Slumber Trooper

Well, for the last couple of days now I've been having a wee bit of trouble dragging myself out of bed in the mornings. What I had initially speculated to be a 'Monday Morning' syndrome turned out to be more of a, errm... 'Monday-to-Friday Morning' syndrome. For some reason, my body seems to show immense love and commitment to my mattress and utter disregard for my phone's alarm.

It was on one such (not so) early morning when I was rushing to work, simultaneously trying to appease the Traffic Gods and chalking out a back-up plan for the to-do list at work, that my devious, un-repentant sub-concious self came up with the following:

I woke up late
From a slumber deep.
I can fight a mean battle
But I can't fight sleep!

My head was groggy
And my eyes were red.
My soul was willing
But my bum was stuck to the bed.

Eventually, I rose.
Mind triumphed over matter.
I dunked my face into
A bowl of icy cold water.

I reached out, and glugged down
A jar of coffee so strong
That it'd wake up a dead man
And send him skipping along.

And that's how I ended up
On the battlefield,
With my crossbow poised
And unwilling to yield.

I sought out the General
To explain why I was late,
And to make good the lost time
By sealing the enemy's fate.

I proposed I'd do that
By shooting them, two at a time
Thus bringing victory to our side
With the war still in it's prime.

The General stifled a yawn
Paused to adjust his star
And nonchalantly told me
That I'd slept through the war.

Magic At The Creek

It was a quaint summer’s day.

The sky smiled a benign blue.

A raspy wind teased tousled heads

And the vibrant kites they flew.

And the tousled heads that didn’t fly kites

Or play a game of hide-and-seek,

Were not engaged by a game of ball,

But by, the magic at the creek.

The creek in itself, was an exaggeration.

It had less water than it had hype,

For it was a mere trickle by the main road,

Caused by a crack in the municipal pipe.

I was among the bunch of kids that day

Assembled there to verify

Reports of baby fishes spewed forth by the creek,

With my own credulous eye.

And with the enthusiasm of little kids

Who’ve never lived by the lake or sea,

We promptly reached out with jars and tins

To take home pet fish for free.

I clutched the rusty tin close to my heart.

My fishes smelled rather foul

So I put the tin on my window sill

Until I could find a respectable fish bowl.

But like most tousled heads with fleeting minds,

With a thousand thoughts coming through per minute,

Other thoughts soon replaced the rusty tin

And the bunch of fishes in it.

Until, one day I was beckoned by

A throaty croak from the rusty tin,

And was amazed to see that the baby fishes had grown

Into the couple of frogs that lay within.

Mother said something about tadpoles

And life cycles at their peak.

But I stuck to my logical explanation that,

It was because of the magic at the creek!

Parting of the Protima

Well, I had originally penned this verse almost 2 years ago. The trigger was a rather evocative picture from the Durga Puja celebrations in Calcutta, captured by Shuboda on his website: http://wanderfulwalk.net/2009/11/13/in-the-long-run/

The reason this came rushing back to me earlier this month was, because I had ventured out on my 1st Pandaal hopping spree this year with a bunch of fellow enthusiasts (aptly spearheaded by Simi). We covered 3 Pandaals and I must admit I was completely floored by the elaborate idols and decorations. But what pleased me to no end was the sumptuous spread across the Oh Calcutta, Hangla and Sweet Bengal stalls at the venue. The exquisite, spicy sting of the Jhalmuri, the heavily layered indulgence of the Mughlai Paranthas and the delightfully crisp chicken chaap did their part to contribute to a divine experience of the culinary kind! Also, there is this inexplicable thrill of eating non-vegetarian food (legitimately, mind you) on a Puja day... It almost feels like you're flouting the rules *and* getting away with it : ) Anyway, before I digress and turn this into a food fest, here's the verse I was talking about:

After the telltale conch
Sings victory
And the rich vermilion

Proclaims glory;
With evil vanquished
And a job well done,
Yawns replace trumpets
As the mortals return
To scooters and tiffins,
To life's mundane call.
For, come Monday morning
Even the mighty fall.

There's also this picture that I had taken at one of the Pandaals in Juhu. I was given to understand that it was Rani Mukherjee's Pandaal (...No, I did not spot any Bollywood stars there!). But this is the sort of elaborate set-up that I was talking about.

Flight of Fancy

They gave you wings
To let you fly.
They taught you to dream
To reach for the stars in the sky.
They set you free.
They let you be.
They stood by your side.
They watched with pride.
And when you scaled new heights,
It warmed their heart
But higher meant farther
And that tore them apart.
But words remained unspoken.
Love didn't permit them to say
That you'd found your path,
But you'd lost your way.
For you never turned back
You didn't see their concern
The cage was golden
But you wouldn't return.
There soon came a time
When you paused in the sky;
You've travelled this far
But you can't remember why.
You're suddenly tired
As you stand there alone
You want to go back
But now you can't find your way home.

Concrete Jungle

It’s a beautiful world, the world I’ve seen,
In an unyielding grey and a glorious green;
Made of equal parts foliage and fibre glass,
It’s an elegant mosaic of cement and grass.
Forests may morph into buildings real tall,
But tenacious creepers still crop out of cracks in their wall;
It’s a tolerant world where trees and towers mingle
Welcome to my world, my Concrete Jungle

A Sinner's Soliloquouy

The sky embraces a murky night,
A mob of clouds trample the moon;
The intoxicated trees sway in a trance,
To the winter wind's melancholic croon.

But I embrace a murky fate,
Destiny tramples my life, my dream;
My hopes are crushed; I'm in a trance,
I can hear the death bells scream.

Lightning flashes an ugly smile,
The thunders roll in derision.
"A sinner pays the price of death",
The whole world screams in unison.

But in the gallows, the clouds condole,
With sepulchral tears all night through;
Until my sinning, putrid blood,
Stains the morning dew.