City Love

Like a bag of chips
with packaging too glossy
and little content.

Like a bag of chips,
sealed so tight,
half full of air
waiting to escape.

Like a bag of chips,
seasoned all too much
with little flavor.

Like a bag of chips
way past its expiry date,
left unopened,
forgotten and alone. 

Limericks Of My Land

A wrinkly old madam called Sandra,
Who lived in the suburb of Bandra,
Once flashed her white knickers
To the parish vicars,
She claims with the uttermost candour

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A chaste young Tamilian banker
Known always to be a ‘First ranker’
Was smitten by love
Till she gave him the shove
Now he’s an official wanker

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A Marathi missus called Neelam
Was loveless and moody and glum
Till a foreigner boy
Winked at her, rather coy
Seeing her sari well tucked in her bum

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Butternut creams

Butternut creams have a way of
Finding their way down the shelves
Of the kitchen larder;
Round and crumbly, warm and fresh
They jump down, into eager hands
Of hungry children.
They leave evidence, so naturally;
Crumbs, scattered over the stone floor.
Our dog licks them up,
(Who will notice... no one!)
Until mum comes home:
"What's that smeared all over your mouth?"
Ah! The butternut creams have disappeared?
The ghost must have visited us again!

What could have been

Could you take me home and love me
Without a trace of lust?
Then watch me age, not gracefully
But covered in dust.
Could you hold my gaze for minutes
Without one wayward glance?
You could let me know
But I won’t give you a chance.

HE NEVER LOOKS AT ME

He looks at the poems that I write
With such wonder at its mystery,
Eyes poring over every page,
But he never looks at me.

He looks into the little details
As I plan my travel itinerary,
Squinting into maps to find locations,
But he never looks at me.

He’ll look for my pair of red high heels
As I’m all dressed up in my finery,
Scrounging wide-eyed into musty shoe shelves,
But he never looks at me.

As he looks out of the balcony, now
Waiting for my blue car, anxiously
I wonder, will I ever know his ways of seeing?
And why he never looks at me?

Poetry Slam!

I went for my first poetry slam in Mumbai and I am thrilled! Well, actually I went for two. First headed over to Prithvi Cafe for the Caferati Open Mic at 7.30pm. After that, we went to MochaMojo, for the slam hosted by the Bombay Elektrik Projekt, where we were treated to three rounds of scintillating verse, witty wisdoms and some power-packed performances till 11.00pm. All in all, a wonderful evening that got me high as a kite without one drop of alcohol! (the Irish coffee at Prithvi was great though!)

You know you're a copywriter when:

1. You believe that your idea will change the world.

2. You create public service ads, warning about the effects of excessive alcohol consumption and then drink the night away.

3. You eat last weeks leftovers at 3.20 am and come to work to write about sumptious kebabs, gooey chocolate cake, and soft juicy rosogollas.

4. You work in a digital advertising agency, where the internet speed isnt 1/10th the speed of the virus alerts that keep popping up on your PC.

5. You frequently escape to the loo, to catch some shut-eye 'cause you can't be caught sleeping at your desk.

6. You are part of a fraternity that is so self obsessed that we create awards to celebrate our own work.

7. You sell dreams, while you're losing faith in your own.

8. Your salary is just a nice word for pocket money.

9. You look at innocent kids on the street with a gleam in your eyes, thinking 'target audience'.

10. You write all day, but can't seem to find the right words to explain what exactly your job is about, to your family.

Going to Foreign

‘I want to go abroad’, I said
I’ve told my dad before,
He grunted, disapprovingly
‘In exams, first you score!’
‘She wants to go to foreign!!’
He chuckled out aloud
‘Become an engineer instead
And make your parent’s proud’
My mother shut her ears so tight
To block these ‘words of doom’
Then looked at me, in horror
And rushed to the puja room
My sister yawned out lazily
And said, 'By now I’m sure
You must already feel
Just like a foreigner, out here.'