Sometimes the Sun Shines Through.

The Dawn is a feeble old woman
Shuffling creakily.
The razor sharp winds rule.
Fog is her heavy mantle.
Grey  is the colour - the mood.
Suddenly an uproar of parrots
-A golden shimmer of a Hawk.
And a  blue jay a-glinting
On a gnarled and faded tree.
 A lone pansy nods its little head bravely.
All declare- the Dawn is lazy and slow too :
But the Sun will definitely Shine through.

Wintry Weekend Morns.

Wintry Weekend morns of languid ease
Honeyed,Buttery Sun hums a Lullaby
Nothing more is needed,as the clouds drift by-
Except somnolently ,soaking in the rays.
Newspapers of Mayhem,Centrefolds of Scandal;
Sit fatly, ignored. The weary and Bored
soul craves for pleasures sedate and Dull,
like curling up with Poetry
or some Romantic Medieval History.
And Cups of Hot Cocoa,shared with your Beau.

मेरे दोस्त .

कुछ  दोस्त मेरे मुझे सैर पर  ले जाते हैं 

कभी खिड़की तो कभी चशमा बन 

बीते और आने वाले कल से  मुलाकात कराते हैं.

कभी गप्पें तो कभी किस्से सुनाते हैं.

अपनी हरकत से यूं ही हंसाते- बहलाते हैं.

कुछ दोस्त ज़रा संजीदा हैं.

वोह दिल की गहराई में उतर 

कुछ ऐसा  कह देते हैं 

जो मन ने जाना था यकीनन -पर बोलों पर आ न सका.

वोह दिल में कभी आह, तो कभी सिरहन जगाते हैं.   

कुछ मददगार हैं मेरे -

हर मुश्किल का हल बताते हैं.

अमल के रास्ते और रास्तों के पड़ाव सुझाते हैं.

मैं कहीं भी निकल जाऊं चाहे, इन दोस्तों का साथ 

रहता है मेरे साथ -साथ.

ये  दोस्त  मेरे सुख-दुःख के  साथी हैं.

चुप-चाप मेरे जीवन में गुनगुनाते  हैं.

कभी  बरकत की तरह,कभी रहमत की तरह ;

कभी वुज़ू की तरह,कभी आँचल की तरह -

ये  मुझ में उतर जाते हैं.

लोग कहते हैं, बस किताबें ही तो हैं.

Advise.

दिल्ली  की आबो-हवा में
ज़ोर-आज़माइश है
आप ने तो कभी आज़माई नहीं.
इशारों से समझाइश  है .
हुनरों की नुमाइश है .
आपको करनी तो आयी नहीं.
आप तो अपने हिस्से के आसमान में
उड़ते रहे ,खुश होते रहे .
खिड़की पार की दुनिया पे नज़र टिकाई नहीं.
न बुरा मानिए ,गर दुनिया सोचे -
बेचारे ,बेवकूफ की कोई ख्वाहिश ही नहीं.

Winter Sun.

Needles sting the face

Red nose and cold ears.

Piquant tastes the foggy morn.

Of smoke and dew-damp grass.

Sun struggles and straggles to keep

pace with swaddled Schoolkids.

Sniffles spare  the snug.

Noons are friendly,frolicksome.

Dogs are drunk on sun.

Buds unfurl,cats curl.

Birdy guests have a slugfest.

Lazy,fat Sun has begun its trundle

A quick roll down and Curtains.

Taste of tea lingers longer.

Absence Of Love.

The absence of love -
Is Confinement of the Soul.
A pond of sludge where no lotus grows.
A River run Dry.
A Temple Forlorn.
A cup of cold Coffee
With all the Bitterness and no Warmth.
A shriveled  desiccating  Flower.
A Machine which refuses to ignite.
A Child who has forgotten to Play.
Trudging up wearily, a Jagged,Rocky Path.
Flirting with Who can Have a Deeper Fall.
A Pointed Finger, Ears Shut,Wagging Tongue
Where Unkind meets the Blind.
Where everything is a Profit and Loss Account.
Where the Gardener  Forgot
To Cherish the Fruits that grow from the Seed
To Water and to Feed;
And kicks at The Dirt
Counting the Weeds.
Let us tend and mend all the Shattered Shards.
Refill the Void where Splendorous Love Dwelt.
For Absence Of  Love is Interminable Pain.

जाड़ों की बारिश .

न कोयल कूके न नाचे मोर 

फ़िर क्यों घिरी घटा घनघोर ?

गुलदाउदी कैसे खिल पाए ,

जब रोज़ बादल धूप चुराएं ?

बिन दूल्हे की यह बारात

जाड़ों में बारिश की सौगात.

रोये किसान और खलिहान,

हर क्यारी,फुलवारी रोये .

रो के बिट्टू स्कूल जाये

और बारिश  में खेल न पाए .

सीले-गीले ये सब रस्ते

धूप में कैसे खिल कर हँसते !

यूं ही नहीं सब खुन्नस खाएं.

खिलता सूरज मिल न पाए,

जैसे   पीनी पड़े ठंडी चाय

और गर्म जलेबी की याद सताए .

Ananya.

My little Girl is-
A  little  jay-bird
A Butterfly with neon blue dappled wings
Dancing in the Clouds
She wants to call out
Fluffy snow dolls
As they float away 
Hold in her hands
Chocolatey elephants with creamy Snouts
And climb over Marshmallowy Mountains
As her anklets jingle.
The grazing cows,the lazing dogs,
The floaty moon, the Golly wogs.
Petunias and Pansies
Dahlias and Daisies
Imps,Gnomes,Fairies
Especially Fairies.
Dancing on Cottony Mounds-
Wearing White Silken Gowns.
Pretty Plaits.
Ruffles and Lace.
A house made of Biscuits and Lays.
Flowery Shampoos.
Curls and Tattoos.
High Heeled Shoes.
But Momma is so Bad.
She says Ananya muffin
That is a Pumpkin.
No it will not turn into a Chariot 
Even with your Wand.
Now go and have a Bath -FAST.
Why are Moms such Dargons??

वो कविता वाली.

कवितायेँ तो मेरे चारों तरफ़ हमेशा  थीं -

मानो लफ़्ज़ों के ढेर लगे थे.

पर मैं मीठे  के शौक़ीन बच्चे की तरह,

किस्से-कहानियों  की टॉफी चूसती रही.

ज़रूर कुछ हसीं जुमलों से  उलझती थी कभी-

पर यूं ही  किनारों से खेल कर वापस आती.

फ़िर वो मिली बेधड़क ,बेबाक -

हर चीज़ पे अपनी राय देने वाली .

इक पल में झिड़कती ,झगड़ती,

दूसरे में शेयर  कर  लेती हर कुछ .

जैसे सभी उसके दोस्त हों .

और उसकी कविता वाली झोली में तो इतने छेद  थे -

कि हर वक़्त दो-चार  टपक जातीं पके आम की तरह.

अरे बाबा मैंने भी पढ़े हैं बहुत Plath ,Neruda ,कोलातकर,विजयन , Whitman  वगैरह .

न जाने कितने नाम गिनाने , गिराने वाली.

पढ़े पर यूं दिल में उतारे नहीं-

और जो नाम के साथ गिर रहा था

वह तो एक जादू था -कभी ज़्यादा चलता कभी कम .

पर हौले-हौले कुछ तार जुड़ते गए,

निस्बत का असर करते गए .

कुछ मुलाकातें ज़हीनों   से

अक्सर कितनी ज़रूरी हैं.

कहा-सुनी .

कह देते हो तुम वोह हर बात

जो लिखी नहीं जाती.

ठीक कहा तुमने मैंने बहुत

ठंडक पाली है सीने में-

क्योंकि  बर्फ की तरह

अक्सर टूट भी जाता है

ये दिल और पिघल भी.

इसे समेटने के लिए

ठंडक रखना ज़रूरी है.

लिख देती हूँ मैं वोह हर बात

जो मुझसे कही नहीं जाती.

Custard Apple

Coarse knobby pale green carapace

Hiding creamy soft deliciousness

A velvety fragrant sweetness fills my mouth

As my tongue teases out the flesh

From the many shiny black seeds.

And I am lost in a reverie ...

Of  cool autumn days;

Spent scrambling for custard apples ripening on the trees

Pip-shooting matches

To see who had the strongest cheeks!!

And then I think

All these noble trees and their humble fruit

Are so much a part of me

Just as the sticky gelatinous sweetness

That enmeshes the custard-apple seeds .

Fruits which were never bought

But which were hunted and fought

for with a wild glee-mostly after

a lazy swim in the river's generous waters.

Which my swimming-pooled kids whose joys are sold in the market will never comprehend.

Orchaa

गोल गुम्बद ,झरोखे जालीदार
तस्वीरों से सजे दरो-दीवार .
दीवारों में  बसी बीती कहानियाँ
घुंघरूओं की सदा ,रानियों की निशानियाँ .
कहीं मीनाकारी के नीले टुकड़े
कहीं शीशे से उकेरे फूल और पत्ते .
पुराने बागों के पिंजर
ऊंची सीढ़ियों के मंदिर 
बेतवा किनारे खड़े हैं ये  खंडहर ग़मगीन
यहाँ थिरकी थी कभी राय परवीन.
अब तो न जशन है, न रक्स  है
बस थमे हुए वक़्त का इक उम्दा अक्स है.

बच्चों के साथ हाट-बाज़ार.

धक्का-मुक्की, शोर-शराबे

कैसी मज़ेदार हाट-बाज़ार  की  बातें

गा-गा के बुलाये फूलो मौसी 

हुंकार लगाये पगड़ी में तोषी  

क्या हरी मटर! क्या लाल टमाटर! 

कद्दू, परवल, रंगरेज़ चुकंदर! 

गुट-गुट तकते सब डलिया से 

नन्हें  जैसे पड़े पलने  में 

थैला बड़ा और बटुआ छोटा 

नज़र कड़ी और सिक्का खोटा 

कैसे तो गाहक हुज्जत करें 

करेला-भिंडी भी हंस पड़ें 

देखो मिसराइन, और वो प्रभाकर 

इतरायें कैसे चवन्नी बचाकर 

ऐंठे  जैसे  मूली-गाजर 

रानी गोभी का साथ पाकर

भीड़ में ग़ुम गये आलू राजा 

बैंगन  याद दिलाये भाजा 

खींच रही सीताफल की महक

लुभा रही लहसुन की लहक  

चिकना चीकू  चमकाएँ आँखें

हरे चने आंवलें को ताकें .

अंजीर, रसभरी की बाहों में डोले  

मैं मिठास तू रस है बोले! 

आम सेब को जीभ दिखाए 

डिंगरा- कलींदा नाच नचायें 

ख़ुदा ने रंग यूँ स्वाद में  घोला 

क्यों चाहिए तुमको टॉफी -कोला ?

Antilia-II

There was a rich man from Mumbai

Who wanted to live in the sky

He spent two billion dollars

And built a 550 feet high tower

Four lakh square feet of plate glass to dazzle the Eye

Antilia -I

If it wasn't crass it would be funny

How the moneyed flaunt their money.

When to say enough

I guess is very tough

When your second name is Ambani.

A Girl and a Basketball.

Thwack! the Ball hits the Board,

Totters on the edge ,but misses the Basket.

A collective groan from the sweaty horde

And then , dribble, pass, another attempt… 

As Shadows gain length

My mind is on rewind.

My love for movement ,my love for strength

Basketball helped me find.

As I walk past the bustling courts

I can see the girl in a skirt and pigtails

The girl who was too shy to play team Sports.

The girl who was sure she would fail.

I can hear the PT teacher’s exasperated sigh

Well at least she is tall

May be we can let her try

Her luck at playing Basketball.

And  with that my tryst began

Learning to dribble that ball Red and grainy

Making it come alive under my childish hands

Jumping,running,passing the ball with a zest zany

Ragged breath, blood in the ears,

Swollen fingers,grazed knees

Pushing on despite all fears

The off-court camaraderie.

Studying tactics to keenly assess

The weakest links of the rivals;

Giving up your shot to give your mates passes

Luring Gods-by chanting Hanuman Chalisa ,kissing Bible!

Days when the world hung on winning tosses-

And getting the Basket was the highest Good

Days of Incredible wins ,ignominious losses

Days of changing can’ts into coulds.

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October!

Nippy air,runny noses

Sudden evenings,first Roses.

Lets air our cupboards and whitewash our rooms

Nature herself is set to bloom.

Lay the beds,turn the soil.

Floral bounties need some toil.

Winter is on her way

And festive times will hold a sway.

Hail the crisp blue skies and sunny days.

Lets enjoy the weather's milder face.

Squirrel!

Squirrel,  I want-
your grey coat with chocolate stripes
and to be able to jump and climb in a trice.
I love the way you flounce around,
holding the nut that you just found.
Or the way you chatter and tease
Lazy cats eyeing the trees.
I would love to do an exchange :
your thick bushy tail in place of my mane.
But even if you don't agree
Come everyday on a nut-collecting spree.

Organising Committee gives a Briefing.

"Dear Guests,Athletes and Countrymen,

Don't squander your tears.

We come hither to bury your Complaints

Not to hear more of them"

Please understand that the Games are not a Mess
This is all over-reaction and Hype -
Created by the alarmist Press: we will soon redress
All the minor  'plaints that are causing this gripe.
We have taken rounds and found that there is no lack of Hygiene;
We Indians are just somewhat "differently Clean".
Foreigners (Fennell ,Hooper & co), do not impose your exalted standards;
On a poor,underdeveloped country of the Third World.
Seepage and snakes are normal after the rains,
The Show will be Big, these are just Teething pains.
A Collapse here and some  Dengue there, do not make a Calamity.
Look at the bigger picture: we are Absolutely Prepared.
All those who threaten India's Prestige are Bewared.
Hail the Games -Delhi will change into a World Class City!
We Promise we will take Good Care of all Guests and Athletes.
But they also better cooperate and not act so Hard  to Please.

खेल -तमाशा .

तमाशे तो हो ही रहे हैं

खेल अभी बाकी है.

 बखिया  उधड चुकी  सड़कों पे 

 रेलम -पेल अभी बाकी है .

रिस रहे हैं छत ,गिर रहे हैं पुल

सितम्बर की बारिशों  से  हेलम-हेल  अभी बाकी है.

धडकता है दिल अब

कितनी और नयी इमारतों का होना फेल अभी बाकी है ?

धक्के से बने हर खेल परिसर पे,

उठ रहीं हैं उंगलियाँ ,बनाने वालों की जेल अभी बाकी है.

बिक चुके सब नेता अफसर

देश की इज्ज़त की फुल डिस्काउंट SALE अभी बाकी है.

रह गए बस चंद दिन, सुनते हैं-

CPWD और खेल मंत्रालय का ताल-मेल अभी बाकी है.

कतरा रहा है मेहमान हर आने वाला

  जिनका घर दिल्ली है ,उनके लिए झेलना अझेल अभी बाकी है.

दिल्ली से लुकाये -छिपाए -भगाए

लाखों  ग़रीब -जाने कितनी  ठेलम-ठेल अभी बाकी है?

 मैले-कुचैले तन पर पहने गहने जेवर

देखो दिल्ली की कितनी सुन्दर झांकी है !

खेल तो हों ही जायेंगे

तमाशों में सच कितनी बेबाकी है.

Where are the colours of Autumn?

Hail the season of colorful sunsets I thought!

But the Gods were busy hatching a plot.

Pouring cold water on all the festive fun.

Endless,dreary downpour in autumn!

There are only cool grey days and cool grey rains.

Weepy grey trees in slushy grey lanes.

A cool grey dampness has settled on my soul.

Seeping in drop by drop - as I lose control.

Wet newborn puppies and hungry squirrels

All waiting for an end to the endless drizzle.

Oh I want to fly away from this grey swoon

In to a land of golden sunlight and glorious noons.

एक कुत्ते की मौत.

कल रात मेरे पड़ोस में एक हादसा हुआ .

दहलीज़  पर  बस  सर  भर  रख  सोने  की  इज़ाज़त  थी उसको.

रोटी के कुछ टुकड़े और प्यार की आस सहारे जी रहा था . 

हर वक़्त बंधे रहने का रश्क करना भी नहीं जानता था.

कैसे भुलाऊँ , उदास आँखों में इंतज़ार लिए  उसकी वो सूरत ...

कल रात एक खूंखार तेंदुए  का निवाला बन गया वो .

खुद को बचाने के लिए रस्सी छुड़ा के भाग तक नहीं पाया .

यह मौत तो एक हादसा थी.

और वह तो सिर्फ एक कुत्ता था.

- इंसानों का दिल बहलाने का एक दिलचस्प खिलौना.

पर न जाने क्यों अफ़सोस  बहुत है मुझे.

इंसानियत  की मौत  का -

खुद्दारी और वफ़ा की मौत का.

सितारे,मैं और चाँद .

सारा दिन आसमान की  टूटी छत
टपकती रही -गुमसुम नज़ारों में 
दर्द भरती रही.
शाम को जब दफ्तर के जबड़े से निकली मैं ,
सर में एक भारीपन था-
 जो धीरे-धीरे उतरकर
दिल में पैठ रहा था.
ऐसा लगता था कोई पेंचकस
ले मेरे सब कल-पुर्जे ऐंठ रहा था.
घर पहुंची तो बूंदे रुक चुकी थी
और तन गया था -
एक काला उदास आसमान .
मुंह  फ़ेर के मैं भी अन्दर जाने को थी ,
क़ि पानी में कुछ चमकता सा देखा -
मैले से बादल से निकलने क़ी कोशिश में था ,
इक  धुंधलाया सा चाँद.
मैंने पूछा- तुम्हें  तो आज न आना था ,
बादलों क़ी ओट में बैठ पुराने ज़ख्म सहलाना था ?
चाँद ने कहा ,हाँ ,पर सितारे जिद पर अड़े थे ,
जुल्मी बादलों से लड़ पड़े थे.
हाथों में हाथ धर बोले -चलो
थोडा जी बहल जाए ,
जो तुम संग आसमानों में टहल आयें .
चाँद ने फ़िर थामा मेरा भी हाथ
और पूछी सारी दिल क़ी बात .
सितारे,मैं और चाँद -बहुत देर चलते रहे.
उदासियों के अक्स आहिस्ता से ढलते रहे.
क्या बोलूँ क्या तरकीबे-ख़ुशमिज़ाजी है?
रगों में ज़ुम्बिश, पसीने क़ी बूँद,
चाँद का साथ,दिल में सुकून.

नटखट गुलाब .

लगा तो है पडोसी के घर पौधा
पर उसके दो नन्हे गुलाब
नटखट नादान बच्चों कि तरह
बाड़ में से मुंडी घुसेड़
झाँक रहे हैं
मेरे lawn में.

Conjunctivitis!

My eyes are swollen,red and bloodshot

Could it be a corneal hemorrhage or a blood clot?

Some things are lodged in there-sharp needles,dry grit.

And they impinge on my eyeballs-bit by bit.

I can not even cry except in acidic,mucousy streaks

My eyes sting;my eyelids creak.

I can not stand the light-

And sleep joylessly in the night.

Every morning my eyes are sealed shut as if with glue

And you smilingly call it just the Eye Flu?

Doctor! you don't know your cornea from the iris

If you call this horrible disease just seasonal conjucnctivitis.

Easy cheesy.

 We are busy
We want things easy
Yet I often think
That too much Convenience stinks
Take the example of a good cup of tea
Which needs just boiling with milk and water to be
Till some smart-aleck decided it would be easier if we could sip
A plastic cup full of tepid water with a bag of tea  going dip-dip.
When the train stops at a nameless station-
My soul longs for an earthy  tea cup homespun.
But the old-fashioned times are up
And all I will get is a flavourless plasticky cup

ग़ुस्सा.

कैसा अंधड़ है ये 

जो सब्ज़ शाख आ रही है रस्ते में

रौंदता चला जा रहा है 

जमे पांव पेड़ों के उखाड़ता चला जा रहा है

रखी थी कितने तरतीब से चीज़ें 

सभी के करीने तोड़ता चला जा रहा है 

कैसी सख्त तेज़ है इसकी आवाज़ 

कैसा तैश-तल्ख्दार है इसका अंदाज़

फूलों कि पंखुडियां मसोसता चला जा रहा है 

धूलों को राह से बटोरता चला जा रहा है 

ग़ुस्सा इतना ठीक नहीं.

खुद तबाह हो कर तबाही किये जा रहा है .

Udayagiri.

Clouds swim over Udayagiri
Mahua in bloom lazily leans
Lonely Cave Gods are anointed with flowers
Black Rocks are clad in Green.

बारिशों कि धूप.

आज निकली  है जो 

कई दिन बाद 

बादलों कि कैद से 

बहुत  मिजाज़ दिखाएगी

आँखें तरेरेगी  पानियों पे

घटाओं को जी भर मुंह चिढ़ाएगी 

भारी रहेगी हवाओं पे

साए चीर कर नेजे चुभाएगी 

बारिशों कि धूप है 

हिसाब बराबर कर जायेगी.

Sanchi.

Down the hill of Sanchi
Steps lead to monks quarters
Kadamb and wild Henna scent the air
Green and still stand the ancient waters.

Lights are lit in the town below
As cows and herders head home
Old stones speak so eloquently-
Of timeless glory of days bygone.

An Impression.

Restless,I walk in the damp night
Lapwings raise a shrill alarm
Only the neem tree is dancing
With a Yellow Moon in its arms.

Birthday Girl.

                                                                       

A happy Flower is blooming,

In my little girl's heart..

Her eyes shine like marbles

She has a smile that won't go away.

Her brother is her follower

Her parents are her willing slaves.

She dances with every step

And swings her hair so.

She is full of things to do

Will it be a red balloon here or should it be blue?

 She is dying to put on her frock

All frills and flounces and bows.

When will the evening hurry-up and come?

Her Birthday needs a rousing welcome.

मेरा भारत महान..

कभी कभी लगता है -
कितना थका सा जुमला है यह.
सिर्फ कुछ मुकम्मल मौकों पर दोहराने के लिए.
इस वतन में मेरे बहुत सी मजबूरियां हैं
नाकामियां और झुंझलाहट  भी.

कि यहाँ की हर चमकती रौशनी में लगे हैं
टाट-पट्टीयों के पैबंद .
हर बुलंद इमारत और लहराती सड़क
से आती है गोरख-धंधों कि बू,
और मुफलिसी के सिसकने कि आह.
फ़साद अक्सर उगते रहते हैं-
बारिशों में फैलते कुकुरमुत्तों कि तरह.
ख़त्म होने का नाम नहीं लेते
जड़ जमाये हैं अहमक कांग्रेस घास हों जैसे.
इक बेहया  आपा-धापी है ,
अपना घर बेच कर जशन मनाने की.
ख़ाली पेट,सूनी आँखों से मुंह फ़ेर कर दावतें खाने की .
जो मर्ज़ यहाँ हैं, सब लाइलाज से हैं.
उफ्फ़..

लेकिन हर बार जब यह वतन छूटा तो
खुद को कुछ ढूंढता सा पाया.
क्या वो पौ-फटे को चीर कर आती हुई आजान की आवाज़ थी?
या उसी में घुलते हुए गुरबानी के उजले बोल?
यहीं पर मैंने माता मरियम के गिरिजा में सजी आरती  देखी.
और देखे थे पीपल के किसी पेड़ तले
एक मंदिर और एक दरगाह
जैसे दो पुराने दोस्त हाथ थामे खड़े हों.

बहुत खुन्नसें बेधड़क निकाली हैं मैंने इस वतन पर-
जब कहीं और गयी तो जाना कि
नज़ारे तो बहुत हैं वहां, पर नज़रिया मिलना दुशवार है.
कि बाशिंदे जुबानें संभाल कर रखते हैं -
परिंदे भी इज़ाज़त बगैर बैठते नहीं शाखों पे
इंसां की क्या मज़ाल है.

फ़िर कहीं और गयी तो आई हंसी-
कि उनका कल तो जैसे बस अभी-अभी है.
तब अहसास हुआ -
कि यहाँ तो यादों के खंडहर
हर कदम पे सदियों के किस्से संजोये हुए हैं.
हर मोड़ पर खड़े हैं पुराने पत्थर,
हर ठोकर पे उडती है धूल दास्तानों की.
उँगलियों में बसे हैं पीढ़ियों के हुनर
और एक नायाब भीड़ है कारीगरी की.

वोह जिंदादिली की खनक
पुख्ता रिश्तों की महक
मुस्कुराने के सबब
बहुत मिले हैं मुझे यहाँ.
पर आज  शर्मसार, नाराज़, शिकायत -मंद
है यह वतन, पूछता है मुझसे-
सिर्फ तीन जुमले दोहरा कर
झन्डा ज़मीं पर फ़ेंक  
भूल जाने वाले,
तेरी वतन-परस्ती का माने क्या है?
मेरे कान बजने लगे हैं तेरी ख़ामोशी से
बंद आँखें तेरी क्यों थकती नहीं?

Commotional Atyachar..

                                                            www.cagle.com        

I wish to  complain

Against mobile phones in hands of people whose tongues move faster than their brains.

Of all the various forms of public pestilence

Enforced company of a mobile-enabled blabbermouth is the biggest nuisance.

 

Attaching these garrulous public-speakers to a cellphone

Is akin to feeding a jackass a double dose of growth hormone.

Now, I generally am quite easygoing and pleasant

A pro in handling hecklers and escaping smilingly  from jag-ratas strident.

But I shudder when I recall

my hapless encounters with people indulging in cellular 'free-for-alls'.

You maybe sitting quietly in a train trying to read or enjoying the scenery,

When you will get caught amidst noisy dialogues-all inane,grating and dreary.

Maybe you are engrossed in a movie or a musical concert-

When the guy in front of you turns out to be a cell-phone pervert.

Shattering glass and cackling child are his favourite ring tunes

And his cellphone erupts every two seconds like some maniacal baboon.

Cellphone abusers come in various types

But all of them are voluble yakkers who delight in publicly conducting their personal lives.

Be it the officious fellow who shouts at his staff while videoconferencing on a Blackberry.

Or the Nokia lady who brazenly discusses the money value of her impending Daughter-in -law with a singlemindedness scary.

The dude who wants people to know that he is settling a lover's tiff

Jabbering in the phone till everyone around gets a headache stiff.

On the one hand you are being subjected to this intrusive auditory and mental trauma;

On the other, tackling them creates unnecessary drama.

If you stop them you are meddling with their democratic right.

And if you don't  you must endure the verbal blight.

No I can not stuff my ears with earplugs or I-pod,

Somehow it gives me a similar feeling of having my brains gnawed.

I cringe at these memories-even as I write this-

I wish their vocal chords get a stroke and their tongues get arthritis.

I doubt that their tiny brains will ever get fried,

For no electromagnetic radiation can penetrate their thick hides.

But I pray that there is a special place in hell

For these deranged abusers of the cell.

Childhood Friend..

                                                                
I don’t know if I can call you my Childhood Friend or that of Adolescence?
But does it matter anyway-I know we will be friends till senescence.

Do you remember the gangly,gauche girls playing ball?
And sharing glances of empathy when surrounded by all?

Who understood each other without any understanding,
A friendship blossoming over distance,yet undemanding.

Sundays,Reader’s Digest,Bisi Bhele Bhat
Ferreting out recalcitrant cats.

Gossip,advice,confidences and future plans
Fondly remembered by me in India,a dear Amerikan.

Go find the next mountain to climb
And may your days be full of happiness sublime.

PS: This post was written as a Birthday Gift for my gal-pal Sandhya.This feels just right for the spirit of Friendship Day "Friends Forever" Contest by Blogadda. and Pringoo.

Lightness of being.

Clouds  pouring 
Their hearts out to Earth
Tears Of Joy!
 -----------------------
क्या बात हुई
बादल ने  खोला दिल
पानी-पानी ज़मीं हुई

उफ़!ये बेसुरे पंछी...

अल्ल-सुबह मेरी खिड़की के बाहर शुरू हो गया है शोर-गुल.
काना-फूसी करते बुड्ढों की तरह कई कबूतर मुंडेर पर जमा हैं .
और बतिया रहें हैं आपस में-
उन दो नौजवां गौरियों  के बारे जो दो चोंच हो,
चीखते हुए सुलझा रहें हैं कुछ ज़र और ज़ोरू के मसले .
बद-मिजाज़ मैनाएँ शायद पानी आने के इंतज़ार  में,
कर रहीं हैं नल पर खड़ी तू-तू  मैं-मैं .
मोर खफ़ा हैं  खटपटइए  की आवाजों से,
और मेओ मेओ  से तल्खी का इज़हार  कर रहें हैं .
कोयल फ़िर लड़ रही है अपने शौहर से
लगातार ऊंची आवाज़ में.
नामाकूल तोते इस माहौल में टें-टें 
की तान लगा कर रहें हैं सबकी हौसला-अफज़ाई.
और डर भी रहें हैं-
काँव-कांव की गश्त लगाते दरोगा कव्वों  से.
सच कितने बेसुरे हैं ये पंछी!
तुम्हारे FM की चमकीली, भड़कीली, रेशमी धुनों के सामने.
लेकिन फ़िर भी न जाने क्यों सुहाते हैं .

Waiting.

I can smell the rains in the air
I can see it in the multiplying critters
The dresses adhering to perspiring backs
Kids hankering for evening fritters.

And yet the pregnant Clouds labour
From Gwalior to Delhi
Without delivering
The wilful rains in their belly.

The air hangs still,heavy. 
Let us find a midwife
with magic potions
Or even better- a way with the knife.

Let us cut them open
We have been awash in sweat enough.
A different drenching would be welcome
I am sick of the cloud's bluff.

The Road to Suicide.

My heart is teflon coated
My feelings hygenically packed
in cellophane.
I live in a transparent
plastic box.
Cushioned by styrofoam.
Smiling my brittle smile.
Even when there is no air to breathe.
And from suffocation no release.
What should I do when Teflon tires
and plastic rends?
When messy reality intervenes?
That is the bitter truth of it all.
Time to say Goodbye Barbie Doll.

Psittacula song.

                                          courtsey:en.wikipedia.org

Ah the screechy, preachy Parakeet
All you want is rote and repeat.
Your colours brilliant are matched by your vocals
With you around there is never a lull.
Somehow, I feel if you were less teachery and strident
You  would be more popular among your feathered friends.

Tentacle Oracle.

Nonexistent brain,triplicate heart
What is it that makes Paul so smart?
He is the uncrowned World-cup King
Football prophet rather than of Cricketing
Wise choice lest the bookies kidnap him for his Art.

Malati (Quisqualis indica).

Over the window 

Quisqualis blooms
Dogs doze underneath
Gentle snores,heady fragrance
Fill the room.                                           

The Curious case of beaming Television Chefs!

I have a big bone to contend

With beaming television chefs who breezily pretend

That they find joy and bliss in cooking,

I would like to snoop on them as they actually  worked in a real kitchen and did not know someone was looking.

And see if chopping onions really leaves their makeup intact

The effect of a green chilly tadka on their respiratory tracts.

I would love to see them multitask

Without studio lights in which they play make-believe and bask.

When the cooker whistles,oven beeps and the milk threatens to froth;

Don’t they scald their fingers in panic and forget to add salt to the broth?

What makes them so ecstatic as they move from grinding chutney to chopping salad

They never falter,nor lose their smiles,as if in a well-choreographed ballad.

Whereas when I chop and grind

Dull monotony overtakes my mind.

 

And pardon my inquisitiveness

But I would like  to see if they really clean up the post-cooking mess?

For in my kitchen every dish is followed by dishes

Floating in the sink like so many shiny, slimy fishes.

The missing spices,the wobbly pan

The cutter that gets lost just when I decide to roll out flan.

All this I suspect they omit to  mention.

For real life cooking is fraught with tension.

Respect not Honour!

When
the minds
the hearts
and the eyes
of society
become polluted
Honour is made to hide
between women's legs
and constantly needs
to be avenged
by killing
raping and
moral-policing 
Women.

Proudly astray!!

                                              Moti

He was a runt –his ribs stood out

He cowered on hearing a human shout

Lurked near the rubbish dump

Salvaging leftovers from the gunk

Tail tucked permanently between the legs

Feral,furtive,dogly dreg.

Mothering a dog was not on my list

Already had more than I could possibly hold in my fist.

But there was no getting away from that gaunt face and the brown  eyes

Chewing empty milk cartons ,potato skins, or vainly trying to prise

empty jagged tin cans with his paws-

that brown teenaged puppy with a bloodied jaw.

So we carried some food each day

He waited to eat till we went away

And one day I imagined that his tail twitched

On seeing me coming-maybe just a little bit.

And why it funnily made my heart soar

How I started expecting him outside my door

The twitch tentative and hesitant

Gradually became a full blown thump ebullient

Now I contentedly walk with  dogs at my heels

And curse and scold as they jump and squeal

For Moti has friends and attendants

And all of them are egregious miscreants

Their hobbies include chasing squirrels,chewing shoes

And occassionally dragging in dead mongoose.

My home is now their official terrain

And no strangers dare trespass this domain.

Moti sees all of us off - my daughter as she gets on

the school bus;he  fawns on us on our returns.

He loves us but loves his friends too

And doesn’t panic each time we bid adieu.

He may not be a Labrador or German Shepherd

But he is handsome,proud and sharp- like a wild leopard

Lolo(my late lab) beams benovently  through some heavenly webcam

Her spirit smiling at this canine bedlam.

Monsoon!

Plump, comely

raindrops rush

to embrace

the wayward

flighty

dry as bone

motes of dust,

and pin

them down 

with reckless abandon

making the air heady

with the

fragrance of love.

Anchored and replete

their love

creates and multiplies-

greenlings

nodding their baby heads

all over the lawn.

And a hundred

moths,bugs,mozzies;

creepy,crawlies.

Birds applaud.

As they feast on

succulent worms.

The Zebra!

The Zebra is a cousin of the Ass
But with far better fashion sense and pizzaz
He swishes his mane with a lot of sass
And disappears elegantly in a black and white razzamtazz.

Kookaburra Gyms!

"A kookaburra(an Australian bush bird with a loud laughing voice) is undergoing personal training after growing too fat to fly because she ate too many sausages.The kookaburra got into trouble with her weight when residents at a Sydney park began feeding her sausages at barbecues."

(I promise I did not make this up-this is a TOI news item)

Misadventures in the Beauteous Parlour.

Have you spent a Sunday afternoon
Feeling swindled irritated and thoroughly buffooned?

 I wonder if you have felt the same
as I did when I innocently went just to have my mane tamed,

And received treatments numerous and arcane.
Hair Spa,thermotherapy and more rolling,ironings and pressings than I ever bargained.


By which time my hair lost what little verve it ever had
And looked gazooked ,startled and pretty sad.

Prompting the lady who runs the saloon
(who incidentally,looks like some copiously painted balloon.)

To say that it is not all that bad;and then sanctimoniously advise,
What you need is some streaks-maybe russet or red, to disguise-

the thinness,the grayness and the lack of volume,
and I wanted to strangle her but could only inwardly fume.

For I was already looking like a frightened porcupine.
And didn't want to go to the next level and look like a streaky,red something that would be disowned even by the porcupine.

So although the vamp wanted me to yield once more to her ministrations and rebond and colour my hair into lustrous locks,
And not just that-to detox,botox and smite my pocks;

I gently but surely and decisively threw her off the track
By saying that it would not be right for her to colour  me red and earn my husband's flak.

Russet and red would freak him out
He will get apoplectic and forever pout.

It's not that he does not like streaks you see,but being rather patriotic and traditional,
He prefers me to colour myself like an Indian peacock in green ,blue and some cobalt nominal.

Her jaw dropped and she gave me some spiel on customer care
I escaped to tell the tale:Buyer Beware!

Connotations of Lust.

So you have finally come-
You occassional visitor
Whose memory beguiles and sustains me.
For one whole year I have waited-
and lusted for this moment.
To lose myself in your enticing smell
To caress your ripe contours
To put my lips on your honeyed skin
To drink deep,to quench my pent-up thirst
Don't stop me now
I don't care what people will say
Allow yourself to be consumed beloved
Let the sweetness unbidden flow
Till I touch your unyielding core
And am replete. Yet not so much,
as not to want some more
Ah! heavenly,beloved......!
Mangoes.

Thoughts on forty!

My hair has gone sporadically white

And my tongue is sharper than my sight.

I  can tell the real from the fake

And I know when and which rules to break.

I still am a learner of the art of tact.

Of handling diplomatically the uncomfortable facts.

I know that living alone is not easier-

Nor living together breezier.

And yet you must take a stand,

Have courage to drop anchor in the shifting sands.

Shucks! Am I doing a retrospective?

By getting all introspective?

Let us talk of joys that nothing can dim,

My children  and my child-like pleasure in the Gym

Sure, I am not the ideal mom nor leaner or faster

But well away from being a basketcase parent or a lifestyle disaster.

Let’s talk of wrinkles: I call them mere crinkles

And my kids love how they define my eyes when they twinkle.

With them I rejoice

Being Forty is rather nice.

Oh rear!

                                                                          









O Venus! on your stunt risque and unabashed
The last word surely belongs to (Ogden) Nash:

"In the vanities,no one wears panities"

So now you will blaze the French Open flaunting an al-fresco derri`ere
Though we fail to understand why you should want us to forget your (elegant)game and remember your  posterior!

The Langoor!

The Langoor!
Is a handsome simian Moor.
He can climb and jump in a whack!
His pelage is silver his face black.

When he is not lounging in the sun
He loves to trapeze for fun. 
Yet,I find him not so gregarious
rather remote,haughty and serious!


picture: wikipedia.org   

The Lemur!

                                          picture: wikipedia.org   

The lemur !
His humerus is much shorter than his femur.

His black and white tail is twice his size.
He has  goggly,orange eyes.

His coat is dark
His face puny and stark.

He has tiny white ears
He doesn't talk-he clicks and jeers!

He lives in the Madagascar
For his funny-ness he deserves an Oscar!

what's in a kiss?

                                                        




  There was  a young lady on the make,
  ready to do whatever it takes,
  to climb to the top of the celebrity ladder.
   Kissing, for me is an occupational hazard,
There is no difference between men,lizards and snakes!

Progressively Treeless!

 tree cut by the BRT employees at Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg in the Capital  — Tribune photo by Mukesh Aggarwal





When all the trees have died
in making all the roads wide
and buildings glitzy and bright
We will condition the air inside
But who will stop the dust tides?
And where will the birds hide?
Till when must we blindly ride,
to meet an Oxygen-less,arid suicide?

The Drongo

  
When the drongo 
 Cries like a shrill trombone 
All the birds chorus and throngo 
A black,boisterous,avian Bongo 
Jiving and diving airborne Rambo
 A tattling, monger of tales is Drongo

Love,smarts and Dogs.

                                                             

I have a theory which can be easily validated

Dogs understand love,People are too complicated.

People’s loves are fragile,friable,needing provings galore.

People’s peeves are proliferous,and they always keep the score.

Whereas a dog with the wiggle of his bum,the thump of his tail and his liquid eyes,

lets you know indubitabily and irrefutably that you are the light of his life.

One more thing which is highly pertinent,

Is that a dog responds to your heart and will love you regardless of your being foolish,unsuave,ugly or bent.

People,on the other hand,are more advanced,and respond mainly to external cues,

Fretting over  their  own  and others’  looks,image,perceptions and views.

And,though semantics imply that dogs should be able to bitch,

We all know that,*that* is a uniquely human itch.

As for dogs,their itches are all physical,

And their fights ephemeral.

They fight for fun,and have fun while they fight,

Unlike people’s unenviable plight-

Of sleeping with their grudges and clutching to their pride

Letting their loves wither,not letting hate subside.

This,in short, goes to explain,

Why a dog is savvier about love,despite his smaller brain

Behenjee!

                                                                       
A lady,brash and rustic from UP

Brazenly bedecked herself with garlands of ruppees.

Building statues of self,and  flaunting power and pelf
is my style,and it works! -tell that god$*@#%d  preppie 
He may be the Yuvraaj,but I am the Queen of UP!

Kill boredom before it kills you!

                                                    
Every girl needs to giggle,
just as every bum needs some wiggle.
Bums and girls when tightly wired,
become dispirited,dyspeptic and dire.


Every wisecrack needs some banter,
every verse some commenter.
Jokes and verses when alone,
melt in the heat like an icecream cone.


Every important pompous upstart,
every monotonous,boring old f**t,
if they could discover the lighter view,
would spread more warmth,and cause less rue.


Every drudge doing the drudgery,
needs some laughs,all will agree.
Boredom and doldrums,it's very true,
slowly,humdrumly,surely kill you.

GaGa Saga!

                                                                       
The curiously christened lady Ga-Ga
Attired herself like some warlord Naga
She painted herself in dreadful hues and moved around in underclothes few,
Looking like some surreal quagga*
The atrocious,misguided lady Ga-Ga.

Quagga*(n)-A recently extinct member of the horse family.

The Shrike!

Impaler of dead lizards on thorny spikes!
The Shrike-
Yikes!!

Tharoor suroor!

                                                                             

The Lady from Dubai

There was a not-so-young lady from Dubai 
Who wanted to fly really High
So she got herself a ministerial Boyfriend
And stomped her feet for a piece of IPL pie
He lost the chair,she the pie-ah!the lady from Dubai.
 

                                                              
Ex- Minister's Woe

A suave minister(ex), nicely tressed
These days is looking distressed
Why,instead of following my tweets
Everybody is IPL and sweat-equity obsessed
Me and my Girl-we are Hexed! 

Lord ! make me Bounteous and Bootyful!!

                                                                

You need not know that Galileo preceded Newton
Or that a dead sheep in French is muton

Who was Keats, why he hated Byron
But you will be famous and rich if you are a sexy siren.

Even though you mistake the duodenum for the oesophagus
The world will still love you if you are steatopygus.

And that is why I intensely crave
Just for once to become a babe.

If I could be born again
I’d love to be JLo or Kim Kardashian.

Or to be more local and less contemporary
A Zeenat or Parveen in youthful glory.

Put me in any race,creed or era,
As long as it’s Helen or Shakira.

Make me Monroe , make me Cruz
Make me Hussain’s latest muse.

Multitudely,Pulchritudinous heavenly houri,
       Kaif Katrina , a Barbara Mori.

Bestow on me silken tresses,flawless skin that invites caresses.
Saucery eyes,beestung lips;tinny waist ,curvy hips.

Everything else would be meretricious
If I could be babelicious.