Thursday, May 24, 2018

Uttravahini




the snow
the people
the wind
everyone and everything

are running away
from these mountains
like tears from a face
to a simpler place

to easier times
to caged birds
to fruitless trees
and peaceful bees

on noisy roads
to predictable clouds
over straighter lines
holding readable signs

Except Uttravahini
Flowing back home
Oh her nerve
Straight giving way to curve

To the hills
waving to the wind
Like the other
Returning to an old lover

In a town
Full of ghosts
And a readable tome 
Back to her home



Friday, April 06, 2018

Bombay, now playing on Kappa TV

Written by your's truly, composed by K&UI and featured on Music Mojo, Kappa TV. 

Bombay

A situation that escaped away
Traces of open doors and danger A simmer of hope unfulfilled The girl smells like Bombay
Her delightful body dying to be held
One eye guilty and one accuses And the Ying Yang refuses To own the look gone astray The girl smells like Bombay
The girl, she smells of Bombay.
And the pride being mercifully feld Green fairies fighting demons for right of way
Monsoon laden July and May






Sunday, March 04, 2018

Cliff Richards Once Saved My Life

Gaurav Parab


The only time I have ever hit a woman was back in Solan that year when Harshad Mehta hit the stock market.

Over the years, I have made peace with the events of that day and worked at redeeming myself by repeatedly saying - Body shaming bad. Glass Ceiling Must Go. Girls, they wanna have fun. Even read a Femina cover to cover ten years ago. Total reformed feminist me goodself.
And I have practiced singing Bachelor Boy for who knows I might one day run into a Nun who likes Cliff Richards.
I digress. This is what happened. I have always been the smallest person in the pin code area - but I was really tiny in Class VI. Yes, so short that they used a Microscope to run an X ray on my left wrist when I first broke my hand. But that is another story.
We had just moved to Solan and it was my first day in school. 
I walked in when the class was having the Class Monitor Elections.

‘What’s your name?’
‘Gaurav Parab. I love Uncle Chips’
‘What?
‘Gaurav Parab’
'New?'
'Yes'
That was the extent of my stint in politics. That was my campaign promise. Gaurav Parab . New.
The teacher wrote my name on the blackboard with four or five veterans of the class – all tall boys and girls – which you should note down for it is very important to this story of intrigue and political machinations.
Voting started. And one by one the children named the person they wanted as class monitor.
Gaurav Parab. Gaurav Parab. Gaurav…..you get the idea. I won by a landslide. I looked around the classroom to my people and gave them all a thumbs up. I was invincible. I would have won even if Amit Shah was on the ballot that day.
I thanked them all. The teacher said this is the first time such a thing has happened. Now I had to make sure that no one made any noise till the next class ten minutes later.
‘Sure. But I dont know anyone's name’
'You will learn'
The teacher left, like they often do after saying something generic of no value.
The class exploded. I went near the blackboard and did my stuff. ‘Shut up. Don’t make noise you animals’
‘Shut up shorty’ a woman called Bhawna said. I remember her. Oh I remember her.
‘I am the class monitor. When I say shut up, you shut up’
‘You are the shortest person in the pin code area. That’s why we made you the class monitor. You cannot control us.’
And then we had an eloquent argument much beyond our years.
‘Shorty? You are ugly’ I said.
‘Shorty’
‘Buffalo’
‘Shorty’
‘Buffalo’
‘Shorty’
‘Buffalo’
‘Do you know any other animals’ she rolled her eyes.
‘Ibex’ ( Thank God for Name /Place /Animal / Thing )
‘Shorty’
I had to put an end to this. That’s when I picked up the duster and threw it at Bhawna. I don’t know what gave it away, but as soon as the duster hit her head I knew it was a mistake. Maybe it was the blood, or the little bone peeking out of her forehead like Ramji peeking out of Hanuman Ji’s chest in Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayana.
F***. I muttered. I was so scared that I said a word I did not even know then.
To cut a long story…. the poor girl went to the Mother Nun – who had a reputation of resticate first, rest later. I was called, and when I did not go – two Commandos from the Vatican dragged me to her office.
She looked at me, and then she looked at the Crucifix on the wall.
‘Nails’ she shouted.
‘Sorry. Let’s not do that. I can explain.’
‘Your nails. They are long’
I looked at my hand. She was right. ‘Oh that. I thought…’ I looked at the crucifix.
‘Son, why did you try to murder that poor child? Is there anything you are good at?’ she screamed. "Tell me before I ask your father to come and take you away'
‘Are you good for anything Son?’
‘I can sing Bachelor Boy’
Silence. I don’t know till this day why I said it.
And then it was the turn of the Nun to explode. But in a nice, old lady laughing her dentures out sort of way.
‘You can? How old are you’
‘Eight. I think. ’
‘Sing like your life depends on it.’
And then I sang the only song I knew. A one trick pony. Cliff Hucking Richards.
When I was done, she told me that anyone who can sing Cliff Richards like that deserves another chance.
‘He does?’
‘Don’t push it. Tomorrow you sing in front of the entire school. Dismissed’
‘As in dismissed from here…or dismissed from…’
‘Go. Just go son.’
I bolted out of the office, pausing only outside the door where that poor girl with the bleeding head and a scar for life sat with a smirk on her face. She waved me good bye.
‘Class monitor. Not anymore. Shorty. Good luck in your next school’
I whistled a bit of Cliff Richards, a bit of Kumar Sanu and said sorry to the girl. I promised her that this will never happen again with any woman and you know what? I have kept that promise for I cant risk leaving my life to the chance that I will run into a Nun who likes Cliff Richards again.