as a simple vendor, living in squalor among the rats and lowest of creatures in this forbidding city. Now, losing any sense of self-worth he left his family there on Platform No. 6 and walked away towards the liquor shop drowning his sorrows, like all the rest of them miserable men.

For The Love Of....!?!

Parents have a knack of saying all the wrong things at the wrong time. It is an unwritten rule that every mother must embarrass her child (with all good intention) at every golden opportunity. At some point, you will realize that you are never going to win this battle, as mothers so adore their precious little darlings. They truly believe that the world is privileged to have their little genius. So all you can do is cross your fingers, toes and eyes and hope that these occasions of heart and soul-bearing are few and far between.

Somehow luck isn’t very kind, and there is always that wonderful opportunity to brag about how beta sat at the table in pampers and walloped 12 chapattis at one go. Most likely, the other equally ambitious mother will dismiss it, saying that her kid could put down 24 at the age of four (exaggeration only proves a stronger point). The point being…..this silly exchange is not as silly as you think! It is a perfect way to boast about their perfect children and is also a compliment to their cooking skills. Mummies are smart people. Another thing that most mamas are particularly proud of is their children’s in-born musical abilities (never mind if they sound like frogs). So they bring out that old dusty tape that you'd forgotten had even existed, of that concert where you were singing "My Favourite Things" while the judges and everybody else was cringing.

Baby days, tweens, teens and finally….you’re all grown up! But what have you really learnt in life? Most importantly, that there are enough of people who care so much about you so as to literally advertise the fact that you are the biggest embarrassment to yourself and to the entire concept of the “human”!
Perhaps, I have confirmed that you are in a no-win situation. But then again, maybe the only ultimate solution is to have kids of your own. It’s a vicious circle baby; I assure you that their grandparents will spare no opportunity to shower the “love and praises" on the NEXT generation.

The Rag-Picker

The evening sun set into the murky waters of Chowpatty beach, drowning in the sounds and sights of the evening fair, that was past. When the laughter of children was heard no more, the florescent lights dimmed and the milling crowds receded into the safe of their homes, the rag-picker went about her evening ritual. Her tattered clothes fluttered in the salty sea-breeze and the evening chill penetrated to the bone. Her feet were dry and blistered; her wispy hair infested with lice. With a dirty old canvas sack slung across her gaunt frame, her beady eyes, now failing vision, inspected every spot on the beach for what the sea had left behind. The scavengers surrounded her, squabbling over a half-eaten butta. The frail woman hobbled along to escape these ominous creatures, picking up polythene bags and shells along her path.

Hers was not an easy living. It was barely a hand to mouth existence. Her meager earnings of 6-7 rupees a day, would on the rare occasion earn herself and her children one square meal. On most days, however this pittance was snatched by that drunken fool, abusive father and wife-beater and squandered on cheap liquor. Her family had paid to marry her off, the girl child, the nuisance. She was still paying the dowry that would never be enough. The slum was a place of violence and terror. She would return, weary from the physical effort as well as the mental strain only to be given a sound thrashing and see her children being beaten black and blue. She had already lost one child and now she fell down on her knees, weeping, begging their release.

From the moment the village mid-wife shrieked in shock and obvious disappointment at her deliverance of her eldest child, a baby girl, her fate was doomed. There was the family debt situation that only worsened each generation with the curses of inflation and large dowries to provide for. Her children, malnourished and dying, lay like mounds of dirt on the footpaths under the scorching sun. Her own ill-health made each passing day more difficult than the first. What would she do on a rag-pickers wage? The politicians, hypocrites, did nothing to improve their lot as one government superseded the next with huge empty promises of rehabilitation.

As nightfall silenced the city of Mumbai, the rag-picker stole into the darkness, carrying within her heart, the burdens of her world. Where was the mercy of this unjust God? Her world was caving in, engulfing her being and trapping her in the clutches of poverty and despair.

Her fight for survival continues....Who will hear her story?

Poetry, Please!

Some of my childrens poems...

DANCING

Mum does Bharatnatyam
Sister does Ballet,
Brother goes out now and then,
To dance the cabaret.
Aunt Elma does belly dancing,
Uncle Fred, the waltz.
Even little poochie,
Does splits and somersaults.
Now if you ask me, I would say
My family’s off the brink,
My grandma was a “tap dancer”
Till she fell in the sink!


THE CATS WHISKERS

There once lived a cat of Manchow
Who was spiteful and snobbish and how!
When her whiskers were chopped
Her whole ego went flop
And all that was left was MEOW !


LADYBUG (haiku)

Lovely ladybug
Is going rather dotty,
Blushing a bright red.


- Nicole Braganza

The 8th Bad Habit of Highly Defective People

(with all due respect for Mr. Steven Covey)

Wondering why the slap in your face, hope-you-feel-like-a-rotten-egg title above? Because, YOU are the defective person being addressed!

Doesn’t it just annoy you? I mean how long a list of “miss-goody-two-shoes” qualities can the word “effective” categorize? You and me work our behinds off to get A grades in the college examination (ok, maybe not, but lets assume so) and we’re still not “effective” human beings?
The seven habits are full of such profound words of wisdom that to the common man is actually a load of nonsensical gibberish. Let me lay it out for you…..
1) Get up with a peaceful mind : Nevermind, that there are ten gazillion cars hooting their horns off, a herd of cows mooing to the dairy and a handful of pesky siblings who seem to have descended from the “uncivilized” civilization.
2) Put First Things First : From the only logical perspective, I see that the first thing on the agenda would be “set the sibling rascal straight”. Gosh…just swiped the “peace” away!
3) Allocate time to improve your Productive Capability- NOW we know why family planning is still not as successful as we hope! All the wrong habits!
4) Think Win/Win, “Winning” is “beating” :…..Just when I decide to adopt the non-violent strategy to my problems! .….now I’m getting really confused!
5) Seek First to Understand, then to be Understood : Yes, I am beginning to understand that you think I am a spoilt brat, that I am devoid of sympathy and that I have the brain the size of a pea. Now I seek to be understood. My problems are the very same ones that I’ve just understood. Does that make any sense?
6) Synergize : What is synergy? Simply defined, it means that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts." Are they trying to tell us that frog-eyed, frizzy-haired, pimple-struck teenagers like me are actually pretty? The world does not work that way honey!
7) Sharpen the Saw : Don’t worry, no ones talking yet of “sharpen the saw, then try slicing your head off”! This is supposed to be about physical, mental, spiritual and emotional renewal! RENEWAL?They've gotta be kidding right? Nope. That’s why we told you it’s all a vicious cycle!

And finally, the 8th bad habit of highly defective people :
This one kind of sums up all the 7 Bad Habits. It is simply,
8) BE YOURSELF : This is translated as live your life uniquely, setting your own standards for yourself and not by a book of rules!

And thus I conclude by saying that while we HIGHLY DEFECTIVE PEOPLE might be teetering on the edge of insanity, I take pride in believing that we are not as vain as to think that we’re little pieces of machinery who run effective lives following the 7 Habits.

Let's Talk About Love...

I have promised some people that I will share my recently written articles. This one is straight out of Bollywood (filmi ishtyle) - no you still havent convinced me that Hindi movies have had a makeover!!!


LET'S TALK ABOUT LOVE…

Love is blind. That is an understatement, and besides I am so tempted to add to that. Wouldn’t it be just right to say, Love is blind and lovers too! While the cupid-struck lot find it extremely important to publicly enact the passion of their lives, the not so lucky love hopefuls can at least have a free demonstration. Indians have always been very considerate.
Love certainly calls for extreme measures in a city with a teeming population of other love hopefuls, fighting for breathing space, let alone romantic settings. By extreme measures, I am referring to every type of stunt you have ever seen in the world of Bollywood. In case you’ve missed the latest Hindi film because you couldn’t get a ticket even in black, don’t fret. A visit to "Scandal Point" will reassure you that you can have live off-screen entertainment of an equally good standard, for free. The sea breeze and the rocks beckon several young couples who cannot afford exotic dinners at five star restaurants. Of course, unfortunate encounters of girlfriends falling off the rocks has been quite common and hence many have taken to tying dupattas (always available at hand) around themselves so that if a strong breeze does blow, both should die together in the true spirit of filmi love. Even the dogs think the rocks, the ideal place to "shed" all inhibitions. And well, Indians have always celebrated “togetherness”.
There are however those boring people who love to spoil the fun for anybody who isn’t leading a life as miserable as their own and wake up one day deciding to protest against Public Displays of Affection. It beats me why we cannot all just live and let live. It is commendable that Indian cinema has improved so much, now offering really jhakass tips on romance. I’m sure you can now move from Chowpatty beach to the Swiss Alps in a flash. From dupattas to mini skirts, it's the whole package. Ah the many faces of love. Love has got a double promotion.