Ode to the team

Twelve deskies once manned the city;
one took off to stone the devil,
the rest sighed, “what a pity!”
Eleven dedicated deskies carried on
until they edited out
the self-appointed Don Juan…
Ten deskies were left to their devices,
when the three-eyed sub-editor
left citing rising prices,
Nine deskies rivaled the blind mice.
Alas, the general defected to the enemy camp,
(the lady of Boribunder to be precise),
Eight deskies were on a roll then,
while leggy eloped with horny men.
Seven deskies bustled about,
one was bitten by the homesick bout,
Six deskies raced to make the deadline,
when one walked off to find the perfect headline,
Five deskies were beginning to crack,
when one went off and broke his back.
Four deskies were making a dash,
one overdosed on hash.
Three deskies meant trouble,
one turned fashionista on the double.
Two deskies were on the war front,
when one was killed in a Rajnikant stunt.
One deskie left all alone
hung herself by the collar bone
and then there were none!

A 55 and a short story…

Seed

She had always thought that it won’t happen to her, when it did. Eight months on… she was already far gone. Excited, she knew it was growing within her and wasn’t afraid… Not until, he said that it was her means to an end. That day, enveloped with nausea, she delivered her first short story.

Constant Companion

Life wasn’t the same anymore for Cowasjee. Waking up to see that vacant space across the bed, to not know how long the milk had been on the boil, to miss the 7 o’clock news… It was a week since he had slept soundly. Worse still, it was almost a month since he had been on his morning walk.
Nandu “Aarey” was among the first to notice his absence. Cowasjee would always shoot an encouraging smile as he walked past this doodhwallah’s stall. Nandu would continue unloading the plastic cartons from the tempo, content thinking at least one person in the city knew how much work went into delivering milk.
It was rare to come by people at 5 am, let alone those who would stop by and talk. And Cowasjee always did (as a rule: only after his first ten rounds of the park). Well, this was one among his many obsessive compulsions. And Nandu would know, what with this septuagenarian regaling him with comic stories everyday.
Once just as the doodh pau from Plot 795 on Jame Jamshed Road neared the stall on his morning jog, Cowasjee launched into his version of stand-up comedy. In a booming voice, he asked, “What do you call a Parsi test tube baby?” Stealing a glance at Nandu and not waiting long enough for a reply, he bellowed, “Batliboi!” The puny Parsi almost stopped in his tracks hearing his last name and needless to say, he had heard the question too. But, instead of picking a bone with him, he walked off in a huff. After all, a Batliboi was above all that. The fact that Cowasjee was three times his size of course didn’t have anything to do with this sixty-year-old’s hasty retreat!
Those who missed shows such as these in the morning caught Cowasjee’s act on Sunday evenings when his voice rose and fell among the trees at Five Gardens. He would say things genuine stand-up comedians wouldn’t dream of. For instance; he’d make jokes about how the Khada Parsi at Byculla Bridge earned his sobriquet and if aapro Nariman aaje hote to Superman chaddi ma sussi kare che and not surprisingly, Sanober’s gravity-defying bosom was the most popular among his radical gags. The fact that he peppered these jokes with one-liners like: “These are solely meant for those with no inner voices, principles and wives” only left the mostly male audience out of breath laughing.
Age clearly hadn’t bent the old fogey’s funny bone. Paeans about the wonder years when things were cheaper and life was better weren’t for him. He abhorred the erstwhile. Cowasjee was more likely to urge all to advocate perpetual procreation — the only answer to the receding Parsi population — and top it off by calling attention to how receding hemlines helped in the process.
As far as receding hairlines were concerned, they were off limits at his discourses. His maroon skull cap was as much a part of his personality, as was his pencil thin moustache. You’d expect someone as garrulous to have a thick, impenetrable moustache that would draw a curtain on the comic scenarios he spouted, when he’d end a story. Not him! Facial hair — whether side whiskers, beards, stubbles or those obnoxious strands originating from the nostrils, ears, nape of the neck — were religiously taken care of.
Naturally, Cowasjee couldn’t have pulled this chikna look if it wasn’t for Nusro. Now, if someone else would have asked Nusro to dedicate one whole afternoon to shaving off every such unwanted strand of hair, he would have rather shaved off his own head than give into such eccentricity. In any case, he was only moonlighting as a barber until he could find someone to takeover his father’s business so that he could carry on with his studies in Psychiatry. Except, an afternoon with Cowasjee meant escaping for a whole three hours from his senile old mother in her cotton dressing gown, ranting ceaselessly from upstairs about the leaking tap. The old man’s jokes always drowned the reality of her existence. Those fleeting afternoons, as he wiped off the scissor on his sadra and saw Cowasjee’s hair fall at his feet, were the only moments when Nusro never thought of killing his mother.
But Cowasjee had his share of ‘elderly eccentricities’ too. For instance, he didn’t believe in excesses. “Why buy another track suit when one would suffice for the whole week? Bubbly Binafer is still going to call me a dirty old man,” he’d say with an impish grin.
Third floorwalleh Maneckji always wondered how this old geezer made it in time for his walk every morning. He never saw a watch on the man’s wrist. Neither did he see him stop by and ask anyone for the time. It was only a year ago that he caught up with Cowasjee on a particularly foggy morning and asked him the secret behind his punctuality. The old man cheekily replied, “You haven’t seen Delnavaz’s derrière in motion have you? Just be in front of Anjuman Baug at 7.30 am. And don’t tell Ava… She still thinks I love her.” Next morning, Maneckji had found his punctuality muse.
Cowasjee’s clockwork orange walks hadn’t just set a precedent for the senior citizens at Dadar Parsi Colony, even the youngsters were intimidated by his briskness and gait. One time, in his serious best, he had announced to Behram Petit, the geriatric he often met at the fire temple, “Time is my constant companion!” Petit, in retort, had said, “So you are married to time too? Didn’t know us Parsis believed in polygamy as well.” The odd twosome had slapped each other’s back and carried on laughing.
But that had all changed. Concern turned to dismay when friends and neighbours found the one-man-show seeking refuge at home. In fact, he began doing the one thing he detested – suspending the basket from his second floor home so that the kiranewallah would fill it up with eggs, bread and the basic things he needed so that he won’t have to venture out. What had happened to his, “If I can’t move my limbs and go downstairs to get my breakfast, I’d rather hang myself by the balls,” wondered all.
There was a time when he gorged on marghi na farcha, dhan dal and fried bumla for lunch. Now, he ate little, nibbling on the food that he simply couldn’t find any flavour in. Old buddies stopped by for a game of chess but found little cheer in his lackluster moves. While most knew about his loss, they wanted him to move on.
Time had clearly stood still. But he refused to speak to anyone, except Persephone. This floppy-eared cocker spaniel owned by his neighbour was as much a stickler for time as Cowasjee. When he was just two years old, Perci would wait for the grandfather clock to strike five and then scamper out of the house to chase cats. Almost twelve years old now, the dog still retained its punctuality and went out to pee in the garden every afternoon at sharp 4.30. So it was no surprise that Perci and Cowas were an inseparable twosome. So much so, that at one point Cowasjee wanted to perform the navjote, the rites of admission into the religion, for the dog. He later abandoned the idea considering the owners wouldn’t have been too amused. But even Perci couldn’t fill the void that had been left behind.
Only Bakhtyar, his old servant, knew too well the extent of his bereavement. Dropping in from time to time, ‘Bhakti’ as Cowasjee called him, would cook and clean for his old master. The patriarch would let him do the needful, knowing very well that he wouldn’t accept a rupee for his efforts. So when one day Bhakti dropped by and struck up a conversation, the old man humoured him. “Isn’t it time you picked up the pieces of your life,” Bhakti asked his morose master. Cowasjee simply looked across the empty bed. Aware of the fact that there wasn’t much he could do, Bhakti merely said, “It is only a matter of time…” Breaking his silence, Cowasjee replied, “Time is the one thing I don’t have anymore.”
Several listless afternoons and longer evenings later, Cowasjee set out of his house for the first time in three weeks. This was one trip he had been dreading to make. Clad in his crisp best, he stopped by at Nusro’s for “the usual”. If this was it, he didn’t want to be caught dead with his scruffy face, a clumsy pair of trousers and a crumpled coat with an unclean sadra under it. He’d rather face the worst dressed in his best. So, a crisp black suit packed away in butter paper by none other than his beautiful Ava, was his pick for the day.
But when he walked out of the Rustomjee Watch Repair Co, established in 1934, with his trusted alarm clock clutched tightly in his hands, Cheherazad Cowasjee had only one thing to say, “My life’s back on track!”

My psychedlic harem

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Originally uploaded by shvetz.

Madina Jumeirah.... This is the psychdelic harem I was talking about... the area bathed in red light was the dining zone where a arabic singer serenaded all...The purple pinnacle on the left most corner is the Burj Al Arab...

I dined on this spectacle that night!

Night lights

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Originally uploaded by shvetz.

This is the artificial lake that's runs through the resort...I simply loved those lit up dhows that snaked through the lake as I sipped on my kiwi juice...

Still standing?

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Originally uploaded by shvetz.

The ski slope...it ain't easy to remain standing on those

Bridge Over Icy waters

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Originally uploaded by shvetz.

Me and my bro surveyed all from this point... Cud check out first time skiers as well as those unsuspecting souls who went toboganning and got the shock of their lives just as we did! It's actually quite entertaining to see so many people make a fool of themselves at one place...

Snow globe gazing

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Originally uploaded by shvetz.

This is a view of the snow globe I was talking about from outside... I took it from the see through glass that surrounds it. This is what the mall rats get to see when they look in...

Dragon that breathes ice

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Originally uploaded by shvetz.

This was taken at Ski Dubai... This magnificient thing is sculpted on ice almost everyday...

Chronicles of Hummus: The headbutt, the snow globe and the harem (Shawarma for the soul: Episode Two)

After another round of courtesy calls, we stopped by at our ol’ neighbours place. The “how you’ve grown” banter followed me here too – although I knew for a fact that from the last time they saw me there was no way I could’ve grown – all expansion would have been horizontal than vertical!! –
I refused to prod ‘em on that.
We were then privy to a host of home videos of their grand children and just when I thought I couldn’t smile through one more of those infernal recordings, my father took the cue and suggested that we leave. But as fate had it in for me, the grand ol’ dame of the house suggested that I can’t leave without the navrati puja prasad… And before I knew it, I was forced to fall at her feet (I have never fallen at anyone’s feet… I don’t particularly like courtesying people’s toes, I’d rather match noses with ‘em!)
But the shocker came when she headbutted me and started chanting some sort of prayer to save my soul… (It reminded of that time in Shirdi when on
seeing me simply staring at Sai Baba, one of the pujaris thrust my head in front of the idol’s feet as though he was about to break a coconut. That wasn’t a pleasant experience is all I’m gonna say!) After the whispered mantras, I was promptly presented an orange and a hideous necklace set.
For all I care, it was some sort of witchcraft practice and I was a hapless victim. The significance was lost on me.
The highlight of this evening was that I got to see the place where I grew up. My mom couldn’t hide her disappointment when she rang up and I told her that I had no recollection of the place. It beats me how I could’ve forgotten this pivotal part of my existence. After all, I was all of two when I went to this nursery!

Cousin with a cause
It’s funny how getting a job can transform people. The last time I was here, this cousin of mine couldn’t stop talking about gurls, partyin’, gurls, cars, gurls…This time around, I was in for a shocker. He picked me up in his modified Honda City and we actually conversed about the economics of the Emirates, the real estate divide, how the “goras” had the best deal – the education expenses of their children was paid off, their car loans were part of their pay packages and they enjoyed the sedentary lifestyle here after spending years in the European and American countries they grew up in.
Cousin come-of-age brought me up to date with the scene in this country.

To the moon and back
We then went to “one of the biggest malls in the world” – the Mall of the Emirates. Yup, there ain’t too much to see here apart from the malls… or at least that’s what everyone wants me to believe.
Once we were there, we caught up on each other’s lives – loves lost and found, cantankerous aunties who we wished dead, relatives still single and the sorry souls married off.
That done, he guided me to this ride that looked like it was for those training to take off to the moon. And that’s exactly what it turned out to be. Strapped in, there was no escape… as it started winding up and down and then upside down, my string of curses grew much more louder, regularly interrupted by my cousin’s peals of laughter and my screams for help… I didn’t see my whole life flash by but did manage to catch a glimpse upside down of the nostrils of the guy controlling the ride. Though I inevitably did enjoy it, the fact that the shopping population of the mall had stopped to see us make a fool of ourselves, made me run for cover after we got off the ride.

Inside the snow globe
And what a place I found to hide. Ski Dubai, the largest indoor snow park in the world, (roughly three football pitches wide) was the perfect option. We changed into frumpy ski wear and bought fleece gloves (that we later hosted our puppet show with!!) to prevent frost bite. As my cousin cursed me for having talked him into doing this “touristy” thing, an evil grin broke out on my face – this was the perfect revenge for the NASA ride.
Once in, Filipino chicks with cameras hounded us for pictures they wanted to take of us for a small price… We relented once we realised there was no escaping them. My cousin charmingly complied with her every suggestion – “stand by the ice dragon”, “peek through the igloo” – until she casually asked me to sit in his lap… That’s when he turned a deep red and snapped, “Hellllllllllllooooo, she’s my sister!” That was clearly a Kodak moment. Sadly, this professional photographer missed it.

The next such moment came when both of us got thrashed during our tobogganing and icy bobsleigh runs … We had this “how could something that looked so harmless be so painful” look on our faces. But the clincher came when one of the ski instructors saw me fumbling and falling and told my cousin as if he approved of my histrionics, “She’s so fruity!”…That’s when my cousin laughed so much that he lost his balance and went free falling down the slope. He deserved it now, didn’t he? J
The weird part was – as much as we tried to scoop the snow – it stayed stuck to the floor. I found out later that the snow was made by shooting water at high pressure into an atmosphere maintained at around freezing point by coolers both below and above the slopes – it was minus freaking 5 degrees inside. They also had an ice maze and an ice theatre that was aptly screening “Jack Frost”!
Funny that I had to have my first snow experience in the deserts of Dubai. Weird, that I felt like one of the little people inside a snow globe…what with several mall rats pressing their noses against the glass to get a better view of the place. The only thing left was for someone to pick and the globe and shake it hard!
Loo Bega

Once out, I don’t know whether the cold had clouded my vision but I walked into the gents loo and had it not been for a lady attendant’s shrill, “EXCUSE ME!”, I would have surprised quite a few local gentleman in the loo. If you are wondering what my cousin was doin’ at around this time – he was simply relishing every moment of my blunder. Sheepishly, I avoided the lady attendant’s eye and ran for cover from there too. I paid for the weirdest pic of my cousin and me and decided to blackmail him for posterity. Yes, we were the proverbial cat and mouse that day!

Almost harem
Our next stop was Madina Jumeirah….Now as much as I want to write an epic on this misadventure, my dad is breathing down my neck. So I’ll make it quick. We were joined here by another cousin and his friend. Madina is a luxury hotel resort or as they’d like to call it a “city within a city”. It’s completely self-contained - with a man-made lake at its centre.
Strobe lights swayed in the sky as we drove into this replica of what an opulent yet quaint Arabic village may have been. Artificial lake, recreated souk (or market), authentic entertainment - it was tailor-made culture at its shiny best.
Two cafes vied for our orders as we settled in front of the lake from where we could see the Burj Al Arab cleave the night sky. Serenaded in Arabic by a man who sang “as though he was dying”, with an ambience bathed in a red light and my brothers dragging on sheesha – the only thing missing were undulating belle dancers. Then, we’d have been the lords of this psychedelic harem.
Adventurous that I was, I wanted to order an exotic Arabic drink. When the waiter suggested “Jhulab”…none of us were amused! As it turns out jhulab is a drink made out of dates and milk. Well, the name kind of put me off and I stuck to fresh kiwi juice!
While my comic cousins tried to frighten me with tales of camels biting people’s head off and promptly pointing to the camel meat dish that had just arrived…lets just say I was neither amused…nor hungry.

Next episode: My encounter with the Cheap Chinese Dragon and the slippery-when-wet Soapy Football!

Observations

I found this really odd... the weekend edition of Gulf News led with "a deadly plant that could sniff out its prey" With all due respect to the plant, what in heaven's name were the editors thinking? Are the people living in Dubai too faint-hearted to not read anything more hard-hitting than that? What's more, the second lead on their front page was about "Women to crash diet to size zero"... Guess during weekends all bad news is taboo!


This is by far the biggest problem the emirate is facing right now... talk about soaring real estate... there are about 90,000 flats supposedly ready to be rented out as of now... only they don't have electricity to supply to them. So the govt is setting up power plants to do so. Real estate prices are at an all-time high and more and more poor souls are unable to rent out a place in this city thanks to the increase in rent almost every two weeks... While people talk about sealing and caps, there seems to be nothing expats can do. All laws, rent or otherwise, seem 2 be in favour of locals. So while the sheikhs fill up their coffers, the Indians, Pakistanis and the ilk are packing up their belongings and goin back to where they came from. It simply isn't worth working here anymore, when you can't send enough for the families back home... If you want to know more read this


There wasn't anythin funny abt this one but hate smoking so jus wanted to reinforce that to certain people in particular... (those who I'm referring to will know what I mean!)


This is what I read in the back of a loo's door at the mall... Funny thing to read when u are sitting on the pot I must say...

Chitterati

This was the chit so adeptly passed to me... Pls feel free to call on the number mentioned above if you are in the mood to chat with a hormonally-charged Pakistani boy!
All these pics were to go vth my earlier post "shawarma for the soul" but well, for some strange reason blogger simply didnt let me do so...
Will try to post the next entries vth corresponding pics... until then ;)

the culprits

kids spilling out of carts

kids spilling out of carts
Originally uploaded by shvetz.

The other woman

The other woman
Originally uploaded by shvetz.

arrival

arrival
Originally uploaded by shvetz.

My getaway from Sharjah airport

Shawarma for the soul

Arrival Anti-climax

Was wondering what I’d blog about when I get here… but fortunately for me, there hasn’t been a lack of peculiar episodes ever since my arrival. My first time at Sharjah Airport was punctuated with derision, disdain, contempt, disapproval – if you are gonna point out that those words are similar in meaning, well, I’m trying to drive the point home mister! While my dad thought that my response was largely leaning on over reaction, I couldn’t help the arrogance. Sharjah, a sister city to Dubai, was more of an anti-climax than anything else!
Labourers from all over – Pakistan, Bangladesh, Iraq, even Azerbaijan — queued up in the line next to mine to avail of Hala services… I for one wanted to machao hala for the poor organisation skills… Why would you just have one counter with just two employees serving aeroplane-loads of people?? (Here I should mention that they did apologise for their incompetence with posters everywhere that read: Sharjah Airport is under expansion and development. Sorry for the inconvenience.)
Well, not everyone had to stand in the damn line… I was among the unwelcome few with a duplicate visit visa and the damn procession lead to two indifferent souls giving out the original version of what let me be in this country! That done, I was out in a jiffy… well, almost.
The baggage claim area held another revelation – the damn wheels of my trolley bag had miraculously disappeared. Since I packed light, I carried it and was subsequently robbed of the opportunity of walking out of the terminal with my nose up in the air and my bag trailing behind at a respectable distance.
Overwhelmed with the feeling that I had got off the plane in the wrong country, what with labourers sleeping at my feet and turning this Emirate’s airport into Mumbai Central Station, I asked my father why in heavens name did I have to arrive at Sharjah when Dubai was a gazillion-times better-equipped airport???
“Because it takes as long for me to drive to Dubai as much as it takes for you to fly here from Mumbai,” was my Dad’s calm reply! That silenced me… well, for the next ten minutes at least.
And to cut a long story short – no, I never cut long stories short J now, do I? – I headed to my home away from home.

Off white lies

My home is bathed in off white – yup, everything – including chairs, futon, chaise lounge, curtains, walls… and on the living room wall is a portrait of the other woman in my dad’s life. Well, it is a disputed fact in the family on how old she really is, but the ironic part of the story is; on being warned by my aunt that she should get rid of the competition, my ma gingerly replied, “But, I got her for him!” Talk about open relationships! So there she stands looking down on all of us everyday, as if to say, “I dare you to look as good in a sari sans the blouse?”
Another feature that adorns our house is my dad’s exhaustive crystal collection. He’s as obsessed about it as my mom’s about cleaning and believe me the term OCD was definitely coined with these two in mind. So, every occasion he gets, he’s sure to find an excuse to buy off white accompaniments; but crystal ware is a sure-fire purchase. In fact, his latest acquisition includes these two crystal bears and a charging bull…ya, he’s got his own stock market theme goin’ on here.
While, I’m not too much a fan of the bears, the bull is an exquisite piece carved out of one piece of crystal… (I still won’t spend so much on crystal…I’d rather steal them from Dad!)

Star attractions

Quick list of what I missed most about this place:

a) 24/7 ENGLISH Radio…not one, not two but I could choose from a selection of five or six English channels… what a change from GO 92.5 and Red FM’s Himesh Reshammiya trash.

b) Getting lost in Julie Andrew’s comic timing, Frank Sinatra’s mid-western morality, Orson Welles’ intense dialogue-delivery – yup, this is a film buff’s haven! I have access to more film channels than I can count… They have this channel called TCM – Turner Classic Movies, Channel 33 or One (as it is called now), Star Movies (The damn ban hasn’t been lifted back home yet), and of course the array of pre-paid movie channels too choose from… – I’m hooked!!!

c) I’m the queen of the couch!!! This melt-into, off white, lounge that we have is something I simply want to pack and take home… Also, the dozen packets of Bugles – original and cheese flavoured – and the home theatre system simply buckle me down to the lounge… There’s no way I’m moving…

‘Shoe’ting pain

Dad decided to take me for a spin and I decided it was a good time to take my stilettos on a test-walk! Our first pit stop was at my aunt’s place. My elevated status was observed and remarked on by my oddball uncle who said, “You’ve grown sooooooooooooooooo tall!” He didn’t bother to look at my feet and I didn’t bother to correct him. Also, I was simply happy that I could rest my feet by then for the damn things were killing me…
My aunt on the other hand was too busy showing off my cousin’s girl friend and thrusting chocolates down my throat. Every time I declined, she’d force it into my mouth saying, “It’s got a Kiwi filling from New Zealand!” Now, how could just the filling be from New Zealand?? I didn’t care much for Kiwi or New Zealand but I had to gulp down at least five since she was determined to finish it off, lest she polish ‘em off herself and put on the weight she had so painstakingly shed!
Next, we headed to Home Centre, a one-stop mall for furniture. We wanted to surprise mom with a gift… By the time I went from aisle to aisle and passed children spilling out of shopping carts, women lunging at curtains, men rolling their eyes at the women lunging at curtains, I was in excruciating pain…In fact, I didn’t realize I was doing a cross between a duck walk and a seal’s shuffle – trying to balance my foot in such a way that the pain wouldn’t shoot up as much as it did!

Furnish a feast

With Ramadan on, I was under the impression that people would break their fast to feast on food. But to my utter surprise they seemed more eager to serve a buffet of furniture. They pounced at fixtures, lamps, pillow covers, as though they were going out of fashion.
The frenzy reached fever pitch when sounds of glass bowls, ceramic vases crashing to the floor came from every corner of the store… not an exaggeration! My dad merely said, “With a 70 per cent discount sale, that too on a Friday, what did you expect?” I was silenced once again.

Punctured tyre, inflated ego

After we bought a regal patch-work quilt, we moved toward the parking lot… my father didn’t realize I was lagging behind until he reached the car. I simply gave up…removed those blasted things off my feet and took baby steps to the car… It was the first time I was walking on the soil of Sharjah… (more aptly, on the sands of the Emirate!)
After 10 minutes of trying to maneuver out of this tight spot an Audi left my dad’s SUV in, he was a brimful of curses (I’d need another post altogether on how colourful my Dad gets when he’s in one of those moods!)
Just then, the tyre went over what we at that point thought was a divider but later turned out to be our undoing! Driving just a block ahead, my dad realised the vehicle was leaning towards the left… Pulling over, his worst doubts were confirmed. He had his first puncture!
Now replacing the tyre wasn’t a joke, especially since my father is one of those diminutive SUV drivers who are barely seen behind the wheel. As we waited for help, (Read: Help here translates to pathans who either help for a small amount of money or just coz they have a good Samaritan gene ingrained in them…or so I heard!) I got off the car, sans the stilettos…
There was this jingbang of kids piling out of their vehicle parked right next to us. With the bonnet propped open, their car seemed to have engine trouble…but the parents were nowhere in sight…it seemed that whoever was with the four kids thought it was better to leave ‘em there and go look for help.
Meanwhile, three pathans did offer help… unfortunately (and that word seems to pepper a lot of my episodes till now), they didn’t know the right way to get the jack on…and what do you know, we ended up with a broken jack. That’s all my dad needed!
While all this heaving and pulling on the part of the pathans was goin’ on a band of young boys, locals by birth but of Pakistani origin were observing closely the developments of our plight…At first from far, then a little closer and finally when the pathans gave up and left, the boys offered their services. While, they tried their hand with the broken jack, they couldn’t do much too…
Frustrated, my dad decided to go in search of a mechanic, the boys promised they’d watch over the car… what they meant is that they’d watch over the girl! Now I’m not a self-aggrandising gal, but…well you’ll know soon enough.
The kids with the broken car approached me and repeated “English??” at least six times… I said “yes”… then the elder one of the four, a pig-tailed seven year-old, pointed to herself and said “Arabi”… In my broken Arabic I asked “sayra kharbah” (Your car’s broken down?)… I never got a reply to that coz all she wanted to know was why I didn’t have any shoes on… After ten minutes of trying to point at the heel of my stilettos and another five recalling what was the Arabic equivalent of “ouch!” was, I gave up…They dubbed me a loon and went off pulling each others hair and clambering onto the roof of their car. (Yup, I was bein’ entertained!)
Before long, the boys trickled out…only one of ‘em stayed till my father got back an hour later with the mechanic and more importantly, a jack. As the mechanic screwed in the new tyre and I requested dad to at least thank the boy who had stayed, putting his life on stand-by for total strangers, the boy waved off the thank you with a “no problem” and stealthily walking past the passenger seat where I was to get in tried to pass me something. Now I was taken completed by surprise. Realising that I wasn’t gonna clutch onto anything he was giving me, he threw whatever it was into the car and ran… It turned out to be a chit with his number on it! Amazing… the lengths they go to.
Well, this passing-of-chit phenomenon has happened to me before – but it has always been more often when boys spot a gang of girls hanging out by themselves at a mall or a theatre…But this happened right in front of my father…although he was too busy to notice since he was mourning the loss of the car’s tyre. Well, can’t blame ‘em… In a land where courtship is a taboo, where plainclothes policemen lurk through malls keeping a close eye on boys trying to strike conversations with girls, this was bound to happen. As the cliche goes: Desperate times, desperate measures… And this chit couture has proved to be a hit, coz the boy/gal just has to slip, drop or pass it and the receiver on the basis of whether he/she liked the looks of him would call on the number.
As for if I called the “boy”… well, let’s just say I’m not desperate enough!

(*Have pics of most of the things I’ve penned above…yes, I’m one of those sneaky types who stealthily makes use of my camera phone… the picture quality ain‘t that good coz I’m still getting used to the phone…Cut me some slack will ya, it’s just two days since I bought the phone.. Will try to upload it soon)

So long!

Her full cheeks could never be restrained. Not by the synthetic straight hair that fell limp on her shoulders. Or so he realised on seeing her. Playing the part of an anxious lover came easy, but it was the trappings of commitment he feared. Cupping her palm in his, he said, “I hate Vikram Seth.” *

(*For you Thea)

Have you?

Have you let a song travel through your veins…?
Have you tangoed with a rhythm?
Have you breathed in a hymn?
Have you tasted cadence?
Have you undulated in the arms of a tempo?
Have you given in to the lilt?
Have you soared with the pulse?
Have you made love to a tune?
Have you?

55 poem

They weren’t meant to know…
But she felt their eyes bore
into her and feared the
violation of her secret.
With every lingering look
or loud holler,
panic held her sway.
Needles to say,
she wanted to wash
this sin away.
How was she to know
that a quickie
would lead to a
long-stay hickie?

A matter of perspective

She ended where he began. Though having embarked on the same train of thought, their perspectives differed. Where she stated the obvious, he alluded to the obscure. Together they spun a web of deceit, ensnaring unsuspecting souls into dialogue, deconstruction, and diddling out of their thoughts as they endorsed their top secret project: Mind sharing.

Climax

This time, she went the whole hog. Piecing together the perfect image – the scented candles went up on the ledge, the cheese fondue next to the Chardonnay and the garters, just three inches below her thong. The corset was the secret incentive. Foreplay would’ve been spontaneous, had it not been for his monosyllabic response: “Nice!”

Culpability

Guilt didn’t kick in until he saw the streamers on the wall. But it was the extra P’s penned in a childish scrawl on the birthday banner that drove the point home. I should probably apologise, thought Anurag… Instead, tiptoeing away from his sleeping wife, he called Rina and said, “Darling, I’ll be late tonight.”

Dishing out the dirt

If you like these, chk 'em out here. These are etchings of someone who loves cars that look like they were in a dust storm. In fact, he turns rearview windows into works of art... so now u know where to send ur caked-with-gravel vehicles...

Look ma, we don’t need TV!

I read this somewhere:

Television is dead, long live the web!
Not quite, but with TV audiences dwindling and interest in online video content on the rise, it seems that audiences don't just want to watch TV shows any more - they want to make and star in them too. Dubbed Web 2.0 there's been an explosion in sites that promote freedom to share and use content driven by the user. Microsoft want a piece of the action, launching a user generated video service for MSN called Soapbox. Hardly surprising when sites like YouTube have become such popular web destinations.

Now… this is something that was bound to happen… why on earth would people just restrict themselves to being self-obsessed bloggers? If they are creating the content, putting pieces of themselves online; it was just a matter of time before they got greedy and wanted to flaunt the whole picture. And that’s exactly what’s come to pass! Since most of us poor band-width challenged souls can’t afford to have broadband connections and more importantly, since many more of us still don’t have computers at home, the trend hasn’t caught on in India yet. But I can hear the lull before the storm already. Vanity is perpetually hip and the need to express one self through home-grown films is going to replace the never-ending soaps… with narcissistic ramblings or I-me-myself footage... The war has only begun.

P.S: I'm all for new talents to come to the fore with the opening up of these avenues but as we all know, great artists or creators are needles in the haystack of what we call the world.

Redefining Delicacy

Was gonna post this yesterday but never got around to it. It's more of an afterthought on a first-hand account of a BBC correspondent’s misadventure in China's penis emporium where the word 'delicacy' spelt a platter of sexual organs of animals... Well, what intrigued me about this was the whole absurdity of the Chinese. In the land where pagodas cleaving the sky originally symbolised the human male sex organ, where worshipping phallic symbols and sex was the norm, where birds and squirrels were common symbols for the penis, where other symbols include the turtle, snake and calabash, where even mountains and hills symbolised the male and female organs for their life-like shapes and have been worshipped for generations… feasting on a penis hotpot has become a status issue. The unusual selection of “delicacies” that have take the country by storm include the male organs of dog's (their argument: dog meat is low in cholesterol and boosts the male sex drive), donkey (supposedly good for the skin!??), snake (I never knew they had two penises), and worst of all – patrons are ready to cough up $5,700 for most rare of all dishes – the tiger penis! (The poor animal has been stripped of every possible part of its anatomy… and to think the illegal trade has been diminishing the species… but obviously one should take into consideration the urgency of a Chinese high hat's decision to order the uncommon dish and show off the money he makes to all and sundry.
While I've known that the Chinese can stomach just about anything, I simply found it ironic that they’d eat what their culture has worshipped from time immemorial. I realize that it’s not the animal's sex organs that they revered, it’s the symbol of the male sex organ nonetheless… and for the Chinese it’s all about the symbols. Guess they’d also be more than happy to feast on the Chinese dragon - the symbol that has come to represent China - had it not been a mythical creature!

More 55's

5:00 am: They worked unseen… He set off on foot carrying as many milk packets as he could. Manu joined him, dragging newspaper piles fastened to his bicycle. Early hours didn’t matter and never deterred the two for they knew how important they were. Why else would everyone start their day with newspapers and milk?

**

He came once in six months, laden with sweets, saris and all things nice. With his English education and Rolex watch, he was the perfect nephew. Everyone wanted to shake hands, take digital pictures and be seen bear hugging this phoren return. Only little Lalli cringed as she thought of his hand between her thighs.

Untitled

“Breasts: Hold in hands and gently knead. Upper lip: Kiss, bite and chew. Navel: Pat softly with open palm. Throat: Scratch gently with nails…” Cut off in mid sentence by her peals of laughter, he basked in her gay abandon. The manual worked after all. They made love for the first time in four months.

Small world

They met as most lovers do… inevitably! She was smitten with all that he was. But hormones drove him into her arms. Then one day, he left, never to return. Years later, as she settled into her business class seat, a familiar voice asked if she’d prefer coffee or tea. That day she tasted vindication.

Unearthed

I exhumed this poem from a comment I left at falstaff's blog... cudn't find the words of wisdom he wrote... but dug up what I wrote in response to his piece on the kolis in Mumbai... Penned this when Mumbai was being drowned in the wake of the unusually heavy rainfall more than a month ago. Here goes...


Untitled

The lost kings
and vanished empires
drowned in the
sands of time...
But the fisherman
carried his legacy
reeking of bygones,
and grime.

He continued to
pray to Mumba
to restore this
lost island
to its original
form.
And that day
as he walked on,
past the high-rises
and hutments
in the wake
of a storm,
he saw
the sea rise
and swallow
the grey
expanse.

His face
glistened
with glee
for Mumbai
was once more
the harbor of
the people
of the sea.

The Thin Line

It wasn’t a fall from grace, her unblinking eyes urged all. Not just another wretched rich woman suicide. Not another bid for evoking pity...! But instead, they chose to see the loss, the grief, the failure that had become she. Frida only held a mirror to Dorothy. But even she couldn’t fulfill her last wish.

**

With trembling hands she scratched them off one by one. Jaywalking into a bus. Free falling from her 25th floor penthouse. Drowning in the bathtub. Slashing…no too cliché. ODing on valium – a definite maybe. But there was no painless death, was there? Her last entry in the journal read: “I’ll live to see him regret.”

55: Neighbour's envy, owner's pride

Old woman with manicured feet betrayed signs of having got a facial the day before. The glow didn’t hide her spidery veins and wrinkles though. The mehandi masked those strands of grey, but her eyes gave her away. “She obviously has too much time on her hands,” whispered the woman sitting opposite to her companion.

**

She watched as the hip chick got onto the train. From the swish of her straightened hair to the unclasping of her tote bag; to the flicking open of a shiny compact, a hand sanitiser, a high end phone – Meena’s eyes drank in everything. With six children envy was the only thing she could afford.

55: 'Dali'ng along

“Memory persisted in a landscape so bleak, where time dissolved… and hung out to dry,” she said mesmerised by this celebrated oil on canvas. It was her first time at both, the Museum of Modern Art and New York. How could I have broken it to her, that the man just had too much cheese?*


(*For those not in the know… 'The Persistence of Memory' is Salvador Dali’s best known work. The famous melting-clock imagery that has been reproduced almost everywhere was created by Dali after a vision he had following a snack of Camembert cheese — the clocks, therefore, have the texture of the soft cheese)

55: Bound by memories...

An old song brought with it a haunting memory. Trying to drown it in thoughts about work, chores and those risqué stilettos in the Clark’s window, she found herself giving in to the tune of nostalgia. As the lilting rhythm inched its way, she remembered – how she had seen too much in those brown eyes.

**
It wasn’t every night that he bared his soul to a stranger. But this wasn’t just another night. He talked about the first glance, the fleeting looks and.... the love. Sia was long gone now, but he still ached. Running her fingers through his hair, the stranger cooed, “At least you aren’t a virgin anymore!”

The world thinks aloud

Was surfing through TV channels, when I chanced upon an interesting segment on BBC's technology-based programme 'Click'... On a lark, I chkd this site they recommended... The whole concept of a global consciousness - "the idea that the human race is subconsciously connected through one global pool of thought" simply intrigued me...
It's a site wherein you give your location and then send a message to the whole world... or atleast whoever is logged in and they'll respond or atleast, u'll get a reaction or jus closure from having unloaded whatever thought has been naggin you... Yup, in a way, it's a virtual confessional but it's not just that...People from all over jus seem to post whatever they r thinkin and it's uncanny how everyone or anyone across the globe seem to think alike or respond to a question in the same way you would have!!!
When the page opens, you'll c a map and then the view will move around the globe until it rests on a pulsing circle. The text message displayed on the screen at the moment will be written by a person sitting somewhere under that dot. You can either simply sit and c the thoughts of the world unfold or join in...
It's also a wishing well for many... you jus drop your wish in the ocean of thoughts from all over and there it stays for a minute for all to see... only to be replaced by another, sometimes compelling and more often silly admission... It's pot luck but, it's therapeutic to see that most of the world is as crazy as you can be.

Well, apart from the fact tht it is addictive, all I can say is, it's worth a try.

Statutory Warning: It's unmoderated...so sometimes the thoughts aren't too well-thought out ;)

Expect anything from: "President Bush says "Bugs Bunny is a terrorist threat" to "Should I cook Japanese or Italian for dinner?" to "Cobras' are bras that can be worn by more than one woman simultaneously" to "I think I just farted" to "Christmas is not celebrated in Germany because the Germans never forgave Finland for being the home of Santa Claus." (Yup u can post anonymously.) Enjoy!

While you are it... do chk out this too... the whole idea of designer pets just got whackier. These genetically produced playthings gimme the creeps. Lemme know wat u think!

Luck ain’t a lady!

The day you don’t dress up, the whole world bumps into you.
The day you don’t carry an umbrella, it pours.
The day your dreamboat sees you, your face looks like a join-the-dots puzzle.
The day you are pulled up at work, you haven’t done your homework.
The day you wear white, you inevitably stain it.
The day you are in a hurry, the trains are running late.
The day you type out a painstakingly long mail, the comp crashes.
The day you are trying to diet, someone gets you chocolate brownies.
The day you go shopping, they take off the sale sign.
The day you have people over for dinner, the lights go out.
The day your friends actually foot the bill, you end up owing them much more.
The day you want to sleep desperately, the temple nearby blares religious ditties.
The day you get a great idea, you forget it.
The day you want everything to go right, things go wrong.
The day you feel like penning your magnum opus, you end up posting this!!!!

Lost and found

It’s the best place ever, thought Nidaan. He could hear Zeenat drawing curtains, lifting bedsheets and screaming out the names of those she had already caught. Pleased, he dozed off under Nimmi Bibi’s kameez. It would be ages before he would be found. After all, weighing 160 kilos, Bibi moved only once in four hours.

55: If only..

Multinationals, floods, marriage… they talked about everything into the wee hours of the morning. His quick wit and hands-on ways took her by surprise. Through the journey, he regaled her on. But it’s his effortless charm that struck her the most. As she bid him adieu, she thought: If only he wasn’t a rickshaw driver.

This and that...

Illusionists: Anyone who can appear thinner than they actually are.

She never felt hungry…coz she ate her lipstick all the time!

Ideal Husband: One who’d ask his wife, “Would it be
Dark Temptation or Chocolate Fantasy tonite?”

When in doubt, philosophise.

Catharsis: Finding a kindred soul in a stranger.

A poem is like fine wine, it grows on you with time.

Impulsive literature: Writing ‘as is’.

Rating derrières, these asses weren’t themselves a rear species.

Tune-deaf: Being out of sync with music.

Walls of brick and mortar could be razed, but severing ties of blood never came easy.

With my palm as its port, the feather set off on a journey across the world.

**

An unusual day in Bandra

Bandra turned unfair, as traffic snaked its way to Mount Mary.

Stuck on the flyover, commuters gaped at the longest traffic sandwich.

As the bike whizzed past, an imp dodged death and sold the woman a gajra.

An oblivious fatso got a full-on body massage by the Bandra talaab as passers-by gaped in amusement.

Funny: A Dominos delivery guy stopped us at the diversion and asked innocently, “Could you point me to the Dominos outlet please!”

Just as I tipped the waiter generously, he asked us to "kindly" leave the table!

Ice-cream loosened our tongues and we trashed everyone’s fashion sense.

Ricks lined up from here to eternity for gas that would run out soon… What a pity!

hmmm..

No name or place
fit this familiar face.
Guess she wasn’t
that familiar after all.

It’s strange
when a stranger
smiles at you.

Dunking devotion

Gulaal-fanatics
missed her
hiding behind
the newspaper,
while she skirted
the teeming traffic,
courtesy
the longer route
by the mall.

It was her
private caper
to escape
the long haul.

Oddly enough,
she wanted to
be immersed
in the
takara takara,
inspite of it all.

***



Why flock
the beach fronts
when you can
drown him
in a sea of people?

Pookalam

The gold-caparisoned elephant
hobnobbed with the
one-eyed kathakali
while the snake boats
rowed past
the long-stemmed
gold lamp as
my country cousin
typecast Kerala.
How could Mahabali
not stop by?

SFi poesy: Wishful thinking/Narrator's revenge

Just as he was thinking of a great what-if scenario,
it happened.
He became a preening drag queen waiting
for the stylist-lover to waltz by.
The woman sitting two lounges away
had penned him into her blasé chick-lit play…
Careful of what you wish for, is all I’d say.

SFi (Short Fiction)

The key in the lock turned. Pushing the door open, she saw a flash of arms and legs, entwined... enough for her to flee to the next apartment. Here she rang the bell. After five minutes, there was still no answer. Deciding to wait, she rang the bell again and heard it peal faintly from within. This time around, there was a scramble behind the door. When the girl opened with her disheveled hair and shirt inside out, the bai simply said, “Mi nantar yetay!”

l'ultimo

An earnest appeal
to all those
who feel,
that they owe
me an obit...

When I pass on,
do not sob
or make it a habit
to think of me
and grieve…
cause I wasn’t forced,
but chose to leave.

Instead,
just abide by
my last request
and look
for my favourite
tome or omnibus
and bury me in
the pages of that book.

Stray thoughts

a) Thoughts are such vagrant beings that they come and go as and when they please… and persistently beg until you’ve given them their due… Predictably, they find themselves left behind on the last traffic signal or replaced sometimes mid-consideration by another… At least, they don’t need to sign in and sign out everyday.

b) Dodging stray arms, legs, baggage and even children… in Mumbai is much more difficult than dodging bullets…

c) What if people said the first thing that popped in their head to anyone they met? I had that moment today when I saw this emaciated college kid. Well, the only thing striking about this stick and bones gal was her derrière … Surprising as it was, it was completely disproportionate to her body… like an entity by itself… I just wanted to say… “Gurl, what’s goin’ on down there?”… Whether I did or not, is butt for me to know and you to never find out.
After-thought: According to a spot survey conducted by none other than me, I found out that the number of songs dedicated to this part of the anatomy have drastically shot up… In the good ol’ days, there was jus Sir-Mix-a lot’s blasphemous ‘Baby got back’… Back then, women could say they were being objectified by men, but now we have the female species themselves bent on making objects of themselves… How else do you explain Black Eyed Peas’ “My humps”…?

THINGS I’VE BEEN WONDERING ABOUT:

1. Why the cute little 6-year-old with a coconut-tree pony didn’t accompany her grandpa to the railway station today?

a) Did she run out of paper to make those tiny boats that she daintily folds over as people rush by…

b) Did she get bored playing hopscotch on the foot over bridge?

c) Or did it finally dawn on her that all her blind grandpa was doing was standing there with his walking stick, one hand extended, for someone to take pity and toss a coin in?

2. Simple pleasures:
a) Listening to the public access system at the station and humming Clint Eastwood* in my head :)! *It’s a song by Gorillaz… Am still devising ways to bag sunshine…(If you’ve heard the song, you’ll know what I mean!)
b) Hearing the reassuring drone of an approaching train and then watching it envelope the platform with where it had been and where it will return… a boomerang ferrying Mumbai… The best part is sensing a stir go through the crowd like a Mexican wave, as it draws near… that’s when you know your chariot has arrived.
c) How we’ve bounced back amazes me… The city’s short-term memory seems to have worked in its favour… The other day, a loud, long-drawn-out sneeze was followed by an even louder comment that went: “Oye, desi cheekh!”… Predictably enough, a round of laughter trailed this remark. Mirth had returned as the constant companion of the men traveling in the first class compartment next to mine!

3. Marriage Mania: Everyone around me seems to be tying the knot, or talking about getting married or devising ways to get hitched… Now, I don’t have any problem with those being united in holy matrimony, especially those who’ve known each other for long or the wedlock was bound 2 happen category… but it’s those who are seeing others getting married and jumping onto the bandwagon, that I’m talking about… what’s the damn hurry… we aren’t living in the 14th century, so don’t give me that “society pressure” shit. Stand up to it and don’t settle… or rather compromise damn you!!!!
Afterthought: Just when I was trying to avoid all this wedding obsession talk, my mom just played this old track – You are a pink toothbrush… nodding my head away to its innocent tune, I was rudely shocked when 5 lines into the song, the pink toothbrush proposed to the blue toothbrush to marry it in haste!!!! Don’t believe me… chk this out.

4. Side-dish syndrome: Well, if you are a woman, even if average looking… no I take that back… If you are a WOMAN and walking past men, at a station, or a bus stop or a mall, and you hear this drawn out hisssssssssssssssssss typically followed by a comment, then you know that you’ve been included in their salivating menu for the day… or rather you are “Today’s special: spicy side dish”! Why in heavens name does any male in his right mind think that making that sort of sound is gonna get him anywhere? I think I answered it in my question itself… these men aren’t of the right mind or of the right kind after all.

5. Why men scratch their crotches as often as they blink?
Disgusting as it may seem, they do it anyway… on the road, in a meeting, at a wedding, you name it and they’ve done it there… what is it with ‘em anyway? Polish scientists claim that when men scratch their crotch, it means that they are thinking… hmmm how much does anyone wanna bet that the study was conducted by men?
A friend of mine said, “they grope for ideas in their groin”… Are you kidding me? I don’t think we want to know what sort of ideas originate from down there.
An interesting theory that most of my gal pals would agree with is that they check whether they still have their balls… figuratively speaking of course or maybe not!!! Ok, my point is… if men can scratch their thingammies as and when they please, then we women can spend hours in front of the mirror doin’ up our hair… at least we aren’t making a spectacle of ourselves in public places. On a more profound note, I’d give up brushing my hair altogether just so I wouldn’t have to see 'em religiously at it ever again!

Anatomy of a yarn

They are everyone…

The aunty shopping in her nightie.
The lone girl waiting for a ride by the road.
The DJ mixing songs at the Ganesh Mandal.
The school boys peering into a gutter.
The lovers quarrelling on platform no 4.
The man longingly looking out of a bus.
The septuagenarian pausing to remember.

They are everything…

A tight-fitting tee screaming “Junkie”.
A vigorous wipe down after a brush with an urchin.
A haggling session with the fruit vendor.
A pair of eyes spying a woman and peering at her breasts.
The inevitable lipstick stain on the styrofoam cup.
A soggy cigarette awaiting a light.

Most often than not, we see through them
or walk on by… but rarely give ‘em a second look.
All-pervasive, stories are the constant
companions we take for granted.
But they are resilient beings;
for each that we pass up on,
a million others are born!

Govinda gela re!

Photo Credit: DNA

Was meaning to write on Janmashtami quite earlier… or as us Mumbaikars fondly
call it “Govinda”… But a wedding got in the way! Here’s my take on it:




They piled
their faith or
the lack of it
onto trucks,
Volvo buses,
tempos, carts
and all things
with wheels.

Scores of ‘em
turned
foot soldiers
running riot
on the roads.

Several were
reborn ‘Rasta’farians,
draggin’ on ganja…
while others
downed cheap
beer holed up
in rickshaws.

Brandishing
flags of
mandals,
Shiva’s militia
and maha
rashtra’s
new architects
insignia;
the politics
of the festival
played out.

Human pyramids
rose and fell
faster than
real estate prices;
as new-age
maakhan chors,
clambered atop
each other.

The puny kid
came into
his own
as he
pussyfooted
his way
to the top;
head-butting
the handi
and bathing
in the deluge.

Spoils were up
for the taking;
money strung
on the pot
and five minutes
of TV coverage,
fame in the making.

The task done,
triumphant boys
revelled astride
their vehicles,
whistling,
jeering,
hissing at
women.

In the name
of religion,
libido
spilled
onto the
streets.

Premature Poems

Born before
their time,
severed,
pell-mell;
they were
diagnosed with
incomplete
rhyme.

When I saw
three Ganpatis
dancing on
one leg,
I turned believer,
not in God,
but in the phrase
teen tigda,
kaam bigda!

Poignancy
evaded me
when I
hunted for it.

In my
waking dream,
I let colourless
green ideas
sleep furiously.

On a blog,
it’s rudimentary
to give a
running
commentary
of your life.

Finishing the
unfinished
is an oxymoron.
There is always
something
more to be done.

It wasn’t even
my wedding,
yet, I was
turned into
a clothes horse.

Out of order.
Down for Maintenance.
Out for lunch.
Pain is good for art.

For my Amoma

Sprinting through
rice fields
in hot pursuit
of appopam taadis*,
free falling
in the puzha*,
pretend-eating
mann appams*,
pinching mangoes
to add
to the feast;
undulating
on the
banyan tree
uunyaal*,
racing across
the bridge as
a vallum*
passed
underneath,
feeling
the wind
tug at your
paavada*
and the rain
wash away
the chandana kuri*…

With mouth
wide open,
I drank in
the quaint
village scene.
A coconut-oil
head massage,
and a handful
of my
grandma’s yarns
is all it took
for me to pine for
a Kerala
I never knew.


For the uninitiated:
Appopam taadi literally translates to 'Grandfather's Beard' and means dandelions.
Puzha: River.
Mann appams: Appams are rice pancakes that are soft and spongy in the middle. Mann appams are mud pancakes that kids roleplay with in Kerala.
Uunyaal: Swing.
Vallum: Boat.
Paavada: Petticoat
Chandana kuri: A sandalwood tikka.

(This post was written under duress... for my sis wanted to usurp the computer from me. HELLLLLLLPPPPPPPP!)

Footsie

Koliwada prawns in the
fisherwoman’s tokri
were as stale as
her shriveled toes.

Worn-out bichhiya
became the
much-married behenji.

The six-year-old's
shocking pink shoes lit up,
just as she flashed
her mischievous grin.

Menacingly inching
its way,
graying capitalist’s
crocodile boots
moved in
for the kill.

Muscular contours
of the sporty shoe
stretched out
as sprightly teen
jumped onto train.

As stilettos dug
into her heel,
corporate bitch
decided to
fire her assistant.

Flag-selling
urchin lost
his sole chappal
whilst running
to avoid the
oncoming traffic.

Preoccupied on
cellphone,
college gal’s
flip flops stepped
into puddle.

…And I looked
down on all
from high ground
— my good ol’ platforms!

Aaata kya?

Jiggling breasts,
skin show,
cat calls,
once-overs,
groping
innuendos
and of course
salivating men,
My office is
an incognito
dance bar.

Keralafornia

Nostalgia, a yearning to get away seems to egg at me...

Guess I'll have to be content reminiscing through these pictures I took on a trip to Kerala some time back... Seems like years ago now. Am posting it now thanx to a friend who encouragingly said, "You enjoyed it then, now let some of us go there through those pics ." So here goes...

Testing The Backwaters



It Dawned On Me

 

Flowering Hoarding



Road Whizzes Past


Sari For Spoiling The Scenery



Shore Leave



Poster Perfect



A Watery Map of India



Bridge Over Water Way



Breezing Past A Tharavaad



Red Brick Univ



Adrift in Black & White



School's Out



Parallel Universe



My Dream Houseboat

This is what i feel like today!

FUCK: Fornication Under Consent of Kerala (churches)

My first thought when I saw this article titled 'Make love, says Kerala church' (http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/1874589.cms) was wats wrong with TOI… Why this preoccupation with procreation?
First they ran this hilarious story as an anchor yesterday about an 88-year-old who had just had a child by his third wife. Well, what was hilarious was how this toothless wonder was endorsing sex and stating to all and sundry including the mesmerised journo who penned the story that camel milk worked wonders for him and that life was futile if you didn’t bang your woman between 2 and 4 am daily… So, that’s what constitutes an interesting read now-a-days. (I’m sure the demand for camel milk has gone up from the time the paper hit the stands!)
And then I came across ‘Make love...’ on their online version…
Ok so, this is one horny ovulating paper going by the two articles commissioned. Not really! To be honest, I simply wanted to comment on the old man’s cheek… on second thoughts lets not go there anyway!
So this TOI story on Kerala churches urging all to ‘breed’ is actually a good read. Its about how the Catholic Church in Kerala has given out a call to all to go "back to basics" and have more babies if they are economically well-off. This spiritual advice on a worldly matter comes in the form of a pastoral letter, which would be read out in some 2,000 parishes in Kerala on Sunday.
I kinda would’ve loved to be at a Changanacherry church in my Sunday best when the pastor sermonised to all the devout congregated saying “go have babies and deliver yourselves out of sin”. Ever heard 100 jaws dropping at the same time… well, like I said it would be quite a sight!
Only, what sort of a solution is this? According to the article, the Major Archbishop of the Syro Malabar Church, Varkey Vithayathil, extols the sanctity of the institution of family and decries the modern "market mentality" of childless pleasure-seeking, which is the root cause of many social evils like drug-abuse, prostitution and violence. Market mentality of pleasure seeking?
What in heaven’s name is that? With all due respect to the bishop, I don’t think Catholics choosing not to have children are Beelzebub reincarnates or hedonistic heterosexuals.
For one thing, if a couple chooses not to have children it may be because they aren’t mentally prepared or would rather spend their time with each other. What’s wrong with that?
Though I do see a point to the Churches stand that there’s more of a grey population than a younger generation in Kerala… Gosh, I can vouch for that too… The last time I was there, every corner, every kavala (market) had more old geezers getting nostalgic about better times than I say “shit” in a day!
Still, no faith has any right to thrust a way of life on its people, especially if it is more so that the Catholic population wouldn’t diminish in due course of time.
Ok, coming to the amusing part… the pastoral appeal goes so far as to say, "The Encyclical of Pope Benedict XVI based on the words from St John epistle, 'God is Love', deals with the sanctity of sexuality. And the Pope likens sexuality as an exodus of man from the prison of his selfishness to a state of deliverance through self-giving… What?
After some researching, I found on the Vatican website this: True, eros tends to rise “in ecstasy” towards the Divine, to lead us beyond ourselves; yet for this very reason it calls for a path of ascent, renunciation, purification and healing…
Where does procreation feature in this virtuous scheme of things?

Bored to death

Its way beyond six,
there’s still no fix
on what we are
to do,
so I've indulged
myself in three
CNN quizzes.

According to one, I’ll go down in the history as the one who drowned in the sea of office politics?

Here’s an excerpt from my “What's Your EQ at Work? quiz”

My final score is: 70 out of 100
According to the CNN analysis: Emotional intelligence is not a fixed quantity. We expand it as we go through life. (Reallyyy………that’s reassuring.)
A score below 70 indicates a problem. (Phew…that was close!)
But don't despair: EQ is not unimprovable. (Sure if there was a word like unimprovable maybe my EQ had sum hope…)
"Emotional intelligence can be learned, and in fact we are each building it, in varying degrees, throughout life. It's sometimes called maturity," says Daniel Goleman, author of Working With Emotional Intelligence (Bantam, $25.95).
(So, I guess I’m about $25.95 away from reviving my emotional quotient… Maybe I’ll have the money to buy the book after all… Guess a call centre job in the day would suffice… Even if I went missing from work, they’d only look for me by nightfall…)

Annie, my trusted agony aunt, did pitch in with a brief interlude of humour….

This is a question a lost soul like me put to her...

What do I say to my boss, and anyone else who asks, about why I am ducking out of the office for an hour or two? I'm really going on job interviews, but must I say so? I don't want to lie, but the truth would probably count against me. -Old Scout

Dear Scout: If you absolutely can't schedule these interviews at lunchtime, or very early in the morning or late in the day (when your absence might be less conspicuous), you can always offer a vague explanation - "I have an important errand to run," or "I have a few things to attend to. I'll be back by 4." As longtime readers of this column know, I never recommend lying. For the record, though, people often do fib about this. A recent poll by recruiters Korn/Ferry International found that 27% of job seekers say they have a family- or child-related appointment to keep, and 23% say they're going to a doctor or dentist. The largest group, at 34%, said they "give no excuse and just sneak out." Why not try that?

Just sneak out… Hmmm… More than anything else, I’m tempted to do that! Coming back to the dilemma... But of course, everyone fibs… If you have made up your mind to make the switch, then you gotta ditch that goody-two-shoes pitch! Come on, are you telling me you can’t tell ze big boss with a straight face that “I think I’m gonna puke…or "my dog's water broke”...ok little over the top...but can-do! So, like I was saying...sure, you can fib, in fact, do it ad lib.

(Just checked.. I still don’t have anything to do! This stab at doing nothing isn’t doing anything for me)

The last… but more interestingly quirky quiz I gave was: Work and baby?
Apparently I’ll be successful in combining motherhood with a career (or even a job hunt!!! I supposedly can pull it off if I manage to get some tips from those who “have it all” and make some lifestyle changes!

How bored am I? Alter, get the damn mandrax quick…

Vex and the City

From wannabe Saki,
I've been
reduced
to depraved
desk jockey.

No,actually
it's more like:

Once an architect,
now a brick layer
I be,
what did I do
wrong...
beats me!!!?

So here’s my
ramble
on the new
gamble
that I call
the city
desk..

"Madamezee"
who would
rather
be called Nosh,
obsesses over
her scraps and
everything
else is
pish tosh!

Leggy is
betrothed
to her
engagements.

Foot in mouth
has a
exclamation
that rivals
my own.

If it wasn't
for Chelna's
south Mumbai
delights
— cheese straws
and scrumptious
potato sandwiches
alike —
our frustration
won't be fed :)

Mr Sub-well
smiles through
editing mistakes..
But neva let's
one forget
that a little
more attention
is all it takes.

The others
I still
haven't sized
up yet...
Will surely
have interesting
quirks, I bet!

Nonetheless,
as zeboss
put it,
what are we
but "bakras",
spoonfed
synonymous,
in this
Mumbai
Anonymous.

Whoever thot there was a blogging personality...?

An innocent bystander touted this and I was sold... Try this out

And it rained...

The acquired
accent drawled
a lazy “Good
morning.”

The train
sprayed me
with where
it had been.

The rain whipped
some sense
into the children
hanging out
of the train.

Lech,
how much
will you stretch
your imagination.

Ruthless rain
turned the
left-wing newspaper
into pulp.

Slow motion
train drove
the commuters
insane.

The windows
did a jig
and the handles
tangoed
in this rocking
musical.

I went
for a swim
with the
whole of
Mumbai.

Drenched
to the bone,
I was quite
a sight;
fools
pitied
my plight.

Only, I
revelled
in this
long overdue
dip,
savouring
the rain
and biting
my lip.

Epilogue

On a three-day
vacation,
I sorted
out my life.

Met a
memory
pressed into
a book
ages ago.

As I washed
the past off
my hands,
I didn’t
regret.

Folding
expectations
away,
I ironed
reality.

Savouring
the quiet,
I climaxed
on silence.

On the road

Snatches of
conversations
walked past me
in the crowd.

Seems like
half of
my life
has been
spent in
rickshaws…
The other half
has been
squandered in
taxis;)

I thought
how to
make it
perfect
and
spoilt it.

Ganpati bappa
looked on
helplessly
at the
road rage.

The pot-bellied
God’s silent
prayer to
stop the honking
went unanswered.

Even God
was left behind
when the signal
turned green.

The magic word:
"Sale" dangerously
lured the shopaholic.

My massaged hair
misbehaved
in the wind.

Nerd sneaked
a peek
at the
off-shoulder.

Where are
those legs
going today,
wondered
rickshaw driver.

Four...

Fake smiles
peeped out
of a
photograph.

The wind lifted
her hair off
her shoulders.

Mumbai minute
passed by on
a speeding bus.

Trapped
in the TV,
he forgot
how to think.

Things I’ve learnt thanx to my new “profile”:

1. Padded Brassieres:

They aren’t those thingammies that simulate fuller Simon and Garfunkels for ‘em gals accidentally blessed with …well, 3dimensionally-challenged breasts. Instead, in the newsroom this term (surely created by a male chauvinist swine trying to make a dig at the archetypal woman who pleases ‘man’kind with her voluptuousness) refers to stories that are 99 per cent faff and 1 per cent news.
Ironic, that I didn’t find the reference funny… maybe it had something to do with the prurient look that followed it.

2. Mandrax:
Not to be confused with its bacterial cousin Anthrax, is the name of a barbiturate type sedative drug called methaqualone which was commonly prescribed as a sleeping pill by doctors in the 1960s and 1970s. Both medical and non-medical use led to many fatal overdoses and the drug was withdrawn in the 1980s. In other words, it was a habit-forming drug used as a sedative and hypnotic.
So, does anyone know where I can get my hands on some? ;)

3. Cute:
He who checks out his wife is damn sweet.

4. Sigh!
I miss being the darling of an all-men desk… :)

I‘ve been…

Hung out to dry in the rain.

Left wounded among the vultures.

Buried alive in the valley of the dead.

But,
I guess I’ll die another day…

Contretemps \KAHN-truh-tahn\, noun
An inopportune
or embarrassing situation
or event; a hitch...
was Dictionary.com’s
word for the day.
Couldn't put my
predicament more aptly.

Vain

The wind waged
a war with
the window…
Banging incessantly
at the glass panes;
leisurely at first
and gradually
building up to
a violent tempo,
in its bid
to get in…
It yearned,
seeked,
clamoured
to envelope
the space within.
But it wasn’t
meant to be;
for what was
without
wasn’t welcome…
instead,
it was feared
and shut out.

Uprooted

As usual, I’m the “sitting duck.”

New boss. Another desk. High drama.

What I’ll miss due to this:

My walking in at hmmm… 6!

Crazy Frog and Anshuman’s frantic antics.

Kala Ghoda & Nautanki’s mesmerising melo-“drama”.

Deep’s piece de resistance, his Gossipnama.

Sexual innuendos flying thick and fast.

Debates on Bongs, bangs and busts…

Maoist inclinations, reservation and perpetual politics.

Being across my gang at International.

Having an ever-smiling and uncomplicated boss.

Ergo, it ain’t a win-win loss!

The game continues...

“A new life?” “Without you, silly?”

“Let’s get back...On my terms!”

No more blow hot, blow cold.

Face it, it wasn’t that obvious!

Or perhaps, I love wearing denial.

I remember. Eons ago is vague.

Another deadlock: You call. I cut.

Joined at the hip or separated?

Very chubby, where’s my talon hickie?

Coming out..

Ok... so, reluctantly
I gave up lurking,
and posted my first
comment…
on an unknown
blogger’s lament
that a certain
movie didn’t end…
Guess it took
me so long
to come
out of my shell,
coz I satiated
myself reading,
sometimes
skimming,
about fetishes,
personal hells
or Hugo Weaving,
and smiled to
myself,
thinking
it wasn’t just
me going
insane.
Guess,
not all
things are
in vain!

Turning One

(Office party gone wrong)

By default, I wore DNA colour.

Murderers went on a stabbing spree.

Tragedy: A massacre of unsuspecting balloons.

Mob mentality had a field day.

People scrambled for "banana wayphers".

Computer terminals bathed in fizzy Champagne.

Bald pates took a swig too!

Kala Ghoda sulked in the corner.

Frustrated Crazy Frog raped a balloon.

Fingering the balloon, he prematurely ejaculated.

Saris hobnobbed with some more saris.

Smart asses flicked the champagne bottle.

The graveyard cake tasted deathly sweet.

"No party!?" "Paper's not making enough?"

**

Today, I won't get myself harassed.

Too late, I'm in too deep.

Everyday, it's the same ol' story!

Journey After

Fun: Kid racing with a bus.

Smoke ring sneaks out of car.

Nostalgia lives in the Parsi Colony.

Old flocked to the stately agiary.

Staccato: The story of his life.

Stuffy jams: Traffic cop’s occupational hazard.

School kid abuses water-splashing taxi.

Cold conductors queue for a bus.

Fat lady’s ass goes left right!

Under the bridge. Cars fly over.

"Is it Sunday," I sleepily wondered.

“Oh gosh! I’m a day behind…”

n series (part deux)

Torch in the sky fought darkness.

Daylight broke on us, albeit suddenly.

Rain washed the world of sins.

The azaan woke up the neighbourhood.

Persuasive pir drowned Adnan's chart-topper.

Eclectic, arbit mix serenaded the nite.

Grey blue hue filmed the expanse.

Pool teased me with it's blueness.

Only blondes questioned, "what's goin' on?"

6.30 am: "I'am wide awake" "Bizarre!"

Sumptuous breakfast: a mouthful of morning.

Matchbox houses stacked like building blocks.

Red and white flickered through the nite.

Bai unknowingly blocked my favourite view.

The pool took a quick shower.

Before I knew, it was 2!

Should I go to work today?

The ledge urged me to stay.

"Don't say thank you!" "Come back"

n series

One creative night at n’s place…

Exhaust: The motorcycle that didn’t stop.

Connecting the dots through your window.

Here…wind made love to me.

Chimes sanctified this fleeting, breezy union.

The silent space was my muse.

Dare: You bottomsed-up on water.

Darkness blanketed the silent, sleepy slums.

Guilt: I killed a clothespin today.

Hot shower spanked sense into me.

Hungry nite swallowed the reverse horn.

Wanted: A ledge for a muse.

SMS (Short Menagerie of Stories)

My attempt at being ‘Earnest’ Hemingway

Here’s a story in six words.

He said barber. She said saloon.

Obituary: Hunger died of appetite loss.

Tired! Of doing nothing? Yes.

Random reruns. Another sleepless night.

Cynical. Words win the staring duel

Insecurity peeped through his superiority complex.

"How odd, she's a 40-year-old man!"

Slums. Metro mushrooms. Need weeding.


Ok….this is where despicable crazy frog (CF) gatecrashed my poetic overture…

CF: Almost like paper towels. Multi purpose.)

ME: That nite, we consummated a poem.

CF: Coffee. Pee. Permutation. Areas of disagreement.

ME: He didn't stop when he could!

CF: Truism. Nobody stops when they should.

ME: Comprehend me!... If only he would?

CF: Michealangelo was no shallow fart. False.

ME: Upside down, he scratched his face.

CF: "Run Forrest run," my mind said.

ME: He looked. I punctuated his sentence.

CF: While bastard children of decadence smirked

ME: Psycho babble, pseudo drivel became him.

CF: Smartie. Cutie. Pity she is shortsighted.

ME: Baldie: "If only I had hair!"

ME: Hit where it hurts the most.

CF: Where it hurts there is hair

ME: That's worse than a bomb scare!

ME: Syllogisms aren't your cup of tea.

CF: Chicks rule. They also make rules.

CF: Thin crust. Hunger. Deep thrust. Salvation.

ME: Tap a brain? He is insane!

Converbs

My stories
are rhyme
a dozen.

Not all
that glitters
is sold.

Barking
dogs are full
of spite.

Modesty is
the best policy.

To err is human;
who forgives is
a swine.

Necessity is the
father of contention.

Don’t stock the tote.

Cool water ain’t cheap.

Shave for a rainy day.

Little drops of water,
little grains of sand,
is the stand-in lotion
for a tanned hand!

Who you don't
know won't desert
you.

Married to it!

Filling one
with a
sense of
elation,
has always
been my
favourite
vocation…

So, I
never made
an exception
in throwing
a surprise
reception
to those
I hold dear.

Not aware
that it
was an
addiction,
to use
this turn
of phrase,
this
punctuation
that I had
begun
to love…

Couldn’t resist
the temptation
to exploit
this inflection
at every
possible
situation.

In other
words,
when it
came to
my long,
drawn-out
affair
with the
visual scream,
this interjection
that made words
excited and
louder than
they seem;
I was married
to my good ol’
hubby: Exclamation!

Delcious sin

Forgive me father,
for I have sinned.
Though barred
from this worldly
pleasure,
I gave in.

Guilty pangs
became me
as I suffered
for this
profanation.

That one night
of abandon,
I renounced
salvation
and revelled
in the taste,
smell, feel
of the forbidden
but real…

Drinking in
the naked
splendour;
I gave up
my last chance
to repent.

And in a
move that’d
have awed
the demon
Balthazar,
I ravenously
violated my
Hershey’s cookies
and cream bar!

Just...

I looked
in vain
for a
creative spur
in the ladies
compartment.
It, apparently,
took
the earlier
train!

**

Woman starched
in a sari
blew a
bubble.
Stunned,
I penned
this feat
on the double.

**

Serenading
a taxi driver,
running over
a divider;
I was the
proverbial
‘night rider’.

**

I didn’t know
how to deal
with what
seemed outta
Ally Mcbeal...!

**

Sometimes
a touch,
doesn’t
mean
much;
a look
maybe
mistook
and a
gesture
is hard
to muster,
until…
you breach
trust,...
then it
all comes
down
to the
four-letter
word called
‘lust’.


**

Baby Babble

At the babies’
burping behest,
grumpy uncle
turned into
bumbling
baboon.

**

Linguist,
you are no
match for
an infant.
They come
armed with
a PhD
in gibberish!

**

He threw his
rattle away,
as we played
with
onomatopoeias.

**

Not yet one,
he’s spellbound
by women,
and loves
rides in
the car.
No wonder
my father
says:
“He’ll go
very far!”

Downward spiral

‘Indian boy
gets rescued
from hole
as nation
watches’
read the
headline.

Amusing
as it was,
I couldn’t
help but
wonder
how this
drama would
unfold
not above
the ground
but down under
where
this imp
of a kid
lay…

Did he
follow
the rabbit
or did the
local squirrel
make an Alice
outta him?

Did he
chance upon
the absurd
underworld
in his
unconscious
stupor
and grow
three sizes
too large,
playing
party pooper
to poor chatty
bandicoots
who mistook
him for a
hairy barge…

Or did
he meet
the cheshire
chameleon,
who
disappeared
now and then
leaving behind
its smirk —
unsettling
at first;
but on
second thoughts,
a rather
odd quirk!

Or was
he privy
to the
never-ending
tea party,
when
time
stood still?...

No one
seemed to
know…

Though,
a tense nation
continued to
watch with
rapt attention,
the CCTV
footage
of two
weary
eyes
awaiting
rescue.

But,
attempts
only went
askew.

Nevertheless,
countless
prayed..
for the
prince to
emerge
from the
darkness…

And
after 50
long hours,
he eventually did…

As he
woke up,
he saw…
what most
of us
couldn’t see…
that mad hatters
didn’t live
down under,
but they
made up
our reality.

That's when
he surmised
as Alice did,
that being
holed up
made one
queasy,
but worse still,
straddling the
upward spiral
was never
meant to
be easy!