Ain't no valentine (originally written on 14 Feb, 2018)

It took me a while to write this to you

and this message goes out to You.

Just You.

And I wanted to say this for a long time.

But didn't have the courage to say it all this time.

You make me feel powerless.

The world turns colorless

The emotion is overpowering.

I choke. I gasp. In a corner

I am cowering

You did it...and walked away.

And I sway, as you leave me

in its wake.

And I shake

This ain't no Valentine

You just got tag lined

That's what happens when you fart,

in a lift.

You schmuck.

****

Have a fresh Valentines day every one!

Under the stairs, we did it. (originally written on 26 Feb, 2018)

We did it.

Under the creaking stairs

that smelled of varnish

and musty wood

Behind the door

Where the clothes hooks caught our hands

and raked our skin

In the attic

where dust rose and fell

into a shaft of evening sun

peeping in

to catch some action

In the corner

as an old lamp shade

watched us from under its veil

we held our breath

and hurried

As we did it

left to right

and again

as we cleaned

the cob webs.

The Toastmaster (originally written on 18 March, 2018)

Wife: Why are the clothes still on the sofa? Don't you all have hands? Are you waiting for them to fold themselves?

Toastmaster: Do you remember that time? The year was 1995 and I was a bachelor. It was different during those times.

Daughter: I wouldn't know. I was told that I was born after my parents were married.

Toastmaster: The yesteryears! I still remember! We didn't have a sofa. But (meaningful pause)... there were three wooden chairs in the drawing room. With hand-stitched cushions. Two red (walks over to one side of the room) and one yellow. My mother would never wash them; beacuse if she had washed them, (sad smile) we didn't have another 3 to replace them.

Wife: That explains your showering habits too. Old habits, stink forever.

Daughter: Eeewwww...

Toastmaster: (poignantly) Speaking of stink, those cushions had a certain smell about them. the smell of spilled coffee, a few drops of sambar, mildew.

Wife: And your farts

Daughter: prrrrr...rrrrrr

Toastmaster: It acquired something from everyone who sat on them. A bit of personality that those cushions borrowed every time from anyone who rested on them. Inadvertently contributed in return for those moments of repose!

Daughter: (hands in the air) Every ass contributes!

Wife: Not in this house, apparently. Shut up and start folding your clothes. Otherwise go make your own dinner, like in the yesteryears.

Toastmaster: ".........."

Daughter: You gotta work on your conclusion. Was kinda abrupt. prr.

Introducing: Ms Karma

Karma ain't a bitch. 

She is an elderly matron who is having a drink, studying the map, and making notes. She is constantly watching the gate and clicking photos of those who go out, come in late, or kicks the dog.

She is the lamp post around the corner that stands her ground, 3 feet deep, and realigns your face if needed. 

She is a glass pane that sees through you and slices you up if you don't respect her. 

She is the unseen bird in the sky that sees the world you live in and drops a warning that wont leave your hair for a long time.

She is a patient woman who stays quiet, bites down on her mouth piece and swings from her fences, as you catch a nap. 

She is an observer who watches you from far, sees you slacken and hurries forward to hasten your fall. 

She is the unseen invigilator who sees what you write, listens to what you didnt say, knows what you truly are.

Then one fine day, she'd take the fire-iron, get behind the person of interest and shoves it in. Happens all unawares, leaves undetected but ensures the press notices it.

Karma ain't a bitch.

Karma is a bad-ass babe with poise, restraint and immaculate timing.

Father's Day

Yesterday was Fathers’ day.

Fathers are heroes without capes, angels with a mustache, the pillars of strength, the silent lovers…social media was flooded with sepia colored photos, sappy rhetoric and certainly a lot of love.

But they aren’t any of that. Or, perhaps a lot more. But they are also something else.

They are the ones who fall silent under questions like:

How you saved enough for a rainy day? Do you understand? Do you love me? When will you stop believing in your stupid friends? Why do you waste money on these silly things? Why don’t you do something? Why can’t you be like HIM?

They are the ones who leave for work wishing that it would be a better day than yesterday. Wishing that the trousers fit, not worried because it isn’t healthy, but it would mean another purchase.

Smiling embarrassed when an old classmate reminds him of the young rebel who wanted to change the world, but now looking at grocery bills and wondering if the total is correct.

Feeling angry when she asked why they can’t go for a cruise when her friend’s family took even their grandparents along.

Realizing that his daughter outgrew the birthday parties she could never host at home because the house was small.

Wondering why his temper gets ahead of him so often and regrets the words that left his mouth, and hopes it would be alright in a day or two. Or never.

Shares a laugh with his friends over a drink and wishes he could start all over.

Unsure if he loves them enough or is there something he has forgotten.

Unused gym memberships, unread books on the shelf, wasted appointments with the Doc.

I will do it tomorrow. I will win the lottery. I will do better.

With a wry smile, he gets into bed, looks at the ceiling and wonders why sleep never comes.

He is insecure, worried, stressed out.

He is flawed.

But he gets a day in a year he is called a Super hero.

Lover Boy

I fell in love when I was very young. I didn’t even know what it was. I was only 2 years old. But I remember it all. Somethings in life are like that. 

I was learning to walk. But me being the impatient type, I wanted to run. So I guess I tried and I fell down. Right in front of her. I got up slowly, and in a very awkward manner and saw her looking at me. From her pram. With all the wisdom and sophistication of a 2 year old. It took only one glance for me to understand. We were meant to be together. I looked at her and mumbled a "Hi". She smiled. Oh..she had more teeth than I! But I think I wore a much bigger nappy. Big boys dress big. Not because my mother got the wrong size by mistake.

I put a hand on my hip, struck a pose and asked her; “Hi. What’s your name, gorgeous?”

She said, “I am Tiny. What's yours?”
“Tiny? Is that your name? C'mon!” I was amused.
She responded in way which was very matter of fact; “Yes it is. My parents call me Tiny. Tiny Thomas”
“Oh...Where are you from?” I asked. Oh I think I know! Your name says it all. You must be from Kerala”
She looked at me with a certain expression that I couldn’t fathom. “Yes, I am..But how did you figure that out?”
I assumed what I thought was my “love guru” demeanor. “Oh well...I guess I am pretty good at understanding women”.

She paused for 5 full seconds as if I said something stupid. But responded without any trace of emotion. “Alright, so, what’s your name?”

Oh well..I’ve got 2 names. I think. My momma calls me Baby and my Papa calls me...well it’s a long name. It's uhmm..koochie koochie koo”
Tiny coughed loudly, clutched her tiny throat, but regained her composure very quickly. “Oh that’s so sweeet! koochie koochie koo? Really!”

I was confused. The way she uttered my name, it didn’t sound right. Like it was the name of a fruit, or something related. I had to clarify.

“No!” It’s more like (in my best booming baby baritone voice) khuchie khuchie khuu”
And we laughed. Together. A lot.

That’s when I noticed that my nappy was slipping down and she would have gotten to know a lot more about me. I quickly yanked it up and managed a “Cya later. Toodles!”

Before we said good bye that day, I asked her whether I’d be seeing her again. She said she would love to. She looked at me and said this much more; “I’d like to know more about you, koochie”. My knees turned into jelly.

And she surprised me. Women. They are so full of surprises. They would surprise you when you least expect it. She turned around, and boy!...she gave me the wettest, noisiest, loudest flying kiss in the world. Brrrssstt...

I felt weak, my ears clogged, my head swooned, and I let go off my nappy. Who cares! I was in love.

But ladies and gentlemen, exactly 2 months later, we broke up. Just like that. She caught me holding hands with Maya, our neighbors’ 5 year old daughter, and called it quits. She could have considered the fact that Maya was another 3 years older than me. It was not going to be a working relationship anyway. Ladies and gentlemen, the age factor is a real thing to be considered. At 2 years old, I wasn’t that aware of these small but important details. Moreover, it wasn’t me who was holding Maya's hand. She was just dragging me away from a muddy pool of water where I was playing, to give me a wash. But who wants to know all that. It's always the man who is victimized. 

But I wiped my drool off and took it on my chin. But….but….And your first heartbreak is just like your first tooth. It hurts the most. To make it worse, your own parents make fun of you. At that time, when you are down and out, when your whole world smells like a yesterday’s nappy, all you want is a bit of understanding, a warm bath or….an ice cream. But I got nothing. My mom kept saying; “hey I saw Tiny yesterday. She's all grown up. She's so pretty. She's got a new friend. His name is Mickey”

What? She’s already into another relationship? And he has a real name? And it’s a cartoon character?

This is a tragedy! I am never gonna win her love back! 


I was destroyed. I felt so sick that I puked all the milk I drank that day. I broke down and cried….and I cried…..until I farted.

But that’s when it happened. My mother walked up to me, held up my chin and told me, “don’t you ever cry, baby. Remember who you are. You are Papa’s  kochie kochie koo. You are strong. Tiny has gone. But you gotta move on. Because you got ME. And I have THIS for you!...and she held out not 1, not 2, but 3 popsicles. Yeah, 3 of them!
I put one in my mouth, held on to it with all 4 of my teeth, and walked out to face the world.

Sauce by the side

Have you ever done babysitting? Yes? So that means most probably, you don’t have kids of your own. If you have, you wouldn’t dare. Once bitten, forever shy.

I had finished my graduation and was looking for opportunities. My neighbor, Alex Uncle told me that he and aunty had to attend a wedding at a faraway town but his kids had exams coming up. I had to babysit his kids. I was not convinced. 

But I think Alex uncle was a toastmaster. He told me there are 3 kids. The 19 year old college going girl Anita; a very attention grabbing opening statement. Then there was a 9 year old boy Samson; the body which was very poorly drafted, and finally a 3 year old daughter Teena; a rather harmless looking conclusion in diapers.

I have seen the eldest daughter before I had never spoken to her. And I said Yes. 

At 8 in the morning I was present at the Alex residence. Before leaving Uncle Alex told me; “don’t turn your back, don’t look away, don’t…blink. We will be back tomorrow morning”. His wife looked at me with a very sad face…like she was never going to see me again….came close to me….put a hand on my shoulder and said; “Good luck”. Then they left. 

The college going kid Anita was looking bored, the 9 year old Samson was watching TV, and the 3 year old Teena was on the sofa.

I looked at Anita, flashed my toothy grin and said in my deepest possible baritone voice “Hi”…..She walked straight to her room, opened the door, looked at me, said “BYEEE”..and banged the door shut.

That’s when I noticed that the 3 year old was running towards the front door. I ran and grabbed lil Teena, and placed her on the sofa.

And then somebody pulled my shirt; the 9 year old Samson had a steel plate in one hand and a rusty kitchen knife in the other…and he screamed…”COME ON…let’s us play…let us play gladiator!!”

Ladies & gentlemen, I am a very peace loving individual who wanted to do some useful with his life. Ending up at the wrong end of a kitchen knife, in the name of entertainment was not part of my plans.

I asked him; “is it okay if we watch the gladiators documentary on National geographic?” “Nooooo”…cried Samson. “National geographic is for losers…it is all staged…the blood is not real. Come on …let us go to war…show me the blood!!”.

Factoid: I am the sort of peace loving guy who faints minimum 15 times during an injection. First the nurse has to convince me that I wouldn’t die. Then she has to wait for my shaking hand to settle down, that she can grab it. Then she has to find a vein to insert the needle. Then she has to find blood. Most of the time it is like looking for a toastmaster during table topics. You know that they are there, but they pretend they are NOT. More like…now you see one…now you don’t.

And now Sergeant Samson wants to see my blood. I don’t have much and I’m not sharing it. I jumped on top of the dining table and screamed, “Don’t come any closer!” Samson yelled, “Get off the table. It is dangerous!”

What is more dangerous than getting stabbed with a rusty kitchen knife!, I thought. Samson pointed to the table and shouted, “Bad table!”.....and the table collapsed. Anita opened the door; looked shocked and declared, “I am calling the police”.

NOOOO!!

I got up. Above me, a bottle of pickle had broken and I had half of it in my hair. Under me, a plastic squeeze bottle of tomato ketchup was squashed and there was a strange warm feeling inside my trousers. In front of me, Sergeant Samson had his rusty kitchen knife pointed at my nose…and he screamed, “Surrender, you vermin!”

As I watched, lil Teena was once again running towards the open front door. I got up, ran after her, picked her up and was about to lock her inside the kitchen. That’s when a woman appeared in front of the door and she called out, “Is Sandra here?” I said NO. “No Sandra here”.

“Momma!!”..lil Teena cried out. “This stranger won’t let me go. He was now going to lock me in the fridge. Helppp!”

This was somebody else’s kid? What is she doing here? Where is lil Teena? Why my hair smell spicy and my derriere feels sticky?

Ladies & gentlemen and people who leave kids back home and go for weddings, Alex Uncle had already sent Teena to his cousin’s house. Sergeant Samson had waged war with his entire family before. That lil one was the neighbor’s kid. Anita had 3 boyfriends. And I was dumb.

The next day as my father asked me why Alex Uncle wanted him to pay for a new dining table. I didn’t have an answer. Till this date, when Anita sees me, she bangs the door. Whenever the neighbors see me, they hide their kids. The laundry sent my clothes back with a note: Send clothes only. No sauce on the side.

Red, Yellow and Stinky

The Red. The Yellow. The Stinky.

They were cushions. On the same sofa. Each one looked different, they were placed different. They also smelled different.

Red was of course red and round, with some silly thread like lace attached around the outer edge. Yellow was yellow, square and bigger, and carried the burn from a cigarette proudly like a battle-scar. Stinky had an obscure color, much like drainage water and smelled almost like it. Part of its entrails were always hanging out like someone did a partial disemboweling. They lived on the same sofa. So close, so alike and so very different.

Their conversations were usually centered around who (or at times what) sat on them. Work place chatter was not different with the three. There were complaints, foul language and some occasional sobbing. Red was usually angry and foul mouthed. Yellow was apathetic and had a wicked sense of humor. Stinky was a cry baby and was suicidal according to Red.

Friday. It was an exceptionally bad day for Red and it was foaming at the mouth. This usually happened around early Friday mornings. 4 am to be precise.

Thursday evening is when an expatriate calls together his/her tribe and tries to find meaning for their existence through war cries, in a plate of fried chicken, at the bottom of liquor bottles. The program usually goes on till next day early morning until one by one, everyone falls asleep.

The guy wearing only a skirt (?) had buried his face in Stinky. A drool approximately 10 cm long had partially dried across Stinky. Stinky, who harbored DNA from another 100 odd people on him, wasn’t pleased but had given up a long time ago to complain. Red, on the other hand was yelling profanity at another guy who was fully clothed but had involuntarily urinated on Red. “Get off me, you dead punctured pencil di*k”. Only the voice was heard. Red was somewhere under the vast expanse of humanity wearing the world’s largest boxer shorts. Yellow was comparatively in a better position and had the best spot in the room. Someone had picked up and flung Yellow high up in the air under a schnockered fit of energy and had it stuck on a ceiling fan. The ceiling fan was still rotating very slowly. Yellow felt giddy.

But Yellow couldn’t help listening to the profanity arising from under the boxer shorts.

“Red, is that you talking, or is that guy’s arse? It all sounds the same, me think!”

“It would, if you were here too, you prick. In fact, you belong here. Matches your color”, retorted Red.

“What a time to discriminate against color!” mumbled Stinky, trying not to breathe in the drying drool.

There were more people in the room. One snored like a spluttering genset. Another had his mouth open and a house fly buzzed around it, as it was afraid to go in. There was a dead fly inside the open mouth. Figures.

The clock struck 10. The guy in a skirt jumped up and broke his drool-connection with Stinky. He looked around through wilting eyes and wrinkled his nose at the boxer shorts. The smell of urine was apparent. He got up, adjusted his skirt, lifted a leg and ripped a lengthy one. The boxer shorts lifted a head in the opposite direction and asked, “Who?”

“You meant WHAT, fatass”, muttered Yellow from above.

The sound of flatulence worked like an alarm clock and slowly human forms got off from their resting places. Red let out a cry. He was soaked in urine. Stinky was laughing at Red’s predicament.

“Ha ha ha…finally they found some use for your sorry ass!”

The guy with the open mouth looked up and saw Yellow doing his rounds on the fan. He climbed on to a coffee table and retrieved Yellow. The big guys in the boxer shorts was looking apologetic was trying to explain something to the guy in the skirt. Others also had joined the conversation. The big guy had Red in front of him pressed against the area wet with his own pee. Stinky was still laughing at Red. The big guy got up, snatched Yellow from the other guy and stuck him to his posterior. Stinky sounded hysterical with laughter.

 “You got it all covered in between you, don’t you guys!...Ha ha!”

That’s when the guy in the skirt snatched Stinky and puked his guts out on to it.

Red & Yellow (in chorus): You didn’t get all covered dude. He forgot the corners!

What's on your mind!

(pic credit: www.giopetrucci.com)

Facebook asks you all the time; “what’s on your mind?”

It is not mandatory to answer. If you got shit on your mind, don’t speak a word.

It’s also ok not to reveal everything about you and take away the suspense; because Facebook isn’t your diary. There is some stuff that is better off when it is off the Facebook.

For instance…

You don’t have to check in every time you change your seat. For eg: this uncaring world isn’t really concerned about you checking in to 

the neighborhood grocery store. Well..even if it’s in the Bahamas. It doesn’t tax anybody’s brains to guess what you would be doing in a grocery. Unless you robbed the frickin shop; in which case, you should perhaps not tell anyone that you were there.

Stop being a cry baby. It doesn’t paint a very smart picture of you when post “Oh I hit my shin against the sofa!”…accompanied by a mobile phone click that shows a leg, 5 inches above the knee. Girl, we know what you did there!  Or..”Oh I’ve got the flu”... accompanied by a snotty face, looking like you just delivered triplets through your arse. In most cases you wouldn’t die. You didn’t, last time. Remember!

You do not approve of Jay Z’s choice of the color of the burger he bought for Aaliyah. It perhaps broke your heart irreparably. So you have what everybody else has got. An opinion. However your 120 word motivational piece titled “Men are blind” won’t make it to “movers and shakers” of the year. It sucked. It will continue to suck as long it is on your timeline. 

That server who didn’t give a third helping of the wild mushroom sauce was perhaps not the world’s best. But she doesn’t “deserve to die”. She ain’t a “bitch”. Even if she “had a fat ass”. Even if “her parents were related”. Your rant might have got 496 likes and comments such “Are you related to George Orwell!”. But it was in poor taste. A rant is a rant. Not literature.

Your kid is special. So is every other kid. “Oh lil Johnny said ga! Oh he just undid my button. He said ja. He speaks latin! He cooks his own breakfast!  Gosh…my lil 2 year old Johnny said his 1st 4 letter word today!” Well..a few years down the line he will post his own 4 letter word online. Don’t be an incessant, vain parent online. Keep it classy.

You got ditched. Most probably not for the first time too. Happened to somebody else too. Shit happens. Don’t smear that on a Facebook wall and go on a “beat-my-chest-till-I-die” mode. Talk to a real person. Call a friend. Share the grief. Stop wailing. Facebook isn’t your therapist. You are making somebody happy when you wail on Facebook.

You took a Facebook quiz and it says you are a unicorn. You took another one and it says you should be the King of Scotland and after you give up the ghost, there will be flood. Stop taking quizzes. Try scrabble. See how well you fare.

Somebody died. Perhaps someone real close. It is traumatic. You feel utterly crushed and you are in a lot of pain. Go ahead. Cry your heart out. Mourn. But if you have posted your dear one’s lifeless face and a sad emoji on Facebook, well..something else died inside you. Stop turning death in to a celebration on Facebook.

I have another thought now. But it’s ok if it’s not on Facebook. None of us are that important. 

The Covariation model

Day before yesterday. 6 pm.

The little bird wanted to cross the road; not because it was ingrained in its DNA. It wanted to, because the grass on the other side was greener and green grass signified live worms. Or whatever lived underneath it. So, the little bird crossed the road.

Almost.

The dogs were already there and were bored. They were not there for the worms. They were there because that’s where they could be what they wanted to be. They could walk on two legs; growl at the kids or raise one leg and shower the bushes. Today they wanted to do something else. That’s when they spotted the little bird. “She is asking for trouble wearing that red crown on her head”, said Dick, the short tailed one. “She is singing to herself. Must be a slut”, muttered Poke, the one-eyed dog. “She is alone”, grunted Stinky, the smallest of the group. 

The proud faces of their forefathers who had troubled a lot of birds since the beginning of time flashed through their mind. “I am a mongrel. This is cool. Here I come”, cried Stinky.

The little bird had almost reached the other side when it saw the bush, some movement and the dogs exactly in the same order. Before she could say “cluck”, Stinky pounced on her. She shrieked, feathers flew in all directions, and traffic stopped on the road.

Four plump ducks in a car, slammed on the breaks and looked out. Eyes opened wide, beaks opened wider. A teenage peacock with a large mobile phone aimed its lens at the scene in a trance. A portly bull coming back from work, stopped, looked at the scene, looked back at his watch and broke into a jog, in the same direction his horns pointed. A mentally unstable chimp begging alms, threw his coins away and darted towards the scene.

More cars stopped on the road and there were faces in the windows. Some seemed shocked, some were amused, some were impatient. Few broke into a jog and sped off after the bull. The brown fox selling popcorn on the street side, smacked its lips in anticipation of a walk-in crowd.

The chimp raked a hand across Stinky’s face. Poke and Dick froze to their ground; then took off like they had seen a ghost. Stinky fought back for a second; then ran after his friends. The little bird picked herself up and covered her face. She started to sob. The chimp asked awkwardly, “Got a dollar?” The little bird fainted. 

There were more mobile phones pointed in the general direction of the scene.

Yesterday. 6 pm

The television channels had expert panels discussing the story of the little bird. The psychology professor from Harvard, a tusker who had seen the industrial revolution first hand, explained the Covariation model of social behavior. The popular actress who had just returned from the Swiss Alps observed that “such things do not happen there”. The priest with long feathers and a Rolex around his thick rhino neck reminded everyone that “the dogs always go after the bone; the bone has to be careful”.

“Creatures for a cause” sat on the road and blocked traffic, blaming the government who had had a bad history in dealing with hapless birds. A minister who used an allegory that sounded like “dumb chick” and apologized on national television, shook his mane and said he forgot what he said earlier.

Today. 6 pm.

Stinky's parents had called for a press meet. They held up copies of his certificates he had earned while in college to all present. He was “Head boy” in high school and won the high jump at the inter university meet. His mother said he was always a sweetheart. His father appeared heartbroken; had quit his job abroad and came back to console his family during this time of distress. Dick and Poke were not to be found. The Police had gone to the neighboring state to look for them.

The “Youth Wings” put a bus on fire on the highway and demanded that “chivalry” should be taught as a mandatory subject in the primary classes. The Facebook campaign started by “Wings of hope” taglined #crosstheroad got 2 million followers. “Neuter the mutt”, the rap song performed by the band “Moo it” had gone viral in just one day.

I am a responsible citizen and I am above all this madness, this pettiness. I shall continue to be non-biased and nonjudgmental. I intend to continue to write and bring the world’s attention to this unfortunate incident. I will change this planet one page at a time.

Tomorrow I will be writing about “How to nail spaghetti to a darting dog’s posterior”.

Keep watching this space, fellow creatures!

Shift