The Last Missed Call

Early this week, I lost a friend to an untimely and unanticipated death. As was his wont, he left us a bit of priceless advice even as he took the final walk – of always taking the calls that matter.
Two weeks before the tragedy struck, he called twice, and I couldn’t take his calls. I may have probably been in the midst of some important work, I don’t remember. But I do remember I made a mental note almost every day thereafter to call him back and speak to him. Just that I couldn’t. Two weeks later, I got a call that told me I was too late to do anything about it.
In retrospect, the reasons that held me back for those two weeks don’t weigh well against the loss I feel now. But there is little I can do now, except for remembering in admiration the effort he always made to go an extra mile for his friends. I remember that unassuming smile, and a phone glued to his ears, as he trotted across the campus attending to his daily quota of small talk with friends. I remember not only his facility with good humour, but also his compassionate countenance. And I remember his frequent pats on his colleagues’ drooping shoulders as he asked: “Why are you so glum, chum?”
Ironically, he has a reason to ask all of us that question again. Only, he knows the answer this time. But the least I can do for him now is to retain that sense of humour and his effortless smile. As well as to spread across the message that he always exemplified – to pick up the calls that matter. The phone won’t ring forever.

Housekeeping Has A Name

The health club that I go to is one of the most modish gymnasiums in suburban Mumbai. It boasts of an illustrious clientele (I don’t include myself in it!) of pot-bellied industrialists, toned and botox-ed film stars, and a bunch of twenty-something rich dandies and dudettes. In a stark paradox, you also get to see a handful of housekeepers there, dressed in staid uniforms nearly ready to tear at the seams.
The housekeepers stand at various corners of the gym, looking around curiously, and sometimes aimlessly at the machines and the jazz-exuding spin studios which they will probably never use. They hold a Colin spray or the like in one hand, and a damp towel in the other. When the big sahibs and the memsahibs finish their routine on the treadmill, they rush to the machine and dutifully wipe the sweat off every corner before the next fitness enthusiast hops on to it and trots away to a five hundred calorie burnout.
Occasionally, when he misses a droplet or two, an irate customer calls out ‘Housekeeping’ with all of a hand gesture or a curt clap. Or worse, that ever irritating snap of the finger.
Come on, people! The guy’s got a name. It’s no more than a second’s effort to know his real name, but it might work wonders for his self-esteem. Let alone the self-esteem, I think that is the least bit of recognition he deserves. Rationally speaking, the demand-popularity ratio is severely skewed for the poor chap. Everyone seems to need his attention at the same time, either for cleaning a treadmill or for getting their bottle filled at the water cooler. But surprisingly, nobody considers it necessary to know his name.
I’m not sure if I sound too cynical making a fuss of the whole thing. But I did give it a thought. If I walked into my client’s office and someone snapped his finger at me saying, “Over here, consultant,”, I would not possibly take to it too kindly. Would I? Or would you?
For those who are unaware, or have simply not bothered to be aware: you know that shiny thing on the housekeeper’s tattered shirt pocket? That is a name plate that bears his name in fine print. Next time, do consider walking up to him and reading the name. It doesn’t matter then, if you return to your original position and call him by his name.
Do not take that unassuming smile for granted. It comes at a price too. ‘Housekeeping’ has a name.

Indian Idol - talent hunt or a debris of hopes?

Somewhere in the corners of our vulnerable hearts, each one of us is a star. This belief is instilled in our minds like a tacit law, governed by our talent that people around us swear by. The adolescent girl in your neighbourhood is told by her friends that she is made to walk the ramp. A middle-aged man in a nearby village struggles year on year to have his stories published because the kids subscribe to his narrations with immense awe. Among the shanties that line up a distant suburb, dwellers reckon there is a certain rockstar among them. Riding on a million such assurances is a dream – a dream that all of us have seen now or before – of being admired as an idol. When we set off in insane pursuit of such a dream, there is but one emotion that catalyses all our moves – our self-pride.
A few weeks back, countless such dreamers congregated at what they thought would be the platform where they could show the world their flair. They lay outside the gates of the Indian Idol audition buildings for a whole hot night, yearning for that single moment that could convert their dreams into reality.
For most of these contestants, the smug judges sitting inside the hall may have been their idols they looked up to. I only wish the esteemed jury would spare a thought for the emotions, the pain, the struggle that nestled in the susceptible sensibilities of these people before lampooning them in front of an entire country. Of course, not everyone is necessarily as talented as one expects to be. But that does not warrant such assassination of emotions. Because at the end of the day, the self-pride is a constant. It doesn’t vary with the level of talent that a person claims.
If anything, a reality show should focus on encouraging new talent. That certainly cannot happen when its agenda changes to ridiculing someone’s emotions to an extent that he loses faith in his own talent.
Nobody is born a star. Nor were these three judges. Forget not that what goes around comes back, and it comes back hard.
(The irony that Anu Malik judges a singing contest is an altogether different matter. )

A Simmer Of Dreams

Saw her last evening in the front seat of a car,
A young face riddled with a grimace and a scar
A kerchief clenched in her fist, she struggled to speak
As a teardrop contoured along her pale cheek.

Seated at the rear, decked in Prada new,
The mistress screamed foul like an incorrigible shrew
“What an incompetent mutt you make as a nanny,
Gosh, use your brains! Or oh, do you have any?
You were asked to keep an eye on little Grace,
And not to run amok all over the place!
What were you to get anyway in that expensive mall
That you left my child behind for your meaningless trawl?
You do get ‘em all, good food and my old suits,
Why, then, must you act too big for your boots?
The laxity aside, you must have some nerve
To ignore the paradox between what you get and deserve.”

The nanny said nothing, but much did her eyes
Of the simmer of dreams that beyond them lies,
A simmer that sees no equations of affluence
It rises in every heart, like an unsaid ordinance.

“To your mind they seem like trifles,” she seemed to say,
“But such modest nothings are enough to make my day.
Your wallet rings louder, but I wish you would know
That human pride sees no class, high or low.”

The Devil Called Consumerism

I remember the first time I visited my favourite ice-cream joint in Baroda, circa 1989. It was a quaint hut-shaped shop, small yet inviting. I had topped my class and my parents had afforded me the liberty of buying two ice-creams that day. I chose a Mango-Vanilla cone, followed by a Chocolate-Vanilla one. I distinctly recall they were priced at Rs. 18 then. There was not much room inside the shop – just two narrow tables, one of which I stood against for support as I took my time to lap up the ice-creams. For the next seven years or so, I visited the same shop no less than once a week, which must have been a total of at least 365 times. But my choice of flavours never changed. There was something about the memory of the first visit that lingered on, and I stayed loyal to the same two flavours. Years later we left Baroda, much to my intense grief and resolution that I would never eat ice-cream anywhere else. (I did not really stick to that.)
Last weekend, I took my wife to Baroda. On our way to the same ice-cream shop, I told her about that unique smell and ambience of the shop, and how it had come to be my first love. But when we reached the joint, I saw something that wrecked my nostalgic reverie. The hoarding was in tatters. The tiles on the floor were evidently not being cleaned. And the smell was gone – probably overpowered by the aroma of a McDonald’s outlet somewhere nearby. On enquiring with the staff, I was told of the diminishing demand of the shop with the advent of various branded outlets in the last decade and a half.
“Impact of consumerism,” my MBA-wife threw in a smart one. I cringed. I looked at the menu card in dismay. The simple, earthly names of Mango-Vanilla and Chocolate-Vanilla had been renamed to ‘IPL Twenty-Twenty Mango Ripple’ and such. God knows what that meant, but it sure didn’t feel the same any more.
I’m quite the victim of consumerism myself, so I can’t scoff at it. But there’s something about this devil that has taken away a prized memory of a place I associated myself with. For the sake of a few such chronicles, I pray that a part of our past is retained. And while the world may subscribe to the classiest outlets today, I still prefer my narrow table to lean against as I take leisurely bites at my cone. At any rate, it is more fulfilling than a ‘Finish your ice-cream in three big bites and win a free trip to Timbuktoo’ contest.

A tryst with the Lord

We were at the Hilton, Mumbai on the evening of Saturday, minutes before the MI/RCB IPL clash. Fans had thronged the lobby with autograph books and throbbing hearts. After a long wait, familiar faces (heroes to some) began coming out of the front elevators in trickles, building up the cadence in the hotel, slowly but surely. As kids and grown-ups flocked around them alike, we observed the pointed gleam in their eyes. The stars reciprocated, some with autographs, and some by getting just plain chatty with the crowd before they headed out towards the bus.

And then a few minutes later, the security guards began persuading the crowd to step back a little. A certain excitement gripped the air as five bodyguards blocked the passage between the main foyer and the elevator. Out came the Lord himself, in full blood and flesh, like a divine ray of light. There was a moment of silence, almost disbelief, before the crowd erupted into a loud roar chanting 'Sachin' like obsessed devotees. But unlike the other players, and much to the disappointment of many, he went past everyone without as much as a cursory glance of acknowledgement. His eyes and face gave away nothing - not the ecstasy of his achievements, not the dismay of betrayal when he was in the pits, not the grimace from his endurance - just a stoic calm that said he was not done yet. He was there not for the accolades, he was there not for the titles. He was there, only to play for passion.

And while some misconstrued his indifference as sheer arrogance, I saw it as the mark of a true champion with a linear focus.

One Hell Of An Over-rated Word! (Presented to a college magazine)

Dear Students,

My first indulgence in the word ‘love’ had resulted in a rather demoralizing catastrophe. I was eight, and I told little Florence sitting next to me in class that I loved her. God knows why – maybe it was a fallout of the boring math class that needed a pleasant digression. She told on me, and I got smacked on the knuckles by the teacher, who glared at me like I had engaged in the biggest profanity there ever was. A day later, my mother was summoned, and I was given another sermon at home the memories of which are not endearing either.
In the days that ensued, my frail sensibilities gawked at the ruckus created over a word that, we were taught, was but a simple expression. Years later, I realized that the moral lessons on love missed an important caveat – that the word had indefinite prerequisites associated with it. Today, in order that I can love, I should be a) wealthy, b) well qualified, c) sensitive (whatever that means), and preferably d) a well chiseled body that can pass off as a wax statue. Just for the record, Florence finally chose Francis over me because he was a product that fulfilled all the aforementioned criteria (and he also gifted her a soft toy).
In hindsight, the entire concept of love has become so complicated that we humans have become compelled to treat it rather frivolously. We revel in our cash registers, wine & cheese, and even in massaging our boss’ ego at work. With so much to do, there is little time for love. Add to that the technology we so insanely make love to, and we are left with nothing but an i-Pod in our hands and greed in our hearts. What the heck, our i-Phones today can even sing lullabies for our babies – why do we need worry about true love and compassion?
Let’s step out of the parochial view of love now. Our school textbooks had a pledge printed on the front cover that taught us to love our fellow global citizens. The global love is about as real as a hologram, but we are presently in a situation where we find it hard to love even our own countrymen, or our statesmen, or even our neighbours in the society. It is probably high time we bring down the standards of a good citizen then to the quality of ‘tolerance’, rather than ‘love’. Let us first set up a pledge to be able to tolerate people around us, to not give in to social, regional and religious misgivings, and to build a peaceful world. You never know, a miracle called love might just follow.
Even as I write, I get a call from my parents. And I realize, some relations make you realize that the world is indeed a nice place, and people are nice too if you look at them the right way. Thank God for the seldom felt unspoken love!

Let The Candles Shine Brighter

This Thursday will mark the anniversary of a dark day in the country’s history that no Indian would ever want to forget. The gory visuals flash across our eyes once again, and a seething pain runs through our veins – a pain that can probably best be fathomed by my fellowmen who were present at the sites or by those who lost their loved ones in the tragedy. Today, we ask ourselves once again – has the common man woken up to the assault?
First things first. This was not the first terror strike that has shaken us. There have been plenty. And by now, the common man – which includes you, me and every other person who has asked the above question – would have garnered sufficient prudence to realize that something needs to be done. This was affirmed by many an angry voice a year back, as well as today. Very well, yes. But I reckon it is worthwhile to sit back, ask ourselves what the ‘something’ is, and get started.
As commoners with limited offices, it is reasonable to argue that there is not much action we can initiate except for sounding preachy, that often veneers towards sounding hollow. But if we cut through the fetters that bind our thoughts, we will see there is much that can be done.
For starters, it is imperative to appreciate the importance of internal tolerance (if not brotherhood) before crying foul over the foreign forces that act filthy with us. Sure, terrorism is a burning issue. But let us not ignore the pressing need for first accepting each other the way we are, and for putting an end to the factionalizing of our fellow Indians.
We still get into meaningless brawls on the roads. We still argue over which God is greater. And we still resort to violent assertions over regional rights to local residents. And then we hold candles to pledge solidarity. Do we not see the stark paradox?
A tragedy of unforeseen proportions struck, and we were all out on the roads, conducting protest marches(I’ll make no bones of the fact that I was a part of those marches too). The intent behind these acts is well taken. But did we ask ourselves of the real value they brought to our objective? For all you know, those marches may have affected a fellow Indian who was trying to get to a hospital in an emergency. When the solidarity mattered the most, the voter turnout in the elections was not so much as fifty per cent. Sadly, this speaks very poorly of our will to fight for our rights.
Think about it. What might go a longer way in helping India would be to take ownership of individual responsibility. Why don’t we form groups of like-minded people; identify and promote able youngsters in whom you see the perfect bureaucrats of tomorrow - a much better deal than to hold placards demanding the damning of the current government? Why don’t we stop asking why the Indian defense and intelligence infrastructure are not as efficient as the FBI and the CIA, and start contributing with our little bits of responsible civilian behaviour, so that the attention of these forces can be focused on the real issues at hand? Why don’t we render a smile of gratitude to the security guard at the mall for taking those extra six seconds to scan our satchel so he can ensure our safety, instead of scoffing at him for delaying our entry into the cinema hall?
Let’s ask ourselves these questions. They need simple answers which can be addressed within the realm of our own little capacity. These answers might just kindle our minds. And then, the candles in our hands will shine brighter. And longer.

What's Your Worth?

This morning, I held a copy of my new novel for the first time. It was a magical, almost surreal moment to see in complete flesh and flair a product I had been trying to give shape since the latter half of 2007. An interesting journey this, of over a year and a half - compiled by moments of ecstasy where ideas flowed generously, months of frustration where I nearly pulled my hair out for want of ideas, and eons of uncertainty as I faced multiple rejections from the publishing fraternity before finally landing the right choice. A friend asked me how easy was it to cope with the impatience and anxiety. To which I replied, "Very difficult, unless you can remember to always ask yourself the quintessential question: "What's your Worth?"".

Circa 2005, I was attending a B-school fest with some friends from college. Not surprisingly, I was not who you'd call the shining MBA star in the group of twenty, who was to achieve something magnificient in any of those contests. While the other nineteen had proven their prowess in some contest or the other, I had not so much as made it through the elims of any of them. And this ugly truth was brought to the fore by one of them, who said as we all sat for dinner: "Come on, Nishant, will you ever show your worth somewhere at least?"

The triviality with which the comment was made was not important. It was the hurt that lingered within for months at end that got me to ask myself, "What indeed, was my worth?" I found the answer in due course of time and discovery. Today, as I see my books in the store shelves, I am glad I've managed to answer my friend's concern. I have shown my worth - if not to him, at least to myself.

My discovery of my worth is in doing what makes me happy. In pursuing my dream. In challenging myself. And whenever I feel short of breath or tack in the chase, I remember that dinner - those nineteen sniggers, and the one important, maybe unintended advice: to realize my worth.

Humour yourselves with this question. You never know when it helps you take the otherwise unimaginable flight of fancy.

The Plan

Of a forgotten year, there's a memory I recall
Of a few bright stars in the school's felicitation hall,
I scuffled for space in the corner of an aisle
To cheer for Maria as she picked her prize with a smile.

I asked Maria out but she didn't care two pence,
Seek friends among equals, she said with insolence.
An injured ego and a broken heart then drew a plan:
'Tomorrow I'll be something, for I know that I can'.

In the name of inspiration, arose evasion tactics,
When I stacked heroic biographies and motivational flicks,
And in the dead of the night, a rendezvous with my dreams
Would assure me that success is as easy as it seems.

Days run into years, and years into a decade,
A hundred resolves broken, a thousand others made,
I still sneak out the paper that contains the old plan,
Saying 'Tomorrow I'll be something, for I know that I can'.

Life moves in a rut, resolves get difficult to keep,
I try dreaming big, but simply drift into sleep.
Tomorrow I'll be something, and I know that I can,
But defining the 'something' is the next part of my plan.

Last night, I watched an insipid film that had everything a film should not have - a bad script, gawdy costumes, a hero who smells bombs when he is not being the cute chocolate boy in college, and a 'bebe' who hams like there is no tomorrow. But I'm not complaining. I made a choice, and a mindful one at that. The promos had got me sufficiently aware of what was in the offing, and I still gladly trotted along to the movie hall.
But then, there is something surreal about cinema that attracts me to it. It pulls me into its charm. It makes me want to believe in it. I have almost started pining for the power possessed by the protagonist. I mean, I could use some divine smelling power so that I can pre-empt my boss's attempt at peeping into my screen as I write this waste of a post!
I flourish in the vicarious thrills of being a hero some day, of riding bikes in the air, of dancing on stage even with two left feet, and of romancing a princess after rescuing her from a bunch of terrorists. Suddenly, cinema makes everything seem alright. Hail cinema!

The Secu-LIAR-ist Ideology!

There are quirks of this society that never cease to surprise, or rather, rattle me. A friend of mine was recently denied the purchase of some property in Mumbai - reason: he is a Muslim! Quite shocking, I'd say. It's routine news, some others might say. But the point is - I think it's disgusting to think that people can have such parochial mindsets in what they call the advanced era of a modern India. I mean, to stoop as low as to deny someone an equal right based on his religion is pretty shameful. But let's leave that aside for now.
What I fail to understand is, how do we have the (in)sanity to indulge in such trifles after witnessing such heinous forces already trying to disturb the harmony of the country (it's barely 5 months since 26/11, guys!). Is the bitterness that they are trying to spread in here not already enough? Is it wise to give these external demons a reason to laugh at our own inability to live harmoniously? How much sensibility does it take to consider the existence of compassion and humanity beyond a concocted boundary of religions? Food for thought, everyone.
For the property owner who prompted me to write on this hackneyed topic - do remember, the world goes a full circle. Let not a day come when you find yourself seeking a plush home abroad, and you are denied one simply because you are not of the same creed as the others. But if it does, you will probably wish you had been a little more broad-minded towards your own countrymen. Don't take this suggestion to heart. Take it to your soul, if you have one.
It's no good faking integrity and unity and..what was that word again? Yeah, SPIRIT! - if you can't get your basics right. To sum up what we stand as even after witnessing a hundred 26/11s already, I'll end by re-writing a few lines I had recently penned:

We limp back to life on a busy city street,
Where meaningless trifles turn up the heat.
Curses turn into blows, and blows into bloodshed,
Each man for himself, unity be dead.
Those demons laugh at us as we busy ourselves in the brawl,
And we still proudly claim: United We Stand, Divided We Fall.

Meru - RELY ON US! - Whattay farce!

A few days ago, I had to make an urgent trip from Malad to Nariman Point. I must've been damned when Meru's tagline RELY ON US registered with my sensibilities, and I requested for their service. What I saw was a stark example of how a brand's performance goes tangentially away from the values it boasts of. Here's a snapshot of the proceedings:

4 PM - I call Meru RELY ON US and ask for a cab; am told it will pick me by 5 PM

5.15 PM - The cabbie tells me he is stuck at the nearest signal to where I am waiting, and he will be there soon

5.25 PM - I call frantically, he is still stuck at the 'same signal' (Now the same answer is repeated each time I call, till around 6 PM).

6 PM - I blow my top, take another car, and call the Meru RELY ON US guys to tell them how unhappy I am.

Now, there's one thing called customer dissatisfaction, but what I got here was augmented customer dissatisfaction, if ever there was such a word. For, when I called them simply requesting them to pass their phone to their team leader, they either refused, or they simply dropped off. On the fourth occasion, they obliged and made the team leader speak to me. Now, in a desperate attempt to salvage the image of Meru-RELY ON US, the team leader launched a senseless tirade against me, accusing me of not being watchful enough, and telling me that the cab was at the required pick-up point at sharp 5 PM! Obviously that meant that one of the cabbie or the team leader was lying! And lying rather stupidly!

The rest of the experience I had with the team leader is best forgotten. But my only inference from the whole episode is that Meru RELY ON US can't quite be relied on. Surely not when you have an emergency to attend to. The services of a company that can't respect its customer's time commitments are best left to experiment with on a lazy Saturday evening.

The Other Side Of The Fence

I recently attended the Mohit Chauhan concert organized by a bunch of college students in Pune. The lawns had been divided into two clear factions: one was the designated VIP zone, complete with its plush sofas and an exquisite arrangement for comestibles-on-demand; the other was a lowered slope which was an open area for the college students to stand and watch the show. Clearly, the latter option looked much more colourful and vibrant. Students stood in huddles, swaying to the tango, and singing their hearts out sans inhibition.
"Let's take that option, it gets me nostalgic," I suggested to my colleague IC, who had unwillingly been dragged along for company after getting an assurance that I would shield him against any salvos that his demonic boss would fire at him for leaving an unfinished code at work.
"The organizers won't let us in," IC grunted bemusedly, "we have the VIP passes. And anyway, these students are happy because they are free of guilt. They haven't got here by lying to anyone. I still can't believe you convinced me to threaten my boss that I'd puke right in his cabin if I didn't leave office early."
"It will be worth it," I laughed, "let's get in now."
The organizers checked our passes and guided us to the VIP area.
"We'd like to stand there," I requested, pointing to the lowered slope.
"Sorry Sir, that's for the students," the boy resisted, "you've got VIP passes."
"That's ok," I argued, trying to shove through, "we were also students three years back - not a big deal."
"That's three years too long, Sir, I insist," he stood firm, "please take your seats on the other side of the fence. You'll be more comfortable there."
The show was on, but I felt something was amiss. My mind drifted continually to the open area, to the crazy jigs the students performed together in sync with the soulful songs being rendered by the performers, and to the three years gone by that felt like eons. And then, Mohit began explaining the lyrics of a new song he had composed, which talked of a bird's desire to take a long due flight from the hills down to the valley. I felt Mohit was scanning my thoughts as I gazed down at the slope to my left. I was the bird, and my wings flapped with candid anticipation. But alas, I knew not the route back to the valley.

A Shackled Soul

The child under censure looks for a freeway,
Paper boats and fables don’t quite make his day.
Scoffing at the fetters that shackle his soul,
He prays to be a man, so he can be on his own.

The distressed young man breathes out of his window,
Smothered by a cocktail of stress, greed and ego.
Sweet nothings of yore left behind, many a mile,
He prays to be a child, so he can remember how to smile.

Child to the man:
I’m done with the sermons on the person I should be,
Why can’t the world just let me be me?
The scores I bring home define my parents’ love or disdain,
You know not the anguish of constant embargos and refrain.
I envy you so, for you can tell good and evil apart,
And you have the freedom to let that special someone into your heart.

Man to the child:
I’ve wings to fly, but I’m dizzied by the height,
There’s not a soul around me on this dark, gloomy night.
I crave those lazy naps in the noon,
Looking back on a fond era that passed by too soon.
When you fail, your mother does comfort her son,
But as today I fail, all I see is an empty room and a loaded gun.

United We Stand

The paparazzi scream out a somber story,

Filling our senses with images gory

Of a wounded child walking through a hundred shrouds,

Searching for his mother amidst those smoky clouds.

With a silent prayer, I try to sleep every night,

But the littlest of noises wake me up with a fright,

Each step that we tread on is now a landmine of fear,

And the demons from the other world look at us and jeer.

But they can't break our strength, we stand brave and tall,

And proudly we claim: united we stand, divided we fall.

A gallant cop kills and dies for a cause,

But we bicker listlessly about ethics and sketchy laws,

A life too precious is laid down in vain,

As his commitment to his brethren is flushed down the drain.

We limp back to life on a busy city street

Where a meaningless trifle turns up the heat.

Curses turn into blows, and blows into bloodshed,

Each man for himself, unity be dead.

Those demons laugh at us as we busy ourselves in the brawl,

And we still proudly claim: united we stand, divided we fall.

The Brook And The Maple Leaf

One little brook wends its way through the wild,
Letting out whimpers like an abandoned child,
It searches for a friend that is lost since long,
Cries out to the maple leaf an invoking song.

"Dear maple leaf, where have you been?
It’s been ages since the horizon together we’ve seen.
Come let us go see the sun set again,
Relive the moments we savoured back then."

"Dear old brook, I miss you as much,
But we can meet no more, our fate is such,
The moisture in you makes me lose my sheen,
So I’d rather stay snug in the wilderness green.

In my adversity you sailed me through,

I know you care for me, and I love you too.

But times are anew, and you are no longer sweet and pure,

The velvet grass where I lie is a better lure."

The brook falls still, stricken by grief,
In shock and dismay, turns to the maple leaf:
"Do you forget the day you were in want of direction,
And I had taken you along to your destination?

You now need me no more, then so it will be,
Stay rest assured, you’ll see no more of me,
I’ll flow till eternity and merge with the ocean,
One day you’ll wither, you’ll remember me then."

Avaricia

I chased her slithering silhouette under the crimson moon,
Her fragrance filled the forest air, and my heart began to croon.
I looked her in the face when I reached the riverside,
My heart skipped a beat, and I asked her to be my bride.

Innocence met radiance, and converged into her eyes,
Her head tilted downward coyly and refused to rise,
Softly she said, “Marry you I will,
But not before I tell you what’s for you beyond that hill.
On the top of that hill lives the world’s prettiest dame,
Her looks are a snare, Avaricia is her name,
If you ask for her hand, all you have is one chance Sir,
For a single question is all you can ask her!
Another question asked, and she will melt into the air,
So choose your question with wise thought and care.”

“I’ll ask for her hand,” I said in glee,
“No other question then will mean anything for me!”
I then ran for Avaricia, across the length of the forest,
Leaving behind an angel, in quest for the best.

I found her on the hill after an hour’s long find,
And the angel’s warning crept out of my mind,
“Are you Avaricia?” I asked her faintly,
To which she nodded and smiled briefly.
“Will you marry me?” Was my next question to her,
And in a flash of a second, her image began to blur.
When she was out of sight I knew what I had done,
I prayed in vain but I knew she wouldn’t return.

I ran back for the angel whom I had left in greed,
To make her my bride, once again I would plead,
But after another hour’s run when I did reach there,
All I saw was the silent river and her fragrance in the air.

Fifty-fifty in the mind

He walks in nimbly, with a marksheet he wants to hide
From the loving parents who say he is their pride.
Fifty-fifty in the kid’s mind: to admit failure, or simply lie
And drown deeper in his guilt as each night passes by?

A tiny morsel in her mouth, and two bellies to feed,
She faces a dilemma between love and greed,
Fifty-fifty in the cat’s mind: save it for her kitten, or have her fill
And let the young one sleep hungry in the December chill?

A plump young lady eyes a succulent chocolate slab
That impedes her will to fight her ugly flab.
Fifty-fifty in her mind: to resist, or to surrender
And shift her slimming deadline to another date on her calendar?

Hoping for his maiden win, he hits the shot of his last set,
And the ball stops for a split second as it hits the tip of the net.
Fifty-fifty in the player’s mind: Will today be his game,
Or will he yet again return, hanging his head in shame?

The penniless, abandoned old man holds a prescription slip,
There’s a car at the crossroad that might offer him a tip.
Fifty-fifty in his mind: stoop down and beg, or stand tall and firm,
No matter if his illness makes him scream and squirm?

With a prayer on his lips and a racing heartbeat,
He sees her approach him, and he gets cold feet.
Fifty-fifty in the lover’s mind: Will she hold his hand and smile,
Or will she walk far away, far, many a mile?

Autobiography of a Wall

I am a wall, dead and cold,
But hear me out, I've a story to be told,
Of the place I've seen for years two score.
Hear me out, before I fall to the floor.

The loving patriarch of a family of four,
Had built me with love and care galore,
I stood tall in the courtyard, through sunshine and rain,
For the family that bonded through laughter and pain.

I was the canvas for the toddlers' meaningless art,
And a love letter for the doting wife, so she could speak out her heart,
And I still bear the marks of the wet vermilion-coated palms
Of the elder son's wife who was welcomed home with open arms.

But soon I saw a sad turn of the tide,
When one day the old patriarch died,
A spate of misfortunes then found its way through,
And a feud between the siblings began to brew.

One said to the other, "To deal with you is tough,
I'm moving in next door!" And he walked out in a huff.
Thus, the boys who once used me for graffiti and child play,
Used me now to veil the hate, that was growing by the day.

The distraught, widowed mother often leans by my side,
And in my million crevices lets her tears and wails hide,
When I see what's around me - hatred and pall,
I oft thank my stars I'm made an expressionless wall.

I heard I'm going to be razed and remade,
So each brother gets his space and ends his eternal tirade,
I invoke them to rather destroy me as a whole,
If that can revive bonhomie in their lost soul.