"The Lovable Eyes"

She is Spontaneous, Smooth, Suave and Loving. She is what most guys want to find, date, and marry. That simple. She’s adorable, cute, sexy, innocent, easy-going, friendly, and fun to be around. Pretty much the perfect companion. Exquisitely creative and smashingly assiduous. She’s delicate and needs to be handled with loving hands, and there won’t be any shortage of guys willing to handle her. In a relationship, there is only one rule with the Lovable Eyes- Don’t Fu** Up. That’s it. Don’t cheat on her, don’t lie to her, don’t mistreat or abuse her, and she will be yours for a lifetime.

"Vent"

Sometimes I wonder if I’m turning mad slowly. I’ve pulled my hair till it hurt. I’ve screamed silently till my throat felt as dry as parchment. I’ve made angry splotches on immaculately white paper with blue blood. And nothing ever happens. Not even the tiniest bit of relief.

All because I’m young and I’m no longer allowed to use certain defense mechanisms.

Take angst-y youthful poetry, for instance. You’ve just begun to take your English classes in school seriously because you think Keats is cool, not to mention damned right about all the stuff he talks about. You have the whole world’s burden on your shoulders. And of course, you like someone. Your heart flutters and all when she passes by. Her mere shadow is enough to fill you with the warmth of a sun's ray.
So what do you do? You write a poem.

You didn’t see "The One" all morning. Oh how your heart pines! How it yearns! How it misses the one who is missed!
So what do you do? You write a poem.

"The One" didn’t smile at you today. Oh how your heart is shattered into a million fragments that can only be put together by some divine miracle. Oh how the world is cruel and malicious.
So what do you do? You Write a poem, of course.

"The One" smiled today. And you’re almost sure it was in your direction. Even though you were sitting with six others. Oh how it feels like spring with its pink blossoms and sunny suns even though it’s freezing cold and you have three sweaters on.
AND you write a poem.

You think free verse is the coolest thing that ever existed in poetry. But you can’t help rhyming now and then. Excusable.
Your flair is surprising.
You think you’re going to be the next…Whoever (as opposed to Whatever).
All because you wrote a few lines about how you could kiss the moment when you met her, and how fate plays the strangest games and how the dream you had last night was an eye-opener.

Then there are all those Dear Diary entries. We are only too familiar with them.

What is being mature and young? Bidding Dear Diary Farewell? Pushing all the teen angst poems you’ve written to the farthest corner of your existence and cringing whenever you come across an example? Not calling your best friend and whining royally?

Yes.

Being mature and young is being afraid.
Afraid of being embarrassed.

"Upto NO gOOd !!"

The author of this blog was born helpless, naked and without the means to provide for himself. He has struggled ever since his umblical cord was sliced. Born as a blue baby, he struggled to tie his laces while in elementary school, he struggled to eat from his own plate coz he was always fed by his mommy dear, until his darling sis decided to invade his happiness and freedom, he struggled to cheat in his exams while in middle school, he struggled to spill the pearls of love to his secret crush in high school, he struggled to ride the bike in college and now he is struggling even to get off his bed, coz of his own bloody wieght. He has since fought these handicaps to emerge as a nonstop chatterbox spouting unnecessary drivel on unsuspecting, polite strangers who merely indulge him in order to get away safe and sound no doubt wondering even as they go how much he can talk, just the way you must be thinking right now if this sentence ever stops. There you go. In his spare time, he enjoys spraying water on cats and watching them jump for their lives, hugging trees without going beyond, indulging in second hand involuntary smokes, dancing to a bachata number in the bathroom, creating a vacuum while floating in his tub. Off late, our man is busy devising a Object Oriented way to become wealthy - INHERITANCE...

"A Childhood To Quench Thirst"

My recent trip to the capital city - Delhi was indeed memorable and I did have my share of candid experiences. The ‘Summer of 69’ is the only summer which presumably everyone enjoyed, otherwise, all the other summers that we experience seem to haunt us with heat strokes and sun burns. And, for lazy bones like us, it brings added chores to the routine; One has to bathe everyday, apply sunscreen before we step out and wear sunshades to attract eyeballs.

Unlike people like us, (Mallus - where summer is wet and sultry), summers in Delhi are the most dreaded season, but for others in the capital city, they are the source to earn food and way to live life.

Those water-vending machines with a shabby looking operator, flood the city as early as in March. They brave the sun and stand all day long to do the ‘godly’ job of quenching thirst for just 50 paise per glass. In the busy and congested South Extension, there stood a kid all of eight years with his water vending machine. As I approached him, I noticed that he was observing me just like I was observing him. Too smart for his age, and full of wit, the child was an easy game for convincing him to talk to ME.

ME: Hi
Kid: Hi!

ME: I'm from a newspaper. Will you tell me about yourself?
Kid: Oh sure! You want my interview?

ME: Yes, I will publish your name and photograph as well.
Kid: There he is, my Uncle, please publish his photo too…
(His Paternal uncle has his machine just in front of his)

ME: All right, I will. What does he do?
Kid: He is also a water vendor.

ME: Good. What is your name?
Kid: Lal Babu

ME: Lal Babu! Who gave you this name?
Kid: Amma. She lives in our village.

ME: What does your father do?
Lal Babu: He is also a water vendor. My Dad and I do the same work in summers.

ME: In summers? What you do in winters?
Lal Babu: Selling water is not a profitable business in winters. My Dad sells hand gloves and woolen caps here in the same market.

ME: And what you do?
Lal Babu: I help him around.

ME: So you don’t go to school?
Lal Babu: I do go, but today is my holiday.

ME: Who operates your machine then, when you go to school?
Lal Babu (confused and nervous so does not answers)

ME: Tell me truthfully, do u go to school?
Lal Babu: Yeah I do, but today I did not. I had a holiday.

ME: Where does your Dad stand?
Lal Babu: He stands in the same place.
(He explained to me the way to his dad’s machine and I went there in a while after I finished the session with the child. His Dad told us that he did go to school but he is a very naughty kid. Instead of going to school, he used to change his way and landed at the roadside to pass time with other street side children. This was very hard for me to believe because the kid was apparently more then interested in being educated and in fact he apparently, lied to me due to guilt conscience).

ME: Do you watch movies?
Lal Babu: Sometimes, if my brother who sells the black ticket, has a lot of them left to be sold.

ME: Who is your favourite Actor?
Lal Babu: I like Shah Rukh Khan. I loved him in Om Shanti Om. His body was great. Some day, even I would have a body like him. Deepika didi was also cute. But she is too tall for me.

ME: Would you want to act in movies when you grow up?
Lal Babu: I would love to, but.... (He thinks for a while..) I would want to become a police officer and be the only person who does not take bribes.

ME: Why... have any police people bribed you or manhandled you?
Lal Sabu: Saab, don't talk about those mother f***ers. They take some money from me, almost every day. They sometimes slap me or just push me and drink water from my machine without paying up.
(His blood shot eyes, had said it all)

ME: So how much do you earn in a day?
Lal Babu: About Rs. 300-400

ME: That’s quite a good amount.
(I wondered if even I could take up the same job!!)
Lal Babu (chuckles): No, Saab. You are educated. Your work is better. All of these earnings do not go into my pocket. I have to earn and give at least Rs.400 to Malhotra Seth.

ME: Who is this Malhotra Seth?
Lal Babu: He owns this machine and gives us water soda and stuff.

ME: Oh, so it is not yours?
Lal Babu: No it is all Malhotra’s. We have to give him a fixed amount everyday and above that, the remaining amount belongs to us. (Every water vending machine you see in the city belongs to a rich businessman who invests in these machines and gives them on rent. A water vendor can never purchase and run it alone because they need to have a license for doing this work, which comes for at least Rs.60,000-70,000. This is sans the patronage that these powerful people provide them as legally they are not allowed to operate.)

ME: So how much you get in your hand?
Lal Babu: I get only Rs. 40-50

ME: The money belongs to you?
Lal Babu: Yeah, a part of it. I first give it all to my Dad and then he gives me some.

ME: What do you do with the money?
Lal Babu: I eat samosas, dhabe ki roti and kulfi.

ME: You like them?
Lal Babu: A lot.
(Meanwhile, there comes a bully-like person. He warns Lal Babu to get his vehicle aside. Lal Babu puts a good defence. “Do what ever you want, Bas****. I won't move my vehicle”. These words out of an eight-year-old’s mouth, baffled me. I sensed that the kid needed to get back to work and so I bid him goodbye but on a sweeter note. I gave him a huge bar of Cadbury's chocolate and the smile on his face was so overwhelming that it made my day, and I too, was smiling for the rest of the day. While we were leaving, he reminded me, “Saab, do put in my uncle's photo and when you print this, do show it to”.

"My Debris"

I tread the paths we dreamt together slowly,
like each step gives me the need to live
for just one step, so I can die on the next
on my way towards the ghost of Past.
I trudged ahead since last snowfall
when houses gave way, and the cold wave
affected words and song.
But the beauty, oh the beauty of it
was that the path was so long.
I could walk till my feet went numb
with yellow rotting trees abandoned
in that desolate, white glory.
Why was it that every time I politely
and hesitatingly refused company
it seemed to put me back a step
or take them one step further?
With the misty breath of my mouth
heading the way, I could see a haze clear away
and feet followed where mind had slept,
still imprisoned in your land in your dream.
I can see our footprints, frozen like a trail
vanishing as soon as eyes focus too long.
Perhaps I moved ahead so much, I came back home.
Perhaps because this time when the snow came falling
I watched it all alone.