Bollywood Revisited

Remember the good ol' times? The times post the black-and-white era and the reels that graduated from Eastman Colour? The times beyond sepia prints, 70s winged-eyeliners, conical bras and bird-nest hairdo's?

I'm talking about the times that have made an impression on every 80's child in India. It's called surviving a time warp that's now referred to as B.C. (or Before Cable). An age when Bollywood wasn't just fancy coinage for a film industry - But a way of life.

A time when movies made their way to dinnertime discussions on a daily basis. The epic era of bad hindi films (while some might argue that the said era hasn't ended yet), with movies so bizarre, that their connection to reality is purely unintended!

Films that shamelessly followed a set formula. Where lanky heroes with long side-burns were the norm. When being beefed-up and owning a 6-pack meant you had a promising career as a villain or a visible part of his posse. (Someone please throw Uday Chopra into that decade, NOW!) In fact, despite eating right and hitting the gym everyday, you'd have been tossed around like a toothpick in the hands of Mr. Scrawny BigStar himself.

I'm talking about a decade when Mithun's pelvic thrust was the epitome of all things macho, and an Anil Kapoor roamed topless, revealing his welcro-like back without having to bother about sex appeal (what's that?).

When heroes danced in 2-inch heels, wore their hair to the nape, put on horrendously mercurial Aviator shades, and strut around in costumes that would give Lady Gaga some competition. 

When 'stylists' were still called 'tailors', when a 'wardrobe' mean't double doors that open up to a clown's closet, and when 'heroine's outfit' implied a quick-fix from the previous movie's curtains.

Biker gloves, blue pantyhose, red socks and yellow pump shoes.
That's the way, aha aha, I like it, aha aha.

Bibs are not meant to be worn there, Ms. Kapoor!

Note 1: Curtains can be replaced by anything colourful or unusual. Even birthday streamers will do, so long as she looks like she's emerging out of Draupadi's forgotten costume, or a 7-tiered wedding cake.

When all-natural and voluptuous was considered beautiful. When women like Amrita Singh played lead roles (up until the point where she started resembling the hero's younger brother.)

When hotness quotients were defined by Rekha in her avatar as a cool vengeful fauxhawk-wearing  momma with a face-lift... and a tummy-tuck (erm, but the darn crocodile only bit your cheek, lady!). 

When skinny little Sonu Walias could fall off the stage (or the villain's life, or the face of the earth) if Ms. Ample Hips obliged.

When villains were put on a different kind of pedestal.

Firstly, the bad guy = bad GUY. (If you were a woman and a bad one at that, you were either Bindu, Aruna Irani, Shashikala or a slut. No grey shades there.)

Coming back to our typical villains, they came in different sizes of obviousness, cause subtlety is for wimps!
They either had a physical handicap (movies with Prem Chopra, Shakti Kapoor, Gulshan Grover, Danny Denzongpa and their ilk), were subject to some unexplained abnormality on the face (hairy moles, scar across eyelids) or were just downright ugly (Cause if you're ugly, you're going to be pissed with mankind, right?).

On the rare occasion  that life had chosen to be less mean to them, they'd sit on a skull throne all dressed up in alien clothing and a bad haircut (e.g. Mogambo, Shakaal, Dong) expecting the audience to cringe in horror!

Mogambo, khush hua!

Note 2: The villain's plans could involve hijacking a 2nd-hand cycle in a busy market area, but even such a seemingly irrelevant plan would've been strategized sitting in a helicopter that can land anywhere unannounced [air regulations not applicable].

Note 3: Our man, Scrawny BigStar, might have never set eyes on a dumbell in his life. However, when thrown into the fighting arena, he can take down 5 WWE wrestlers at one go. He's not called 'Jay' 'Veer' or 'Winner' for nothing! (Hint. Hint.)

Note 4: The hero might be a chauffeur or a vada-pav stall owner, but he (almost always) has the supreme wisdom to outwit the villain who has been planning to release weapons of mass destruction around the world since he was born!

I'm talking about that time frame in Bollywood when actors of today, like Emran Hashmi and Mallika Sherawat, would've been jobless for years! When everything around was symbolically suggestive.

Lip-locking and making-out was inferred when flowers (out of no where) would rub against each other. If flowers were out of stock, they'd replace the frame with oranges falling off the actress' body.

[Disclaimer: The video below is more than suggestive symbolism. 
Yikesss @ Jeetendra! You just killed 'sweet-limes' for me, forever!]

Flower on flower mean't happy times, but bee on flower mean't rape. Other symbols for 'rape' in that era include over-boiled milk (talk about corny imagery!), a goat staring at a butcher (again in the middle of no where), or an old creaking ceiling fan (erm, I'm still trying to figure that one out!) that continues to whirr till the end of what seems like eternity.

A time when animals seemed to have meatier roles in the film (pun unintended). Movies that brought 'ichaadaari nagins' into our collective consciousness such that you'd anxiously wait for every girl with light eyes to transform into a snake.

In fact snake movies broke lose a new genre of creativity to include plots that were as original as having Aruna Irani breast-feed a snake for reasons so bizarre, I'd rather you go and watch it for yourself!

If that's not all, we have Amitabh Bachchan calling a dolphin his mother; a pet pigeon who helps Anil Kapoor in robbery; and a pomeranian who behaves like the 11th incarnation of lord Krishna by saving Madhuri Dixit from marrying Mohnish Behl in Bollywood's longest marriage movie (Ok, so the last one was in the 1990's but they don't change overnight now, do they?)

With all their antics in place, these bad movies have made their mark in the most unexpected recesses of our minds. While some of us might pretend we hate that stuff, there's no denying how we automatically parrot dialogues and songs from movies long forgotten.

I just hope and pray that this disgusting Jeetendra-Meenakshi song was NOT a part of my earliest childhood memories!

WTF

You have kids all over the place.
One stuck in tuitions. One practicing lawn tennis. One playing with the neighbour’s Rottweiler. And one threatening to walk out of your womb any moment.

You’ve had a long day.

You clean, do the laundry, fold clothes, talk over the phone, play counselor to your husband’s sister, call the neighbor, shop, wash and clean some more on repeat mode.

You enter the kitchen and get started on making a complicated recipe. 

You toil and toil from gas burner to gas burner with 4 not-so-perfect batches of Navratna Korma.

The husband comes home and the aromas seem to be an effective mood-lifter. 

You're relieved that the 5^th batch wont see the insides of the trash can.

He takes a spoonful. Pauses. Smiles. You’ve nailed his mom’s recipe (Epic moment! After years of marriage and the 4th child on its way, you finally got him to agree to that one?!)

…And you give credit to the mirchi powder you used?

Bollocks!

Sometimes, I hate advertisements.

Rickshaw Ride

When your motor skills are slightly challenged and you have trouble with hand-eye coordination, you should instantly understand that - Driving is not for you.

But people sometimes behave like I love being called an imbecile or something. "Come on, now! How hard can that be? Driving is the easiest thing on the planet."

That's as good as yelling at a dyslexic kid about the difference between bar and bra. (He's probably too young for both in any case!)

Besides, if you have an internal GPS as warped as Moses in the desert, there's absolutely no incentive in overcoming this handicap of being a wuss behind the wheel. With a stroke of luck, if you've figured how to change gears while you foxtrot on the accelerator and clutch, you've probably forgotten where you wanted to get to in the first place.

To add to the mix, if your direction sense sucks, the last person you want clarifications from is someone from Mumbai city. My people are cool and all, but if there's one thing that I just don't understand, it's the fact that when it comes to directions, they can NEVER get themselves to saying "I don't know."

In fact, I think when Christopher Columbus was asking people to guide him to India, it probably was that lone Mumbaikar on his boat who jumped to the occasion and grabbed the role of playing navigator. ("Let's go straight," I believe were his last words.)

But I don't blame that guy alone. Clearly he's been raised in a city where official signposts beam at you with the profound confidence of a broken compass. Imagine my horror when I spot a bottle-green signboard in Khar West that reads Go Straight for Mantralay with no distance indicators. That's as good as telling me, keep going straight and you'll reach Bangalore... well, eventually.

Let's see, so here I am with all the permutations and combinations of reaching WhereTheFuckAmI land.

I promise to meet this friend for rehearsals on a Wednesday afternoon. "It's the second bungalow on Chapel Road, Bandra West. 2:00 pm. Don't be late!" she warns, knowingly.

I hop into a rickshaw and mumble the necessary keywords to get me to my destination, and continue to multitask with a sandwich, the cellphone and a book in tow.

We maze through millions of cars, buses, 2-wheelers, 3-wheelers, and dodge over the little hindrances in our obstacle race including THE divider, a bicyclist (who are they anyway?) and a cow's oblivious tail.

Through this chaos, I sit there beaming, cause it's 1:45pm, and for the first time in a very long time, I'm going to be there, On Time. Phew!

We reach Hill Road and I'm mean't to direct the driver behind the Indian 3-seater from there.
"Bhaiyya Chapel Road likha hai." He looks like he's going to call my bluff, and presumes I'm not from the city. He's lived in Khar-Danda all his life apparently and is convinced that I've got the address all wrong.

He defies me into asking someone on the street.
"Chapel Road?" "Chap-pill Road" I scream from the other side of the street, when a soft-drink stall owner points straight ahead towards a forked path.

A couple rights, lefts, u-turns, lefts, straights and zig-zags around the corner, someone suggests that I'm not even in the right part of the city. "It's probably in Malad," a passerby assures, again pointing straight ahead, towards Mantralay. Grah!

I look at the rickshaw guy through the rear-view mirror and charade my way by saying:
"Arre bhaiya, wahaan par sab bungley hai. Address mein Bungla #2 likha hai"

He parks the rick on the side and asks me to show him the address with the air of a veteran detective. Something dawns on him, and he looks mightily pissed with me. Grumbling through the traffic he takes me via a by-lane and points at a dilapidated signboard with 'Chapel Road' in clear letters.

"Kya Madam. Kaayko shtyle maarta hai? Chappal Gali bolneka na, seedha seedha," he says, waving his slipper in his hand.

I wasn't quite sure if he was still in the mood for playing charades there.

And I didn't wait long enough to find out.





Photo Credit: CNN

Soap Saga

This one isn't so much about telling a short/shot story as much as it is about commenting on one. 

And so I digress...

Indian television serials make for mass devolution (which is actually putting it very lightly. When, in fact, what I actually want to say is that making, acting or watching any of these shows is the quickest way of becoming a neanderthal). 

Agreed, this isn't a 'eureka' moment of sorts. Even a monkey with half a brain and no patience would know that it would be worth his while to count the grains of sand trickling down an hour glass instead of trying to follow a non-existent plot on prime-time. 

But then again, I confess, I fell for the old-boy charm of a popular yester-years baddy, MB. So going against my grain, I decided to watch the show. (I mean, how bad can it get, right? Worst case scenario, I could just drivel all over tall-dark-and-handsome and then wipe off the spittle).

Neanderthal Alert!! 

Fancy-pants-80's-bad-guy-who-shot-white-pigeons-for-a-hobby now plays a shy 45 year old virgin doctor who, I'm guessing, doesn't even strip while in the shower. 

And to make a predictable antithesis on 'opposites attract,' is a hyperactive, size 10, glossy haired, I-never-wanted-to-go-to-med-school-cause-I'm-so-cool twenty-something intern whose main purpose on the show is to make the virgin slash voyeur realize that he also needs to jerk off every once in a while!

The pace of the plot is a whole other thing. In the time that it takes the impatient, half-brained, Indian-soap-watching monkeys to evolve into human beings; our virgin doctor might have mustered enough courage to tell his lady love that he is now ready to see her lady parts from afar.

MB, we actually liked you in your bad-boy roles. Not because you were like the guy my mom warned me about. But more cause back in the day, you came up with the most memorable one-liners that set it in stone that a guy and girl could never be 'just friends.'

Now you're just old and creepy, and trying too hard. If you want to justify being a virgin at 45, you've got to take acting lessons from Steve Carell. 

Note to MB: This has been the toughest half-celebrity picture search EVER!!. I have an impression to maintain here. It's not easy when I call you drool-worthy and find every other image that looks like you'd fit well under the 'beware of absconding rapist' tag. Please Google yourself and see!  

The Voiceover

From washing gravity-challenged curls in cold water and stepping out in the blazing sun, to applying curds on the scalp and sitting under the air conditioner. From eating unbranded hand packed sickeningly sweet fluorescent candy, to gorging on 4 germ laden ice shaved golas on Juhu beach. I'd done it all!

This wasn't an I-will-test-my-immunity (or stupidity??) contest that I was trying to win, or a suicide diet to look pretty at death. Nor was I getting paid to conduct research on popular ways of contracting pneumonia.

In my defense this was, in all earnestness, an attempt to retain a 'husky' voice.

As retarded as it sounds, do you have any idea what it means to get complimented on a borrowed voice tone? Especially when 'normal' means that the inherited vocal chords vibrate only within the soprano range, and being 'excited' means emitting ultrasonic sounds that can only be appreciated by cats, dogs, and screeching bats?!

Thanks to common cold, phlegm, and the entire army of waterworks, there was hope. Let alone the fact that I now looked like Rudolf on Prozac, carried three packs of Kleenex in my bag, and couldn’t tell the difference between nutri-wheat-crackers and cardboard - I sounded perfect!

The cell-phone was ringing. The hottie-with-the-long-sideburns had his name flashing across the touchscreen. Dashing for another Kleenex I went through a quick round of the sniff-snort-cough-cough routine. Stomach tucked in, chest pushed out, I looked like someone in dire need of the Heimlich maneuver.
But the hottie couldn't see all of that now, could he?

The phone was answered in under five seconds.

'Huh lo-oh...' I teased. The femme fatale had just walked into the voice box.

I breathed out a wry smile, and continued to look like death. But it didn't matter.

Cause Jessica Rabbit had finally agreed to do a little dubbing for Ms. Swan.

Age Rage

If there's one thing that has triggered the mass fuck-up of the human race, it has to be the day when one klutz woke up on a Tuesday morning and decided to bracket people by the number of candles on their birthday cake.

Can someone please explain what would caution for age-appropriateness in behaviour?

So let's get this straight. You plonked out of your mother's womb - You did what you had to (or just slept for the most part) - 364 days rolled over, and then wham, everyone and their uncle stared at you like they were waiting for you to deliver on a magic trick. Well if it was one trick and they'd get over it, I'd even bother trying to ace it. But year after year, the expectations just get crazier!

This is where I realized that attempting to grow an extra organ might seem to be a lot more easy, but matching up to age-appropriate expectations is a whole other ordeal.

"Oh he's one already, and he isn't walking just yet!"
Why bother? Even if he prepares in record time, he won't be able to run the marathon next year.
Seriously, STOP obsessing over youtube videos of one-year-olds who can bob their head, waist and leg to Shakira. They're NOT normal.

"She's thirteen and we're praying that she gets her first 'period' in time."
In time? For what?
Be sure what you pray for. If she's ready to get her period, it's her body's way of also telling you that she's ready to have sex. This one can potentially fast forward you to grandparenthood, if you will.

"I can't wait to turn 18!"
Aah... cause NOW you're an adult. You can drive without your fake licence. You can also vote, elope and get married. Be careful on the outlaw side of things though. No more juvenile courts to save your sorry ass!

"21, woohoo!"
Clearly, you've just developed the skills to handle and hold your alcohol overnight. Now if you could cooperate a little, I'm trying to get you to vomit outside the car.

"Sullen times, babe! It's the 25th. Quarter-life-crisis just decided to bite me on the bum!"
True, presuming you're going to live to be a 100-year-old hag. If you're not meant to live a day over 60, then you're just 5 short of reaching your mid-life. Need more vodka?

"Three-Oh! You'll need Jeetendra's tabs to keep you going through the day!"
Jeetendra's been 30 for the past 30 years. It just dawned on me that they were trying to target my dad and grand-dad with the same pill!

Oh and then we have the un-missable (if that's even a word) classics that everyone's subjected to in one way, shape or form.

"You've reached marriageable age..."
"At your age, you should be changing diapers, not jobs!"

Really? So hang on a second there.

How come we never hear:
"You've reached the age of wanting to kill all your children?"
"It's okay, you're in the age of falling out of love."
"You'll be a nymphomaniac between 33 and 35. It's the age, they say."

See, if everyone could just accept that some of these anomalies are age-appropriate too, we'd stop freaking ourselves out so often!

But as people get older they like to skip over some of these specifics...

So that you can tie the knot, share a bed and bank balance with someone (how can you be so selfish and have the whole bed to yourself?!?!), become fat and have babies, just so that they can come back to you and ask,

"Oh, she's turned one!?! Has she started walking just yet?"

Sadists!

A little dash of Amreeka

You know what it feels like to give that usual smile to your paani-puri waala down the road, right!? Of course you do! Didn't we like totally like accommodate like this-is-what-the-next-gen-should-know kinda jazz from Family Guy and South Park? Aren't we in the world of Simi selecting and simpering over pubescent celebrity men in true cougar town shows? Haven't we often felt like Central Park was just a couple blocks down our street?
So then you know what I'm talk about, right? NO?!?

See, I thought we were doing everything the American way - where it's perfectly normal for a bus driver to greet you with a chirpy 'good morning', and for you to wave back without ever stopping to wonder if he's going to hijack the bus to molest-station.

"That happened in the late nineties, early two thousands...!!" I tchah-tchah'ed to myself all along the way. India's changed a lot since. What with FB, Twitter and the whole gamut of worldwide people on the computer screen, we sure have adapted well now, haven't we?

And so I went to the same old paani-puri waala who I'd visit regularly on my yearly sojourns to Mumbai.

With a mouthful of spicy gol guppas, an almost runny nose, and a sentence punctuated with appropriately slurp-ish sounds, he seemed pleased to have found my appreciation for his culinary skills.

"Hellooo Maydumji. Kaise ho aap? Aajkal aap dikhte hi nahi ho" he managed to mutter through his permanent smile in one uninterrupted breath.

I exchanged the usual pleasantries and made small talk, until I touched upon a seemingly personal question.
"Waise, aapka naam kya hai?" I asked, wondering if his name would reveal a little about his roots.

The habitual smile dimmed behind his glorious moustache. He focused on cracking the epicenter of the next puri with absolute concentration, and coyly revealed "Prem." 

I almost choked on the gol guppa in my mouth, and the spicy paani felt like a shot of wasabi streaming down those nostrils.
"Prem Dayal" "Prem Dayal Shukla," was repeated in quick succession which, if said with a little more panache, would've passed off as a good local impersonation of the classic 007.

Beaming ear-to-ear his annoyingly white, symmetrically toothed smile had returned to his oily face. Putting two extra puris on my plate, he casually asked me the same question.

Oops! Spurted it out in a matter-of-fact manner. How often does one go to their favourite street chaat corner with an alias identity in mind? Okay, I said it! The local paani-puri waala knows my name.

So what? It's not like he can do much with it. It is the American way. It's cool to know people on a first name basis.

So what if I now have a creepy looking picture of a 'Shukla' requesting to befriend me on Facebook!

Teenage Woes

I really don't know what happened.
Munching on new foliage of mulberry,
I fell asleep on the tattoo artist's chair.
And awakened to a rude change.
I've lost those curves and all my pretty feet.
My appetite's not the same.
I can't stand to chat with those sissy coloured flowers,
With so many annoying boys flitting around.
They say I've transformed into art on wings,
But I just want to go back to my cocoon.
Metamorphosis, my ass! It's the tattoo guy's fault.
I'm pretty sure I didn't ask for a blue Jesus on my lower back.

Ready for the Kiln

Your fingers.
Those long artistic feminine reins
With flesh, bone and supple skin
Met mine
Manly, unpretentious and calloused.

Your little palms
Were lost in mine
Finding comfort in the gaps.

Emotions cemented skin on skin
Contours and crevices well-fused.
We held our fate lines
In one firm squeeze
With the head and heart in place.

Giddied by your touch
My thick stubby hands
Transformed
Into dancing dervishes
That whirled and swooned,
Pivoting slowly
Around the wheel
Of your assertive palms.

Those small stern hands
Were indeed your own.
But in yours alone
Mine were clay.

Mrs. Black

"That's Mrs. Black," he cupped his mouth and hissed into Niki's ear as they saw her silhouette disappear into that narrow corridor on the 4th floor.

Now, now, that is far from making a racist comment. Apart from the fact that she had ballooning eye bags, an adolescent boy's upper-lip, and numerous spots (without the slightest hint of being indicators of beauty) all over her face; there was perfectly nothing wrong with the shade of her skin.

With overalls and underpants and layers in between, she was always bundled up in fabrics of the same hue. Velvet. Sequinned. Fur. Silk. Lace. Black. Invariably dressed like the moonless night. She lived alone, kept to herself, and always took the stairs without so much as exchanging two words with anyone on her way.

What did she do and where did she go? No one seemed to have a clue. Heads turned, actions paused and words halted mid-sentence every time she shadowed in and out of view. Neighbours would huddle from different floors and hang out in the lobby - spending hours on end conjuring stories on Mrs. Darth Vader from Room #402.

"An undertaker's widow"

"A professional mourner"
"Sinister's vampire sister"
"Voodoo witch woman" 

"The Devil's goth minion"
"A Cat living her 9th life" 

When in fact, she was - A perfectly normal woman, with a perfectly normal name.
She was just waiting to lose the last 10 lbs., to speak with confidence again.

A Bagful of Reminiscence

The brown satchel sat there, snugly tucked between her winter clothes and overcoats. She'd rummaged through this section of her wardrobe hoping to find something casual to sling along her left shoulder. 

The tan leather looked raisin-creased in an unaired closet with faded impressions from over use. She loosened the contents hastily, with the glee of a child waiting to discover the trinkets in his mum's forbidden drawer. 

Dried flowers. Lost perfume. Expired paracetamol tabs. 

Gooey chocolate. Gandhian coins. Sticky change in between. 

Deformed granola bars. Parched wet-wipes. Gunk.

Chipped sea shells. Two movie tickets. Cufflinks.

Duplicate keys. Pantyhose. An invitation card. Rust.

Sandy grime of time on things.

On photographs and filigree alike. 

She recklessly overturned the forgotten fragments on the cold floor. And then swept the remains into a biodegradable bin.

Realizing, that every once in a while even old memories can do with some recycling.

Waterworks!

The black sun grew bigger in that red almond sky.
With a parallel universe right across the nose bridge.

The horizon had welled up.
The ocean was overflowing.
The world couldn't hold it all together.

Waves collected over those mascara-free shafts.
Squirting outside the basin line.

Salt-water Waterfall.

It's Customary

They winced once, just before snipping a bunch of locks right above Leela's shoulder. Thick silky black strands clumped together in a loosened plait as they lay there, defenseless, on the floor.

Maasi began sharpening the razor blade against the waterstone, looking in Leela's direction for a hint of pain. But she sat there stoically, staring at the chipped wall in front of the verandah. 

One of them came to her side, while the other parted her scalp. The vermilion in the center was still fresh.
"It'll be over before you know it," they assured her as she sat there, without blinking.
Maasi came ahead with beads in one hand and a sharpened blade in the other, like a devi in her avatar. She smeared some ash on Leela's forehead and continued to dust her scalp with more granules of burnt wood and sand. With a few crisp wrist movements in the opposite direction, the curtain of hair dropped to the floor. Maasi splattered a cup of sandalwood paste to soothe the bruises and puffy hair follicles on that unprotected skull.

The noise had tuned out. The women were retreating.

They would never have to focus on her again.

It took a while to get accustomed to her new demeanor. The sharp jawline suddenly opened into a wide barren forehead, like a delta melting into the expansive ocean. Her tired eyes had lost its soul.
All that was left of the hexagonal diamond pin was a little perforation on her nose. 

"It's for your good," Maasi whispered. 

"With so many men in the house, you're better off this way. At least you won't ask for 'it'."

"If that is the case, how does this change?" Leela questioned with no change in intonation.

She continued staring at the chipped wall. The eyes were still dry.

Her voice trailed out, hardly leaving her trembling lips. 

"They did what they had to, despite him being around. Even though I hadn't asked for 'it'." 

Plane Differences

She was your typical window-seat person.

Walk in first and move out last.

Stuck in that little corner, she loved to stare

At the street lights from up above,

And their reflections in the sky.

She’d break her head over a cryptic crossword,

Or dig her face into a thousand-leaf book,

It didn’t matter if she shivered from the air conditioning

“Who complained about such a ridiculous thing?”

She’d wait patiently for her neighbour, to call
The flight attendant for an extra bag of pretzels

And request for a blanket to avoid turning blue.

10-hour flights were a piece of cake,

For she had mastered the art of manipulating her bladder.

While the kidneys worked hard on accumulating every drop

She’d wait till she was exactly five dribbles short.

Those moments of explosive discomfort

Would nudge her to poke the walrus next to her seat.

He was your regular aisle kind-of-guy.

With his right leg dangling freely outside, he’d make

Small talk with random people in the next row.

He'd keep pressing the light above his head

So he could get another glimpse of that P.Y.T.’s rack.

When the flight purser dished out safety instructions,

Our man in shorts would take a cat nap.

He would complain about the food

The service. And the booze.

Asking if it was free for the 14^th time.

Then rise from his seat and take a little stroll,

Counting the number of vacant seats to do a little math.

He’d snort, choke and giggle on a 3:00am flight

Because Chandler Bing said a funny little thing.

But when the wheels hit the ground, he’d be the first

To unfasten his seat belt and make a dash for the door.

They obviously didn’t meet

And nothing really happened.
Cause while he was out there in ‘Baggage Claim’
She was still stuck between the Window and the Aisle.

REM Adventure

He was still in the restroom, rinsing the remains of his last meal with a minty mouthwash routine. With one last impatient gargle, he ran his tongue over the ridges of his teeth to see if he had missed a spot. Satisfied he stepped out, into the darkness of an undisturbed room.

She lay there on her left side, in the foetal position, with her toes pointing to the wrong side of the bed. Wrapping her arms around her knees she slipped into the second stage of deep sleep.

He stared at her lovingly, while her feet twitched at 30 second intervals. Her shiny black curls spread across the paisley-printed bedspread like the tangled branches of a weeping willow on a summery afternoon. Her crinkled nose and knitted eyebrows told him that she was contemplating something.

He kept his backpack at arm’s length and continued to look at her. With a quick glance over the items on his checklist, he noticed that the flashlight wasn't there. He walked towards the store-room and found an electric rechargeable torch and a can of bug spray on the table. Putting the new items into his haversack, he headed back to the bedroom, and saw her in the same crouched position.

He looked confident and was better prepared this time around.

The frequency of her twitches had increased. She jerked and winced from time to time, moving anti-clockwise again. The feet took charge while her other limbs moved slowly in perfect synchrony. She turned a whole 180 degrees around till the neck found its spot on the accustomed mound of her slightly firm pillow.

She was in the Rapid Eye Movement phase, and he knew he had to be quick. He slipped in right next to her on the mattress and clasped her hand. Effortlessly, he placed the tips of his fingers on her fluttering eyelids and lifted them with ease. 

Astral travel is not for the weak-hearted. Holding hands they were suspended in mid air with no control over their being. He was tumbling across time and space, with his backpack flying freely behind him.

They'd committed to sharing a dream together.
The movie had just begun.

In Exchange

For the number of times that I have thought you don't exist,
I could have...


...sailed across 24,906 miles around the earth. 
And surfed on a sea of countless copper pennies.

...flipped through 478 crisp white pages in 963 old books.
And connected those shiny fragmented dots on an indigo sky.

...consumed 1,848 rich calories in every greasy meal.
And wasted endless hour-full minutes in wishful thinking.

...built five-story houses from 1,84,000 well-glazed bricks.
And installed a private salt-water lake made of tears.

But because you still dwell in the crevices of the heart.
And you survive in every gushing pulsating milli-beat.

The equations are now in perfect balance.

And I'm left with Nothing.

Who Pays?

Who drew those boundary lines on maps? Can you still see them from the sky? Who said who belonged where? How did it all begin?

If our country was born, who cut the umbilical cord?
And where is the forsaken mother?
If our country is free, who cut the shackles?
And who has had to pay the price?

Is there real freedom in democracy? Is our land in good hands?
So long as we stay unaffected, does it even matter?
Or are we making amends?

113 wounded and survived out of 134 - what do we make of them?
Have they lost a limb? Lost their jobs? Lost faith in tomorrow?
Were they bread-earners? Mothers? Only sons?
Can their families afford to look after them?
Are they treated with respect like veterans of war?
Or are we just choosing to ignore them?

With over 20 million people sprawling the city, does that small number affect anything?

Second Chances

It didn't happen very often any more.
It had been 73 days since they'd been to the home by the country-side.

Unbrushed, unkempt, it seemed like one of those 8:00 mornings when she would walk straight to the patio, opening her eyes to lush verdant liveliness.

The roof alternated slats of solid mahogany with clear glass creating a piano-like shadow in front of her feet.
She stood there in her night shirt and soaked in the morning sun like a little child in the meadow. Dull gold rays highlighted her cheek bones, revealing hints of crusty mascara and patches of unremoved make-up from the evening before.

He squinted in her direction, rubbing traces of indulgent sleep from stubborn lids, and stared at her silhouette with no guilt.

She was prettier than he could remember.

He worked his way into the kitchen and came back with two cups of piping hot coffee - Hers, 2% milk fat and his, half-and-half. Accompanying them was a tray of her favourite dark brown biscuits with sugar crystals encrusted around every edge. He put them on the patio table and carried their cups to where she stood.

"I hope this isn't awkward..." he paused looking away towards the hills. She took two steps closer and curled her fingers around his arm.

They had married each other 9 years ago.
It had been 73 days since their divorce.

Muted Thoughts

We sat there quietly in the snow,
Under the same moon of the year.
And slouched together, back to back,
Staring at the woods from two sides.

Filling conversations with muted words
We dialogued over thoughts and things.
She said I said she said I said;
Without so much as opening our lips.

Who'd break the silence?
Who'd make the first move?
She knew I couldn't
I knew she wouldn't

There were silences before.
The Sound-less silence.
The Judgment-free silence.
The I-understand-you silence.
The You're-a-bitch-but-I-love-you silence.
But the jagged edges of the How-could-you silence
Kept echoing all around the space.

We couldn't pick up from where we'd left
In five revolutions around the sun.
So we sat there tongue-tied, back to back,
Glaring at the same dark sky.

I wanted to remind her
She wanted to remember
The amazing friendship we had once shared.
But we continued sitting there, back to back
So that neither of us was cold.

ShotGlass gets a little Facelift

So I have strayed away from what you'd have expected otherwise.
*guilty as charged*
*insert an air of defiance*

But I've come to realize that my shot-stories are now beginning to look like doppelgangers of Rakhi Sawant - ill-timed, obnoxious and fake! So those little spurts of random imagination that seem to come together from la-la land have been handcuffed and thrown into the boot of the car.

What does one expect, you ask?

There will be moments of uncontrollable verbal diarrhea where I will vomit on your front porch and all over your shoes... but for the most part, I will try to keep it short.
(As Calvin {of Calvin & Hobbes fame} says:
"As far as I'm concerned, if something is so complicated that you can't explain it in 10 seconds, then it's probably not worth knowing anyway.")

Digression: What's up with squiggly brackets, huh?! Makes me think of BODMAS in math class!
*throws up again*

Coming back to our old charm - as much as you may deny it, I know you secretly love those skimpily-clad-implant-induced-item-number girls. So every once in a while when Rakhi does make an appearance on this blog, be nice and give her an applause!

There's no Fluff!

Swollen damp cotton balls have clustered over the horizon, conspiring over their own death today.

They've clumped their heads together with a shared fate, waiting for a cue from thunder's battle-cry.

Without trepidation they bash and botch at their neighbor's faces, leaving trails of liquid anger from the sky.

There are wars even in heaven. There's one every other day.

But for the flotilla of impatient people... Can anyone think beyond that traffic jam!?

Clowns!

An acrobatic dive,

A trampoline bed.

You finned your way

through those waves of fire.

Those ashen lungs.

An obtrusive red plum nose.

You resurfaced

to refill that breathing apparatus.

Gloating gills.

Fake painted smiles.

Only this time,

No one was laughing.

Inside Out

I smiled at the morning light that peeped
through unwashed, mud-stained windows.

Super sunbeam peeled through stubborn grime
and landed on the fourth marble tile from the left.

The crummy dirt-rimmed patches of nastiness on glass
made a mosaic of uneven polka-dotted shadows.

And my white little pariah in the spotlight
was a dalmatian gaining enlightenment.





Photo Credit: My dear friends, Ashwini & Kunal

All I Want is for You to...

Surprise me with custard apples in April

and snowflakes in Bombay's November.

Find me a flawless orange maple leaf

and ink my back with a black sea horse.

Sing to me with made-up words

and recite about love in a foreign tongue.

Cajole me into wearing fuschia silk

and tie up my hair in an unkempt braid.

Touch me without touching me

I wish to bathe in your warmth.

Spoil me for I can be spoiled

by nothing and everything.

Hold me on the brink of life

and breathe harder when I miss my breath.

Take me back to that little girl

who believed in flying with gossamer wings.

How Fruitful Was That?

In the orchard of excellence, the fallen peach was graded a scoffing 'F' for her behaviour.

Well-ripened and unabashed she lived by her will.
And plunged to a splattering death close to the family roots.

Unlike her perfectly plucked sisters,
who were last seen in the old man's commode.



Photo Credit: Designer's Terminal #66

What did you Expect?

That habitual 

glint. The

same dilated

size.

You searched

for my love

in her
willful eyes.

You stared

harder to

catch one

little glimpse.

Of a world

forgotten

and left

behind.

You looked

for my dreams

in her
wide eyes.

How would it

be there?

My love

was Blind.

A Defined Purpose

The little hint of dark Kohl in her eyes were intentional.

They lined the water gates and guarded those big Dreams under her concave eyelids. 

They had no other choice. 

They were told she was a visionary!

Dazzling Emotions

It had been eons since she was besotted by the sky. Her wavy dark hair circumvented her space sending livid ripples of love-lost fury in all directions. She gurgled towards him brimming with hope and love; and came lashing back home when she found none.

Until one calm dark night when she sat by herself and observed her muse with a smirk. It dawned on her then that she was actually mesmerized by those shiny little trinkets that covered every inch of his expansive frame.

So she scuffed, scuttled and shuffled her feet, without a second glance above.
For she had learned to braid her own tresses with stars.

Light Exams

He sat there quietly in the shadows of the night, memorizing his lessons all day.
But he couldn't remember all his lines, and knew there was a better way.

The wall suggested he copy from her, so she scribbled on herself with delight.
He winked and smiled in absolute relief. This had to make it work, alright!

The strict shrewd instructor switched the questions and threw him in an electrifying daze.
The lines and lessons danced before him, but he couldn't recollect the right phrase.

He stuttered and stammered and flickered all the way, unable to make his mark.
It wasn't easy to read notes off a wall when he was still scrambling in the dark.

It's all Well Arranged!

They lined themselves up neatly with a 'name' assigned to them. The men stood there impatiently, fretting about how long they'd had to wait! Each oggled lecherously at all the other girls, keeping one eye on his prize.

One lifted her off her feet, and then dumped her back on the belt. But with a bent back and a crooked nose, she still shined the name on her face. 

Another ripped and stripped her open, searching for his name. He didn't find what he was looking for, so he packed her up again. The others stared in horror, but raised only a brow.
"Not mine!" he shrugged simply, without an ounce of guilt.

She finally found the 'right one', and gave her hand out to reach out to his. But was so disappointed to see another buxom beauty resting peacefully on his trolley.

They quickly dried up their tears, and then laughed and sniggered at the rest.

How could they stand to be like those unfortunate girls, still waiting to be picked? 

Pin Pains for Poster Boy!

With a well-balanced head, she stuck on to his to-do-list through morning, noon and night.
And every time he crossed his work-station, she beamed and held on tight!

So when he put her on his wish-list's forehead, she secretly made her own.
She longed for him to hold her between his fingers and press her against the foam.

While her violent predisposition made her want to pierce right through his heart.
It might've been easier if she was a strong-legged, big-bosomed dart.

Alas! Dear Thumbtack, 

You'll only be his pretty Pin-up Girl!

Pan Waltz

She was spooned out of her comfort zone and thrown on to the steaming hot dance floor.

She sputtered and stuttered and sizzled on her feet. And then the broad shouldered yeast lord slithered in.

Together, they swooned and pirouetted in perfect circles.

Complicated footwork followed suit.

He dragged along, but she was light, light, light.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

Slanted Strides

When everything ahead looks black and white...

...you can't just sit on the fence and walk sideways, dear Minister!

Little Dents of Venus

Two well chiseled dimples were etched and engraved right above those cushioned mounds of fullness. 

I wonder what it was that made her back laugh so much, so often.

The Lone Student

With one hand on the snooze button he rubbed the sleep out of his starry eyes and winked open a sunbeam.

He was late for school, AGAIN! He quickly dressed into his golden yellow uniform and packed reserve batteries in his lunch-box.

There were shadow lessons with the clouds, and prism lectures with the rain.

He sucked at all subjects but they still called him BRIGHT!

What else would they say for the only one in the class?

Death Wish

On a short trip to the finish line, his porous bald head burst into a thick mane of bright gold.

Fiery yellow streaks shrouded his stick figure.
But it felt a little warm inside.



The man of color was blonde when he died.

Withering Heights

Wise ol' oak tree
Your concentric wrinkles have revealed your years.
You've stood there for so long battling your fears!
The roots have always been strong and steady,
Was it the stand-alone spirit that made you outlive your peers?


Wise ol' oak tree
Yours is a sad and meaningless strife.
For some inane rolls of toilet paper, they spliced up your life!
Botox and silicone were never on your wish list,
Then why is it that you were forced to go under the knife?

Guzzle On!

Slightly cool-headed Ms. Pinot Grigio was bursting to jump out of the bottleneck and be one with her long time love, Sir Whine Goblet, the Third.

She unfurled herself as hot passionate mist mingled with desire.

Transparent in each other's arms, we saw through them.

Through the wine.

Through the glass. 

Through their love.

They consumed each other in perfect unison, leaving little droplets of sweat on the unsuspecting drinker's palm.

Stupid little you-know-who!

Cupid, you cross-eyed little lazy bas***d! That terribly squint arrow of yours somehow found its way to my heart.

And now you leave with a half-assed job?!

Aim for THAT guy, 20 steps to your west...

*Twang*

...ohh nevermind that! 

SHE's pretty too ;)

Raging Relationships

The turbulent sea came flooding to the shore, frothing with all his might.

There were wave whiplashes, newly formed gashes, and to top it all he rubbed salt to fresh wounds.

And that's why she stood there like a rock.

Scratch Scratch!

Stars are proof that the guy up there has an itchy scalp and a severe case of dandruff.

Can someone at least tell him that he shouldn't dare to wear Black!!

Don't hold my Hand!

She believed in the cause of being one of those Paper Chain People.

Except when she wanted to scratch her back.

Out-of-order, and so disconnected!

A little impaired on the inside.

My judgment requires spectacles, the conscience is in dire need of a hearing aid, and the logical side is limping like it needs to touch the finish line tomorrow!!

Ctrl X - Ctrl V

Real life deserves a little bit of cut-paste too. But even those shortcuts won't work without the effin Control tab! :X

The Best place on the Planet!

I live in a city of quirky coexistences and visual oddities.

Where else will you find a Maserati and horse-led tuk tuk sharing road space before a street light, a street urchin with a smart phone, and a cab driver with a degree in Mechanical Engineering!

I ♥ Mumbai!