Bandra in my Nose

This whole land was the sea
And we stood on the shore there every day
Sand sprayed
With grains of salt in our hair
And the scent of fish dragging behind our feet.
Bandra smelt like the residue of the Ocean
Pure and aquamarine. Not like your cheap Cinthol soaps.
Freshness meant plunging into the frothy waves of salinity
Licking the seasoning off our lips.
And then the land was reclaimed.
The sea vomited on us
Repulsed by the fact that we had pushed her back.
So we threw out more shops.
Shops with spices to mask the putrid smells.
Vendors sold fruits to allude sellers to freshness
The musk of incense sellers, attar manufacturers and bakers,
The stench of milk and mawa makers
All found their place on the street
To distract us from the scents of our childhood
But deep in the heart of the bazaar
As I twist and turn through its narrowing roads
I find myself gravitating to the center of the fish market
With dried mackerel, pomfret, shrimp and crab
Oozing odours that dance with my olfactory senses.
I just close my eyes and find myself
Flooded with memories of the forgotten sea.


*Photo Credit: Makrand Karkare
** Musings for The Collage Collective Studio, Bazaar Road, Bandra

Selling Fruits with 2 Master's Degrees

HE
I have sat here all day.
Stood up sometimes.
Stood up cause
I could sit no more.
I can't stand it.
Stand it I must.
I must
I must
I am Indrapal.

ME
I am Karishma.
I have been sitting patiently
Waiting for the right thing
To come my way
I have many talents
Many qualifications
Degrees
2 Masters degrees.
One in English.
One in Social Psychology.

HE
I understand people's psyche
And have, Madam, mastered two
A double masters from Kanpur
In Sanskrit and Hindi
Try kiya maine
Everything I tried
But no luck
No job
Jo Marat woh karat
I sell fruits
Fruits that appeal to your senses
Mastering languages didn't work
But I still play with the tongue
I still please the tongue
With fruits
Juices that flow
That flow and melt on your tongue
Your tongue
You still have a voice

ME
I have a voice
I have a choice
I understand the mind
I work with lines
Powerful lines
Lines for brands
I sell my lines
To ad agencies
Lines that come from my being
I don't work for people
I freelance
Freelance as a writer
I am my own boss

HE
I am my own boss
I sell fruits on the street
No one to tell me where to go
Or what to do.
But at 50, I have asked my friends
To help me with a job in Canada
If I find one. I'll go
To Canada

ME
Canada is the neighbouring country
Of the United States of America.
That's where I will go
My husband is waiting for me
As I wait for my visa
Waiting to make the most of my time
But right now I will do my best
I am working on a play
Do you watch plays?

HE
I watch life. It goes by in front of me everyday.

ME
Will you come watch mine?

HE
I promise you I will.

*Theatric Piece for The Collage Collective Studio, Bazaar Road, Bandra

Geisha Repainted

Porcelain perfection had managed to white-wash some of the grief. Wrinkles of helplessness that were cracking across her sallow skin now seemed like a chalky blur. The ghastly pale outlines of her moon-face were intercepted by two craters of sighted sadness. 

She poked open a new box of pomegranate red, and pulverized other shades of ruby, granite and plum into one thick paste of promised happiness. The brush strands dipped generously into that bloodied concoction, outlining new lips of joy over that stoic face.

He was her only son. She cringed at the thought of holding his lifeless 12-year-old body. Flashes of his drowning face kept clouding her eyes. 

She had busied herself all morning, preparing his favourite Oyakodon and Makizushi. But it sat there untouched, cold and listless, screaming to be fetched from the dining table. There was nothing more that could hamper her already broken spirit. 

Looking back into the mirror, she had lost herself. The mask taunted her world, thwarting every feeling that clotted and festered in her heart. Her caked happiness just sat there unchanged, quietly protecting the turmoil within from the pretense without.

The next client was still waiting for her, shaking his legs with uncontrolled anxiousness.

She wore her pretty clown face, and got back to work.

* For 3WW

An Afternoon Stroll

She rolled up her hair as she walked through a garden patch.
Beautiful tresses of black silk were fastened in place by sticks.
The groggy green frog sat there croaking by the road side.
Cutlery unwound to click away on unsuspecting street food.

* For imaginary garden with real toads

** An attempt at the Koan style of Chinese poetry 

Gretel's Grouse

He rammed his head and cracked one of those cellophane licorice windows open. The gingerbread walls were crumbling at the scaffolding. He struggled to elbow one of the beams, but the chain around his limbs allowed for little movement.

Gretchen, a pedophile cannibalistic witch of the west, was preparing a new feast of plum cherry clafoutis with vanilla whipped cream. Muttering complicated incantations through cavity-eaten teeth, she skimmed through new dessert specials to fatten him up before the big sacrifice.

But where the heck was Gretel?

Gretel seduced Gretchen’s sharp tongue with a bowl of the previous kid’s leg in caramelized apples for dinner. The witch's lenient eyes rolled to the top of her head and she began to sleep, alternating snores with grizzly whistles.

So the sister managed to tiptoe into the hay barn the night before, promising the fattened elder sibling of a way out.

“Her life lies within the bugs on her bed!” discovered Gretel. “Tomorrow night it is. I’ll just fog up the bedpost and fumigate her to death,” she laughed.

But with peach melbas, pistachio macarons, lime-curd meringues and mango mascarpones on Gretchen’s menu for the week, Gretel had a slight change of heart.

She continued poaching pears of perfection as ideas kept brewing in her head. With Hansel on the back burner, she knew she could create magic on a plate. 

Chuckling at her new idea she gave Gretchen a wry smile.

Cause the next season's title of ‘Junior MasterChef Australia’ was going to be hers.

* For 3WW

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