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.'

VALENTINE DATE

It was supposed to be
the dreamiest Valentines Day ever.
And then I opened the door and saw.
A sight to haunt me forever
Upon the doormat, lay
An unidentified creature
Palpitating fiercely
Under some kind of seizure
Its eyes, popping out
Like a ping-pong ball machine
And its heart was where
its stomach should have been.

(Indeed it’s plain to see
He was blown away by me!)

In Pursuit of Purpose

My generation is alarming ‘purposeful’ in everything that they do. I watch from the sidelines, quite amusedly, at their perseverance. On occasions, when I have contemplated upon the purpose of my own existence in the world, I have had to resignedly submit to the fact that I have no real worthy ‘claim’ to existence. While, I am personally quite self-content in this state of being, ironically there are a substantial number of people who seem to have made it their life’s purpose to figure out my purpose in life. Claiming casually that I have no concrete direction or focus in life, it is interesting to observe the varying expressions of perplexity on their faces. This statement usually warrants two responses – by some, I am dismissed regretfully, as a waste of space on the planet. But quite contrary to this response, I am sometimes looked upon as some kind of superhuman, of extremely refined aesthetic sensibilities, likened to several greats who were obviously misunderstood in their time. And it is really quite delightful to be absolutely pretentious, while pretending to intently search your soul for life’s calling.

Some people work towards a purposeful career, one that usually translates into a fine pay package. This is the common man’s purpose. Then, there are those people who persevere towards the ideal holiday – this purpose must be fulfilled in order to scale the social ladder. And because these holidays are the ‘purposeful’ kind, they go about exploring and shopping, eating out of exotic places and doing all the “to-do’s”, like maniacs on a mission, such that when they return home finally, they look like they need a holiday to get over the one that they have just returned from. But of all the activities that purposeful people patiently perform, the one that is beyond comprehension is exercise. Having supposedly indulged over the ‘holiday’, they will convince themselves that they have put on five pounds too much and will purposefully undertake the ritual called exercise. It is almost unheard of to take a walk down the street, what with all those unsightly sights of dogs, cows, and suchlike lesser beings. Therefore, it becomes their sole purpose in life to join a gym in an upmarket location simply to lose weight. As they puff and pant and persevere on the treadmills, it is a painful process. They are running towards perfection, but really perhaps they are secretly running away from the perfect life. Soon, this will lead to a nervous breakdown, and then, they will wonder……What was the purpose of it all?

Disillusion

The air hangs heavy in the room
Boredom is thick
The silence is uncomfortable
The spirit of retort has died within
Limp bodies, carving niches in their seats
Spectators at an unknown funeral
Priests and high lords come and go
Pretending to themselves and the world
As they persevere towards a purpose
Listen...
Bodies shift uneasily in their seats
Old seats, worn and tirrd with
the years of monotony, silent cacophony
Now hear, they creak of sterility

Outside, natures breast swells
Rises in anticipation to receive
Enthusiastic feet...
The wind whistles a jaunty tune
Nature makes a mockery
Of our nameless faces

In the spaces between conciousness
And the dying subconcious...
The death toll rings.

Another stranger in the crowd
Too pompous, self-absorbed, too proud
The world’s not enough and life’s unfair
No time to stand and stop and stare

Losing sight of what we’re after
No time for joy or tears or laughter
Behind the mask, lies fear and fury
Against the norms of the earths jury

Our private worlds are shrinking slowly
Spineless creatures, down and lowly
The power hungry mob disputes
On the endless quest of petty pursuits

The seed of rebellion builds within
Patience is slowly wearing thin
They promised the world to us it seemed
Yet freedom is a faraway dream

All that’s left now is the gift of choice
Yet dare we let our dreams be voiced
In pain, in pathos, in guilt we dwell
Each one, silently awaiting death’s knell.

Mind Your Language!

My family’s multi-lingual
And it makes them very proud
My father unabashedly
Recites French verse aloud
Mother is competitive
Will not accept defeat
She shows off her shayaris
Quite an awesome feat!
Aunty Chen and Lily
Come from exotic lands
As fluently as they speak
The rest, ‘pretend’ to understand
My brother speaks Swahili
Or so, he highly claims
And everyone’s impressed
As he reels off abusive names
Watching from the sidelines
I stand up, all of three
Muttering much gibberish
I’m the pride of the family!

The Animal Olympics

The King of the Jungle,
The mighty lion roared
The traffic stopped, it was a sight
They’d never seen before
Poor chicken was so stricken
But was not to be outdone
It was a funny sight to see
A flock of chicken run
Peacock proudly walked across
The drivers winked and smiled
Showing off his feathers
And parading past in style
The sheep were very well behaved
And constantly policed
The black sheep overtook the rest
Who felt completely fleeced.
The zebras at the crossing
Pondered upon the code
It seemed a most confusing task
That they must cross the road.
You thought the tortoise won the race?
He ought to be defaced
The loser is still persevering
Aiming for last place
The real winner was dinosaur
Most ancient and most clever
He trampled all, he claimed his prize
Then disappeared forever.

'Gluttony is a Sin'

Greedily, our eyes devour the frozen cocoa custard (ice-cream) sitting in neat little squares in tiny steel bowls. Our hands though, play a trick on our eyes and delicately, most intricately divide the portion of ice cream into neat squares that we gently place upon watery tongues. Mother is satisfied, we have not let her down in front of our grandmother. Yet hunger is a most wicked thin - especailly when it resides in the stomachs of small children. Our mother watches in stark horror as my brother picks up his jelly bottom and ventures towads the table for MORE, looking straight ahead with mock confidence - never daring to look sideways, where predictably my mother sits 'making big eyes' at her her eldest son who deliberately makes no sign of paying attention. Until....and my grandmother is unrelenting...her mouth twists into that all too familiat expression of disgust; and in the dryest voice ever, laced with abundant sarcasm , she says "YOU LIKE..?" It is the easiness of the drawl with which it is said that that instantly causes the flushed face and paralysis of every muscle in the body. Resignedly, and certainly with an element of hurt at this public embarassment, my forever hignry sibling squeaks... 'No, it's okay'. The icecream, inide, churns itself into a thick sludge, oozing along the walls of the digestive system, perhaps that is responsible for the uneasiness associatd with guilty pleasures.

Then...almost miraculously (and we are yet to fathom how and where the sudden grandmotherly bouts of kindness come from) her heart softens and quite amused, she erupts into her generous laugh and says 'Go baba, have some more'. This unexpected treat, of course makes the second bowl of icecream doubly appetising. Obviously, this is a rare treat and must therefore be enjoyed to the fullest when offered. Of course, my grandmother believes it wouldnt do much harm to reinforce the lesson by actually throwing into the conversation a remark.."You know....'Glutony is a sin'. Our eldest cousin, in an attempt to give her, her just dessert, cockishly replies, "We know".

Smart Solutions

When it’s time to go to play,
My mum declares ‘a clean-up day’

She says that my bed
Is a sight to dread

So I pick up my stuff
And throw it on the floor instead.

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Friends Lovers

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LIES

The perfect painted picture

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Is but a disguise

The Second Coming

TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

- William Butler Yeats

Loneliness is a shadow, a reflection of the inner pathos.

Loneliness shies away from the light, because light recognizes loneliness.

Loneliness is an untold secret that belongs to no one.

Loneliness is the darkest night that never ends.

Inner Calling

My truth is their perception,
I victimize myself.
Retreating into the abyss ,
Into the primitive self
There is mere catharsis.
The white walls engulf
The bitter remnants,
Of a forgotten soul;
A soul that wanders
In the shadows of the alley cats.