Cat Addict - Poetry Slam, Mumbai

Because they're felines and you have no choice. They took over the internet, and will slowly take over the world!

Behind the Screens...

It's a hard job, growing up.
I finally understood why people stuck to safe occupations like medicine and engineering. I'm a media-brat and over the past couple of years, illusion after illusion has shattered and left me reeling. Why?
You know your joy back in school when your favourite author responded to your fanmail? Or that fizzy warmth when your Tweet was favourited by your superstar crush?
Yeah, I'm a social media executive, and this is my tale of dissatisfaction.
I tweet.
For myself, yes, but more for my client, and my other client and another client...
And I help others tweet for their clients. Hell, if there were such a thing, I'd be Yogi-T. Okay, so maybe that's an overstatement. But the point is that as a media person, you realize that nothing is sacred.
Statements are not given by people, but their PR teams. That awesome letter from Deepika Padukone? Probably written by her publicist. My tweet which was favourited by Sarah Kay? Possibly social media exec for her.
See it's really easy. While Social Media has made my life better (mostly by giving me a job), it's also made stars happy. This is their means to interact and showcase an audience-oriented face, while they're just hiring desperate job-searching freshers like yours truly to network for them.
In fact, in this scenario, we should be proud of blonde-ettes like Alia Bhatt and Sonam Kapoor. They're obviously new to this game, which is why they're so bent on giving their own statements. As Kay-Joh said in AIB's Save-Alia video, "You can't expect them to be hot and smart..." and there we have it... Poor little girls without a social networking team! Notice how controversies have no responses by Tweet-happy celebs? Because we're strictly briefed by our bosses not to take pangas... "If there is any potential controversy, either say away, or, if it's important, then get back to the client."
In which case, since 'the client' is obviously bad enough at networking to need us, the thing never sees the light of day. Tres simple, non?
So this is why I'm upset.
I just thought back to all the people I nursed huge crushes on because of their witty responses and their zingy personalities, and I realized... All PR and publicists...
Heart. Broke.

Kahaani Kuch Jyaada Hi TV Ki

The midget is your usual TV-enthusiast child-of-the-90s.
I love my cartoons, and my RomComs and SitComs and have a particular soft corner good-looking men with sexy accents.
I don't usually rant about the media, because, let's face it, my bread-sans-butter comes from all kinds of media thingamies. But there's one thing I cannot suffer silently, and that's the soap-opera. More specifically, the Indian TVC's contribution to soap-operas has me fuming.
Because in a country where they only need the dream of the hint of smoke before they call the fire-brigade, the blatant kitchen-sink politics they showcase, even glorify can contribute to some unpleasant domestic situations. Our TVCs show violence, greed, crime, adultery, emotional abuse all in the guise of 'entertainment'.

It frustrates me. So I did what I always do when frustrated. I wrote. And then performed it. Here it is... Kahaani Kuch Zyaada Hi TV Ki

Responses welcome.

Critique encouraged.

Please do fight with me on this one. I'd love to have a chance to rant impromptu!

Why, Laptop, Why? - Pune Poetry Slam

Because technology gets us hooked and then tests its power... Why, Laptop? Why did you have to do what you did to me?

War Poetry

The transistor belted out speech after speech about the same old things.

Patriotism, valour, war, death and more death.

It was supposed to be encouraging, it was supposed to inspire those left at home to go on with life. The crackling electrical surge that was passing, characteristic of those times, sighed in despair. These two-legged creatures were so strange. They sent their men away even though they didn't want them to go. The men went to this 'front' even though they were scared of never coming back. They all hid their true feelings, only the children catching the mood and crying, a mixture of fear and confusion.

The surge had travelled all over the warring world. It had seen the same scenario everywhere. It had seen the late night despair of the young men, little more than children, in the trenches, it had felt the deep, hidden anguish of every telegram, every letter home. It picked up what the ears of creatures attuned to the highest frequencies missed. It passed the silent tears of futility, the blank silences of surety on the airwaves. It was affected, it was deeply scarred, but unlike these humans, it was doomed to go on forever. It would never get to die.

Conditioning

She looked up, as if in slow motion. The words she had just heard were echoing in her head like they were being played back to her on repeat.
'Since when.,' she wondered, 'Since when do people think about this concept when they think of a dance show?'
Apparently they did, these days... And now, she forced a smile, acutely aware of the hopeful face in front of her, looking for a reaction. So she reacted as she was expected to. She smiled, looked as if she knew something nobody else did, and said "Cool. Let's see..."
And the song began to play.
It was one of her favourites, one she invariably associated with waiting, with yearning (apart from the lyrics being about the same)... She associated it with him.
And she knew he wasn't coming. Heck, she had made the decision herself, but there you have it. The song went on, and the beautiful girl in front of her danced on, and despite herself, she found herself thinking of him. She saw his grin as he met her, his smiling down at her, and felt his soft kiss on her forehead, as the song reached its climax in front of her.
She realized that there were tears in her eyes and pity in that of people around who still didn't know the truth... And she felt worse. But she responded as she was expected to... "That was beautiful, you guys... Does anyone have any suggestions?" And under the cover of responses by others, she brought her mask of stoicism back to her face, ready to be the practical one.
Heartless, he had called her. Scared. And over-thinking.
Selfish, he had also called her. But she still couldn't bring herself to tell him about all the tears she had cried because of him and all she had changed because of him. And she wondered, was that her really being selfish? Because she still loved him, and his songs were still his songs and they still made her cry...
But she took a deep breath and carried on, bantering with her performers and friends, making notes of details and wrapping things up.
As she left the building, she realized that she was humming to herself. It wasn't his song anymore, it was that beautiful dancer's song and she was the face in her mind, exulting about her love.

My Life is a Box

My life is a life in a box

Everything I own fits in a box

Every family member has a box.

I live in a box, sometimes out of a box.

Everything can be folded, just so

So everything has a proper place to go

All my things fit neatly one by one

New things replace the old stuff with which you’re done

There’s a master-box called ‘Life’ with a shiny red button

It’s the trigger that’s activated all of a sudden

And wham! The world springs into motion

Moving from hill to plain or ocean to ocean

Everything wrapped up in paper or plastic

Fit in its box, defying all logic

Nothing of life as we knew it remains

The four walls, once a house, now nothing’s the same

My room, the bookcase, bar, cupboards along

We move on and on and on and on

When I was young, I thought this was it

This was what every family did

Come home one day, the boxes are out

It never ends, all the moving about.

Eventually I guessed that it’s not a norm

Not too many others move on and on

So many times from one place to the next

That houses are static, I’d never have guessed.

I’d taken a flight before my peers did

I’d seen more new schools than any other kid

Somewhere in each new school I found

A familiar face from my past around

Every old friend was still different to me

We all changed, place to place, do you see?

Every new school was a chance to start fresh

Who you were from class to class was anyone’s guess

The nerd from 4D was the jock of the year

In 7A that shy chick from 3C appeared

But holy crap, she’s popular now

And how can you like THAT 10B cow?

Oh everyone changes from class to class

Like scenes from a movie, nothing much lasts

Your best friend with whom you played in the dirt

Now is the player with the mini-skirt.

That guy you always thought was a geek

Is now the one all hot girls seek

And you, the observer, from next to the wall

Don’t assume you haven’t changed at all

You’ll eventually all meet up once more

In a world where Facebook can even the score

And “Oh my God, you’re so different!” is the standard hello

From people who once you claimed to know

The Pandora’s box of your life the opens up

And reminds you that you’re still stuck

Amidst boxes.

Boxes with neat school-based labels on

Boxes with multiple names scribbled on

And some with no name that you’re scared to touch

For fear they might reminds you of too much

Every box opens into a wonderful world

In the past when you were a littler girl

And the boxes weren’t quite so very many

Neither were they ever quite so heavy

As life begins to become more multi-hued

Your boxes increase in number too

And when people talk of some vague ‘baggage’

You actually have it, in physical luggage!

You’re capable of lording it over

Any rummaging, kleptomaniac hoarder

And eventually, in the chapter for the life you led

There’ll be a list of box-contents instead

Love, or Something Like It

He has dimples

And a kooky sense of humour and books, he has books!

And books and books and books… All around the house

And he was sweet, and caring, and quiet and closed and young and old

He was a box of muesli

All these bits and pieces coming together to make a helluva package

For those who like the stuff…

We were the creative couple, the one with potential

The ones that were both ourselves and intense and messed up

And we had eyes only for each other

He was that elastic band that never stops stretching

That’s just strong enough to make you go back

Once you’re tired of searching

He’s a dreamer, with this vision and this mind

Which can blow yours

And an ethereal, dream-sequence

And that poem that you try to analyze and cannot

Because it’s so convoluted

Like that calculus problem you’re tussling with

And loving every last second

He is a memory and a reality

He is 3am on a curb, between parked cars

And Marine Drive on a windy evening

He is lightning over the sea and the silver lining around the clouds

He is bun-maska-chai and Blue Riband Duet with sprite

He is not here

And we no longer exist

But he is. And he will be. And someday

As he accepts the Nobel Prize for something

I’ll look around and boast

“I know that guy”

The Bed Next Door

The bed next door to me used to be

A comfy place to sleep in

Now it’s just a space

To store blankets and books and cats

Even the cats don’t go there any more, in fact

The bed next door to me is waiting

Waiting like a dog for the man of the house

Like a little child for its mother to awake so it can play

Like the breathless waiting for the final ball of the match

Waiting like a bed for the butt that’s supposed to lazily lie

And the slob that’s supposed to spend the mornings in it

Waiting for the mass of uncompromising lazy

And the comforting certainty of being worth something

The bed next door to me used to be a comfy place to sleep in

But now it’s a vacant waiting room

With vacant chairs

Occupied by vacant stares

Looking into vagueness for something that isn’t there

Waiting for the train to roll in

For the doctor to see you now

For the results of the entrance test that decides your future

The bed next door to me is a petulant little child

It refuses to wait

It throws off patience

It throws tantrums

It wails and stomps and screams

It demands

That you with the lazy butt

Come and calm the storm and sleep all day

And make it all better

Because the bed next door to me?

It’s annoying with its emptiness

And its unending waiting

Because it’s a bed, not a storage space

It deserves to be treated better than to be used

To store blankets and books and cats

Even the cats don’t go there any more, in fact.

Height Versus Heart

Sure, there are a lot of people out there who make the height requirements for roller-coasters and don't need to roll up the legs of their trousers for them to fit. But let's face it, there's also a large number of girls out there who don't need to have endless legs and modelling-stats to be your ideal, no matter how tall you might be.
Date a shorter woman, because no matter who you are, you will fit together like with nobody else. She can lay her head against your chest and hear your heartbeat, which, she knows, at that moment, is all hers. You can rest your arm on her shoulder comfortably, and hold her as close to you as possible when you're in public, without having to worry about BO and such problems, because her nose is safely away from you.
Date a shorter woman because you can take her out, and she won't feel bad about wearing her gorgeous shoes with the impossible heels. She'll love heels of all kinds, and will love you more for buying her more, which solves all your gifting woes.
Don't be worried about all the effort you'll need to put in to date a shorter woman, with regards bending and accommodating lack of vertical endowment. You have an entire world of staircases, ladders, balcony parapets, table-tops and counter-tops to explore... Don't forget the allure of kissing a girl you can easily lift up to meet you, allowing her to hold you around your neck and cling on. Just think about how much you mean to her, as she walks with you, relying on your higher vantage point in crowds, your capacity to ward off unwanted elements... Date a girl who is not vertically blessed because she'll look up at you when she talks to you, and there's very few things as touching and heart-melting as someone you love looking up at you the way she will. And you can gaze into her eyes and feel like you're looking deep into her soul... Because it's like looking deep into twin depths that exist just for you.
Date a girl who is short, because you'll never walk with your nose in the air, and you'll learn to appreciate the small things in life. She'll love being engulfed in your arms because they'll make her feel like she's in a particularly warm and comfortable quilt. You'll make people smile, wherever you go, because the contrast between your heights will be clear and endearing. You'll always look cute in photos, apart from a little effort to get in the same frame.
And the best part is that you'll never take each other for granted because of all the effort of stretching and bending to hug and kiss and cuddle. You'll keep her grounded, and she'll help you reach for the stars. Date a short girl because they're often the most kick-ass people out there, because they want to make sure you don't overlook them...
So don't exclude a wonderful woman from your list just because she's not got long, endless legs... She'll have so much more to make up for it, you'll wonder what the attraction of the long legs really is...

Inkblots

The two little girls played in the winter sunlight, running and falling as only children can. Their parents watched from just close enough, he had his arm around his wife's waist, she leaned into him. They were proud as peacocks of their offspring. She looks at him, marveling his versatility. At work, it was inconceivable that this man was the gentle rocking horse he was now. The strong hands and forearms transformed into cradles for the kids, monkey bars they could hang off; he could be anything they wanted him to be.
"Daddy... Daddy!! Come here!!" the older one demanded things of him with a proprietary right. And he responded. His wife giggled as she watched her nearly-six-foot husband run and jump and roll around with his daughters like a bunch of puppies.
They lay in bed at night, reveling in being together, and she chuckled, "You might be a terror on the job, Mr. Fauji, but you're a harmless bear with your girls."
He laughed and held her close, "My girls? You're one of them, you know..."
"Hmm... But your little girls will grow up like I did; wondering why in the name of God anyone would be scared of their father."
She turned on her side, laying her head on his chest, stretching an arm across to his hand.
"You're actually proud, you softie!"
He put his arms around her and cuddled her to him, smiling up at the ceiling "Of course I am."

Mobilization

Underground, the armies assembled.

The had already split up into their battalions and were positioned according to the instinctively formed battle plans of the higher command.

Above them, huge trees twisted and contorted and tossed their heads in strange ways. The rumbling had already begun in the distance..

This couldn't have been more perfectly arranged if it had been staged in front of a green screen.

The perfect setting, timing... It was coming.

The humans were exulting in their accurate predictions, little knowing that they'd known about this day forever, underground..

They'd been training for the day that they would finally survive the human race. And then the centuries, the millennia of being crushed and swatted and trampled and sprayed at would all be made up for. Their antennae twitched in excited anticipation, their exoskeletons gleamed.

It was coming.

Love Songs

I have most definitely not had enough
Of silly love songs.
There's plenty and more around
Making sure to keep it real.
And enough to pull me down to earth.
But there aren't enough in the world,
These silly love song.
They give you hope, these love songs.
Love so easy that it fits in a line.
Feelings full of meaning but so simple;
No complication, no confusion.
A look, a touch, a kiss, a sigh.
Love can be just you and me;
No past, no future, nobody else.
Love is you, love is me.
When we're together, and when you're away.
It can mean so much, yet so little.
But my love is mine;
And my love, it's yours.
Yours to hold and keep, or shun, if you feel.
Mine to smile with, fight for, and keep safe in my scrapbook.
Mine to think of, and hum
Hum those silly love songs.

Traffic

"One chicken sandwich and one muskmelon juice" she exulted at how she had managed successfully to circumvent the "Madam do you have change?" problem. Nobody dare ask her for change when she was paying a fifth of her note.
She sat down and looked around.
The exultation wore off as quickly as it had appeared. Now what?
She looked at her phone. Oh crap, no service. Couldn't edit things either, the stupid battery was low.
She looked around again. The road in front of the cafe was crowded, dusty, broken and gravelly. Why anyone would occupy more than half a road in India for roadwork was beyond her. It was sure to result in... Oh, there it was. The invariable traffic jam and argument.
One man, one group of labourers, and a huge scoop were yelling at each other, while others in the resultant traffic snarl craned their necks to see what was going on.
She was quite amused. Maybe a poem could come out of this... She looked doubtfully at her phone... Would it live through a creative spurt?
Just as she was gazing at it in an attempt to gauge its mindset, the guy arrived with her chicken sandwich, which he hovered around her face looking around for the customer who had ordered it. He took it back inside, ignoring her frantic waving; her voice lost in the argument anyway. He brought it back in a second, and put it on her table. Then came with her juice.
Now she had something to occupy herself with, she allowed her phone to rest for a while. She'd remember this stuff later, she wasn't a sieve.
This sandwich was delicious. And the juice always made her happy.
She ate. And sipped. And sipped. And ate.
And it got over.
And then she got up and left.
Because she had already paid up the round-figure-no-change amount.
The traffic snarl had cleared up and everyone had gone home. Ab kya faayda? She was a writer who recorded the gritty truth of the everyday. Now if she wrote, it would be fiction, and then Plato would kick her out of his Republic. And then what would she do?
Who would marry her?
No, the traffic snarl was better forgotten.
That was really a delicious sandwich... "Must come back..." she murmured to herself as she crossed the road.

Chai-Biskoot

Once upon a tea-time, there was a Parle-G

We know of it, this isn’t something alien to you and me

But in its little chai-time world, the little thing was upset

Because the one it loved most of all didn’t acknowledge it as yet

“All I want is some warmth in life” sighed little Parle-G

“There’s nothing worse than loneliness, if you care to ask me

And a love once warm, which has sat cooling for too long

Or a love that’s weak and pale and not passionate and strong”

The reason behind these laments made by little Parle-G

Was its undying everlasting love for adrak-wala-tea

It was a result of a fleeting glance across the kitchen shelf

That made the little biscuit forget absolutely all else.

“Someday, they’ll remember me and take me down as well

And that’s the day that chai will fall under my glucose-fuelled spell”

Thus Parle-G hatched carefully, a plan for that fateful day

And one day, lo and behold, a hand reached up its way.

And down came Parle-G in joy, heart singing a random tune

The scene with chai, till now a dream, to be realized real soon

Imagine the horror of the sound of an exclaimed realization

“This packet has expired! I’m throwing it, there’s no question”

And Parle-G cried out in dismay as the dream faded away

Eyes closed, hoped for a miracle, at least some time in the tray

But when Parle-G opened its eyes, it knew without a doubt

This was the dreaded dustbin which was eventually emptied out

Parle-G was heartbroken, and deprived of love for sure

It lay morose where it was tossed, incapable of moving anymore

A small voice came from nearby, almost inaudible at first

“I’m so glad I finally found you, I’m so happy, I could burst”

Parle-G, first terrified of a disembodied voice

Eventually calmed down enough to note in some surprise

That there was a lump of something very near where it lay

After gathering some energy “Who are you?” it managed to say

“I’m sorry, I’ve been rude,” came the reply, “I should have said before”

“My name is Chai, I’ve seen you on the shelf, you probably don’t remember me, though”

Imagine the joy in Parle-G’s heart when it realized it had met its love

After all the prayers sent fervently to the tea-party above

Together, in the dark, smelly bin, Chai and biscuit bonded

And as they spoke, magic took place much like what P-G wanted

“An undeniable bond they shared, one that would never break

And thus, with every cup of tea, a biscuit one will take”

Thus said the chai-time goddess, the queen of tapris, cafes and homes

After watching the love and camaraderie between the two unfold

And thus, today, no matter who you are, when having tea

You’ll always feel unsatisfied until you unite it with Parle-G

“You'll drown in my love, I must warn you, my sweet

There's disaster guaranteed when you and I meet

Your very self will crumble in the flood of my feelings

You must know beforehand with what you are dealing.”

Chai, thus, with a little tremble, warned Parle-G off

Afraid that it would cause the destruction of their love

And was beyond surprised when smitten P-G

Proceeded to crumble into the tea

And said with a smile that touched Chai's heart

"At least this way, we never will part

And you, too, are becoming a part of me

Forever we'll be Parle-G and tea"

This is a love for the ages, I personally feel

Something that we should learn from, a love so very real

No fancy games, no dates, no phones, no complications arise

All that this is, is togetherness, taught effectively by biscuit and chai.