Pet me, O' Traveller

She walked hastily from college, as the sweat trickled down her temples and onto her earphones. She chose fast songs to keep pace with and dodged the afternoon sun as it followed her through every turn.

It had been a frustrating day. Her alarm clock went off too early, her coffee had burned her tongue, she ran out of paper mid-lecture and the chilled ethanol she added to her eppendorff tube refused to unearth DNA. After shoveling a plate of cold paneer and rice from the canteen down her throat, she made her way to the station. She wanted to return to the unkempt bed she was made to leave so soon that morning.

She brushed shoulders with the humanity that flooded the stairs and platform to reach where the ladies' compartment would arrive. As she folded her earphones into her bag and dug for the book she was reading, she saw the crowd to her right part. Through the sea emerged a brown, four-legged, drooling canine. He headed full speed toward her and jumped up onto her. She caught him in her arms and ruffled his short fur. He was panting excitedly and his face seemed to house a giant grin. His tail was wagging in euphoria; he would take off if it swished any faster. She got down on her knees to pet her old friend- the one who wagged at her sight ever since that packet of Parle-G biscuit three years ago.

The train pulled into the station and she gave his back a farewell jiggle. She got on last and looked wearily behind her. He was trying to get on with her. With a heavy heart, she signaled back toward the platform and unwillingly, he listened.

His nose still bobbing up and down as the train left, she waved goodbye with a smile. Somehow, it's always the furry ones who manage to leave one on her lips.

Phone Photography

I never completely understood the craze of cell-phone photography; mostly because all the phones I owned had rather sad excuses for cameras and I was jealous of all those who could take pictures where the blues didn't look like yellows. Recently (owing to the mental demise of my previous phone), I purchased the MotoG-2 which has proved to have an impeccable camera. What started off as a feature-experimentation ended up becoming my obsession whenever I was out. I finally relate to those who talk about the all-encompassing convenience of a good mobile camera. Although I still wish there was a rubber-padded viewfinder I could shove my eye into, my phone has established itself as competent in the field of photography.

I present my experiments.
(And, as it has become important to clarify over all social media, no filters.)

 

 

Travel-time Limericks

There's was a girl from Bombay

Who gave her driver too much leeway.

She then hung onto her skirt

As he zoomed through the dirt

Still she missed her train with dismay.

There were three boys in a train,

Who were just the opposite of vain.

They jumped around harried,

With the bags they carried,

Imagining the dragons they'd slain.

Women around me are hoity,

With serious looks and bras pointy.

They sit upright,

In their lipsticks bright,

Refusing to cooperate flatly.

Ohh the sea of humanity,

Full of clusters of lies and vanity.

They're all potatoes,

Getting bitten by mosquitoes,

And living in a world of insanity.

There lived the King of India,

Who suffered a bout of diarrhoea.

No doctor he consulted,

Could find results that he wanted,

So he just looked it up on Wikipedia.

There was once a pink ballerina,

With bright blue in her retina.

She was perfection,

Down to that complexion,

But my, she laughed like a hyena.

There was a man called Moe,

Who tripped and stubbed his toe.

He jumped and he yelped,

But nobody helped

And he stood there with anger aglow.

There was once a boy from Bombay,

Who played cricket every Sunday.

But bat well he couldn't,

Bowl overarm he wouldn't,

And out he would get anyway.

There was a boy from Kandivali,

A coulple stations before Borivali.

His stomach expanded,

Several metres when counted,

And it was used to perform Kathakali.

There was once a tiny lady,

Who wore an orange saree.

She rushed into my compartment,

Looked around in bewilderment,

Then decided to take an Andheri.

There's no nicer station than Marine Lines,

A bald, blithering bloke opines.

For the vada pav there,

Will pull at your hair,

As the taste around your tongue entwines.

A scrawny man near Mahalaxmi,

Decided to cross tracks carelessly.

He answered a phone call,

As he jumped from platforms tall,

Headed toward death undoubtedly.

The lady sitting besides me,

Is colouring her eyebrows precisely.

As the train keeps moving,

Her lips she starts doing,

And makes no mistake amazingly.

Women carry makeup in their bags,

Probably to avoid time lags,

But when made up women,

Their lipstick endarken,

I just shudder and return to my mags.

There was a college-going bum,

Who hurt herself in ways ultra-dumb.

She hit her right knee,

At station Bandra-E,

And now hobbled crimson and glum.

There was a botanist from France,

Who decided to give India a glance.

He stood amidst the felling,

Then ran away yelling,

And never gave the country another chance.

To catch a rickshaw at Bandra,

Needs perseverance for a mantra.

For with lines this long,

Soon to heaven you'd belong,

Where you can listen to Frank Sinatra.

There was once a juice stall called Yaadgar,

Who's insides were shadier than a bar.

It pulled crowds in aplenty,

With falloda and rose jelly,

And was richer than hotels 5 star.

The sky is full of strange hues,

With no pinks, purples or blues.

Its palette now revised,

With colours improvised,

It's a painting with 7 hidden cues.

2015 #1

Little cubes of simplicity
Is all I ask for innocently
Smooth touches of sweetness
Keeping me calm, un-restless

Find me buried under blankets
Cuddled with socks and jackets
Find me lost in my misty dreams
As I lie awaiting in crispy gleams

And as I reach out and hold you firm
Making sure from my fingers you don't slip or squirm
My neurotransmitters gush madly within
My axons and leave goosebumps on my skin

So soft and moist
I carefully hoist
You and plop you right onto my tongue

And your migrating goodness teases
My linings it gently appeases
As it trickles down- a molten morsel

Yum.

Death Is A Cloud

Death is a cloud.

A heavy, grey rain cloud.

One that shadows us as it passes.

It sits there, still, until its job is done.

We feel its weight as it hangs above.

We spend each day in its fragile glove.

Death is a cloud that we cannot escape.

One we do not see coming.

It blows in suddenly, disrupting our days,

Until satisfied, light, it blows right away.

But death- is not a happy cloud.

It bears no rainbows or mildew.

It bears memories, anecdotes, moments,

It bears nostalgia for those it fails to strike.

It takes from them a sweetness and warmth,

It takes from them the comfort of love.

For to sustain itself and to blow forth once more,

It must steal with pain and intended gore.

Death is cold. It’s stiff. It’s hard.

It’s that icy chill in my pounding heart.

It’s a touch of realization and loss.

And of unsaid words and of silence.

It’s a numbness, an ache, a relentless ghost,

One that never loses, seizing its unwilling host.

It leaves behind an empty shell,

It leaves behind that characteristic smell.

A gaping hole with no piece that fits,

A trove of memories no one dares visit.

A path filled with anecdotes and smiles,

Now littered with tears and unfair trials.

Death is that hollow shudder in my nerves,

It is the pain for us that nature preserves.

Death is a cloud.

A dirty, hungry cloud.

One that shadows us as it passes.

It sits there, mean, until its job is done.

We feel its blade as it hangs above.

We spend each moment in its cruel glove.

Boredom Inspires

Little is as annoying as a professor who preys on your every free moment to squeeze in some more information into your saturated mind.
We had a rather long extra lecture in class today- after a rather long regular day of lectures. Suffices to say, I hadn't the mind space for it.

So, I wrote this.

Neuro: The Extra Lecture

I sit here as she rambles on,
About neurons, brains and ganglion.
She hasn't permitted the writing of notes,
Oh how upon that neuro she dotes.
Greater than my amazement for this intricate science,
Is the knowledge she carries of it with no defiance.
Oh how she spews out words a-bundle,
How don't they form in her brain a muddle?
Yet, somehow, I'm relaxed, unfocused and lost,
I'm thinking of Rise of the Guardians, Jack Frost.
It's winter now and we really should be,
Out of this city where zero pollution we see.
I don't want to talk about my diencephalon,
I want to read about eagles and their ferocious talons.
What fun to go and knock on her head,
And whisper, "Gee, Ma'am, I'd rather be in bed."
Don't get me wrong, I think neuro is fab,
But on a cool, sleepy day, it's nothing but drab.
I'm going to wrap this up now, with much displeasure,
I wish, like my poem, this lecture soon turns to closure.

Diwali Dadar Photo Walk

A Poem. (Because titles are so mainstream.)

Eighteen men strapped on their large boots,

They'd been working and now demanded their fruits.

Barefoot they trudged in forests dense,

They stared at leaves 'till they ceased to make sense.

Why are they green and moist and pointy?

Why aren't they crooked and brown and jointly?

Onward they trudged, on moss-laden ground,

Their leader stood firm, "I gently expound,

This mound on the ground that I have found,

Is browned and crowned and bound and round."

The seventeen other barefoot men,

Looked up above and sighed, "amen".

For whenever this leader stood tall and firm,

They cowered alike until forced to squirm.

"This is no mould or mushroom bleak!

This is the child from a frog and a freak!"

This perplexed them all, they stood astounded,

At this man's brain- man, were they confounded. 

 How could a frog and a freak mate?

Surely, their privates did not equate.

And if they did, would they have produced,

A weakling, a blob, in need of a roost?

Each one of them pictured a beast confused,

One with small mucous pores that oozed.

Slimy skin which squeaked when touched,

Disfigured ears which to its green legs clutched.

What was this lump lying on the ground?

Pathetic-looking, unbreathing and sound?

"It's a new species, we will be rich!

Maybe it could cure an incurable itch!"

'This man is off his conkers', they thought,

But argue with him they simply could not.

So, with excitement ringing in their artificial voices,

The collected this "species" and buried their vices.

They returned to their tents with sores on them feet,

Where their boots stood proudly in their cozy retreat.

They put them on and sunk into the mud,

And silently hoped to cool off their hot blood.