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.