TO THE YOUNG

To remind the young
Life is a song, create
Your tune as you sing along

A QUESTION

Stertorous breathing

End?

Or beginning?

I THINK I HAVE LOST MY PURSE

I think I have left my purse on your bed
No, No, No, Not on the bed
Must be on the sofa by the bed
Kept it resting on the left side arm, perhaps
Next to the side table
No, not even there
I don’t exactly remember where
I was so busy wiping my tears
And moping my nose
(That had turned an ugly red)
With the frayed square of the
Tissue paper that you had
Absentmindedly thrown at me
It had a whole in between
Where I had pressed hard
With my fingers
Till its molecules ached
Till it tore into two pieces
And I having screwed the two bits up
Into a crumpled ball kept on
Twirling it around my shaky fingers
See what you did to me
With your “I don’t love you anymore”
Cold, callous, frozen undertone

I had tiptoed into the room
When you were bent
Over the table intent
On writing a letter
With careless sheets of paper
Thrown hither and thither
I had come up from behind
And snatched the letter
A sheaf of paper
Had slithered on the floor
I had picked up one of them
And found her name
On it; she, who I thought
Was my best friend
You must have sensed me there
Holding the page with a question in air
So you did not even turn around
But confessed then and there
In the stunned silence that
Followed, my world broke apart
Noiselessly, shattered to pieces my
Innocent dream which
Nestles in my womb
Must have also absorbed
The shocked silence
Why did you do this to me?
Why? Why? Why?
Why did you not tell me before?
Why did you mislead me so?
With your boyish smile
And rakish charm
You drew me on and on
Towards you
Oh! What a folly
It is, I, silly,
Who thought you loved me
Like never before
I with my plain face
And lusterless eyes
Should have known
That I have nothing to hold you on
To me; I, who do not have such,
Beguiling charm
Tempting looks
Bewitching smile that disarm
Men and strangers alike
I should have known
Much, much before
That I am no match to you
Then why did you play on?

Oh! I think I have lost my purse
A few bills shoved in there
And a few coins
I do not give a damn for the bills or the coins
But only a few moments captured in a still
The sea kissing the rocks and my saree hem
The salty sprinkles splattered by a
Chiffony breeze which had sprayed a few droplets
On my locks and on my cheeks
And you had pulled me up from the rocks
Taken me into your arms
Wordlessly we had moved, swayed along
Till the roar of the waves played a Mozart
In my veins, we had mingled into one soul
That moment is still rumpled inside the
The purse with delicate care
But now I think I have lost my purse
Forever, and you…………………

Please post me back the purse, will you?
If you find it languishing in one
Speechless corner of the room
It belongs to me you know
The salty sprinkle
The sprayed droplets
The chiffony breeze
The wet saree hem
And that warm touch on my palms
The sway and the dance
You remember
I had broken my heels in that instance
The shoe with the broken heels
Still lie wrapped in a silver foil
At the back of the almirah
Underneath the soft folds of my
Clothes and spreads
A gift so dear
From you, to be cherished forever
A shoe with broken heels
And a lost purse
Return it to me please,
Will you?
If you find it ever

O YE DREAMS!

O ye dreams
Tread softly
You may awake
Me from
Deep slumber within
With flailing fingers
I may try and grip
Thy chiffon wings
In darkness
Hollowed by
Nothingness...........

O ye dreams
Tiptoe please
So softly
Into my room
Wakefulness may
Prod me so
To hug you
To my heart
Weak with desire
Impassioned ........

O ye dreams
Do please stride in
But so careworn
With a finger on your lips
Like a mother tucking in
Her baby to bed
With delicate warmth
And care

O ye dreams
Petal soft dreams
Do come in
Do walk in
Softly
Though............
like a hmmm
Of a breeze
Swishing past my ears

O ye dreams
My only dreams
My lovely dreams
Nestle your head
On my downy pillows
And sleep a wink
By my side
So that as I turn
Ye embrace me
Like a lover's arm
In longing, linger
On like a
Melody of a song
So dear
But perhaps
Forgotten over the years

O ye dreams
My sauntering dreams
My floating clouds
My fragile shroud
Of joy and splendour
O ye dreams
Ye for ye alone I live
I breathe, I rejoice
I believe in
What could happen never

O ye dreams
My illusive wish
My passionate prayer
Hope unfulfilled
My only friend
My soul mate sincere
My phosphorous dreams
My effervescent dreams
My bubbly fizz
My vapourous glitz
I know you may never be there
But oh so I wish
You be always there
Lining the lashes
Swimming with lust
In my eyes
With loving care

THE STORY OF THE FAMISHED ONE

This is the story of the frail willed, frugal in effort, feeble minded, forever-giving-up types. My question for today is how much time one requires to learn from one’s past and repeated mistake(s). (Mistake repeatedly committed is known as blunder; blunder twice made is known as idiocy; idiocy….lets not go further). It/these can bring forth a drastic change by one instance itself or may take weeks, months, a year or two, nay, perhaps a whole lifetime?

Of course, here, the protagonist of the plot is me and myself – the kachhua of the khargosh and kachhua fame. The only difference being, the kachhua, though slow, was the ultimate winner in the story. In this instant case, kachhua is forever slow in picking up the moral of the story and consequently lags behind, stumbles and falls prey to all the vices under the sun. The mistakes? Countless, out of which a few I enlist below –

Mistake No. 1 - Salivating over junk food – Maggi Noodles being the all time favourite, recent addition to this genre is the yummy pazzta ( I think that’s the spelling), especially, the “cheesy” one.

Mistake No. 2 – When in the market, feet spontaneously turning towards the street food stalls – the mouth watering gol gappas, the chaat pakaudis, the aloo chaats, the tikkis with the red hot/sweet tamarind sauce etc. which the capital is famous for.

Mistake No 3 – Hands automatically stretching towards the spiciest dishes on the buffet table – the chicken butter masalas, the paneer kormas, the dal makhnis, the makhaane ki sabzi etc.

Mistake No. 4 – “Snubbing off “the mobile screaming the exercise alarm in the morning and wandering off to dreamland

Mistake No. 5 – Invariably calling out to the rickshaw wallah to cross-over a “walking” distance.

Mistake No. 6 - Inevitably gorging on second, naah, third and fourth helpings of rice on Saturday and Sunday afternoons and then snoring away to glory.

Mistake No. 7 , 8 , 9, 10……………………….I can go on, pal, this is never ending.

Result ? Do I have to elaborate or the strenuous expression on the emaciated face of the rickshaw puller or the frown on my physician’s forehead says it all!

I know it’s a matter of will power, knowing and doing what’s best for you, listening to the doctorsssss seriously (that’s not one, too many) and indulging in all the right kind of activities (including exercises, yoga, regular walks, change in dietary habits etc.) which one should be doing. If not anything else, listen to Bipasha Basu, yaar! Take to stairs and Sugar – free Gold! Its not that I do not know these things by heart now! Its not that I have not tried out all the possible measures by now! Its not that I do not like soups and salads! I do, seriously. But the problem is I like all food types and of course “the other kind” of food, a wee bit more. One view of how to prepare kakori kababs on Discovery Channel (Imagine Discovery’s also gone foodie!) and all my self control vanishes into thin air. Who said its gluttony? Is it a crime to love the “good things” in life? Nooooooooooo! But all good things have an exorbitant (keeping in mind the inflation) price tag attached to it and I believe, I am paying the price for them. Please do not sermonize me with “where there’s a will, there’s a way” etc. stories. Had I an iota of that “supreme consciousness”, this post would not be happening. Till then, happy munching (toot pado style) Traaalaaaa!

TEA JOINT IN THE SHAPE OF A TEA CUP

My learned colleague, who is also my e mail friend, forwarded a mail with photographs of various buildings in the shape of a tea-pot. I wrote back to him saying that it would be a brilliant idea to go in jointly for a tea-joint in the shape of a tea-pot which will sell fragrant, best quality tea minus the calorie ridden snacks. He agreed but was a little distraught as to how the arrangement would be brought about as he would be retiring much before me. So I would either have to take a premature voluntary retirement or join him later after my timely superannuation. The discussion remained inconclusive but the outline of a poem germinated quite easily there from:

A tea joint in the shape of a tea-pot
A cottage with a red-brick wall
Big French windows and a trimmed lawn
The roof would look like the lid atop
The hall would look like the stout pot
The kitchen would have the chimney spout
The handle would laze by the side ground
Cute, warm, pretty, plump and inviting
Filled with aroma of steaming, swirling
Pot of giggling gurgling leafy liquid buoyant
A Cool, cozy, sunny, rosy tea joint

Where time stops with the flavour of tea
Where the birds chirp and hum the bees
Where the windows open to a blue sky
Valley of blushing blossoms sighs
Happily, merriment fills the air around
No hurry, flurry, worry, scurry, surround
Mere blissful gleeful peace abound
A calm, quiet, sitting or a meeting point
A Cool, cozy, sunny, rosy tea joint

Spring would bring in fragrance of the bloom
Autumn would allow a pale sun to swoon
Winter would burn a friendly fire aglow
Summer would let the days be idle and slow
A tea-joint where oldies would while away
Time with a news paper or a book in hand
Youth would raise their voices in mirth
Vivacious, vibrant, exuberant, birth
Of many romances and sublime love’s anoint
A Cool, cozy, sunny, rosy tea joint

We’d stand by the counter & welcome smiling
Wish everyone a good morning or good evening
There’d be of course no good byes
No leaving, no parting any au revoire
The colour of the tea would be golden brown
The flavour, the fragrance, the brewing super fine
And the tea-pots would be flowery and fragile
The cups and saucers to match and agile
Shall we be in attendance, forever
Solicitous, engaging, endearing and never
Shall we be short of patience, groan or frown
And be honest to the penny we’d make it a point
A Cool, cozy, sunny, rosy tea joint

Mothers would bring in babies in prams
Fathers would indulgently follow; crammed
Would be the place from morn to night
Visitors to the valley would soon alight
With friends, cousins, aunts and uncles,
Nieces, nephews; those would be very far & few
Who’d claim they haven’t heard of the joint
A Cool, cozy, sunny, rosy tea joint

Oh! How I wish the days stroll fast by
And soon we say to all good by
And fly away to the abode of peace
Far from the maddening crowd & seize
Moments of wishful, fanciful delights
And of course have in our pockets the right
Amount of moolah to say with pride
We are soon to open and welcome to all
To our heavenly, haven of fragrance and froth
Where splash of gold spills over while serving
Which we consider not waste but tiding of more
To come & mop it up chiding in mock anger
With a hand embroidered chequered cloth
Thus would be our bright, bountiful, beverage point
A Cool, cozy, sunny, rosy tea joint

HONING YOUR SKILLS

Writing is a habit. An every day habit. I have often heard writers going into prolonged state of inaction and inertia on the pretext that the creative bug has stopped chasing/bugging them. Creative bug? That means a writer's writing skill is dependent upon insect bite? Ridiculous!

A writer should be driven by one's own passion and pursuit and not by external influences. The source of inspiration is within and not without. Therefore, gear yourself up and write a little everyday. A paragraph. A page. Any length. Anytime. So that the machinery of the brain remains well oiled - ideating, assimilating, churning, chewing. stimulated and in turn stimulating, inspired and above all, inspiring others through creative outpours. These little, daily dosages shall one day be the cause of a mammoth construct. Who knows ? Knowledge has not come to us in a giffy. Nature has given us its gifts measure by measure with the passage of time. So shall we pour back drop by drop, little by little, day by day till we are drained of all that can be given back.

Hone your skills otherwise you may go barren if you forget to water your own soil!!!!!!!!!!!

Happy writing!!!!!!!!!!!