Look I know
I’m attractive n all
Hard to resist
But please control yourself
DON’T KISS ME.

When I sit in my pilot seat
A chequered muffler across my nose
Squinting eyes
Intense with bidi smoke
I know you want to
But
DON’T KISS ME.

You can enjoy pretense
Brush your fingers
When I change gears.
Maybe pour me lote se paani
Old school ishtyle
But lissun miss
DON’T KISS ME.

Sweet sweet weekend.

Sat morning - thundering Enfields.

Cult-brothers homed in.

Then a windy spring evening.

The smell of grass.

Akbar Road

Teen Murti

Shanti Path

Sailed on Trek

Nevada to jaggery-town

Passed Canada, Japan, Australia

Embassies.

A twinkling airbus flew overhead

Against dark rolls of cloud tinged with orange

And I sailed below.

Neck craned up

For a twitch sec,

And then zoommmmm….

Sunday morning.

Woke up right side of the bed

Threw my feet into sports shoes

Pedaled down a dawn-dark road,

Suhail in tow

With his fire-engine helmet

And loads of go.

Ripped the roads

In a band of 12

As perspiration started to break

As the sun came up

Ochre orb

We broke into drrrrrrt.

Fingers jammed in cold

Refusing to squeeze life-saver brakes

Began to thaw

And we skidded, hurled down sand,

Sending the odd peacock

Squawking away

Outta our way.

Ride done.

But legs got momentum going

And going

And going.

Clockwork.

Reached the P-Maidan Book Fair,

To meet kith & kin.

Mom,

Sitting pretty with volumes

Picked, selected, chosen and bagged.

Hit home. Nani & khichdi.

Hit Khan Market

Jasmine tea

A friend back from Kargil, Drass

Another pal ready to catapult to tropical Hyd

A friend loony n moony, inhaling new-found love.

Lull n stories.

Hit Maggie n Dane

A cosy bed

Crepes n tea-lights

Maggie’s dad with a thousand vials

Of different smells

Horsehair and daffodils

Precious mumbo jumbo

That his kids couldn’t mess with.

Café Morrison

A run-in

A massive co-incidence

You from SODA?

You know what Gaultier did for Madonna?

Finally, back to that day’s home.

Pillow and tring, tring.

Morning. Back on the saddle.

Photo by Hari Menon.

From under the table
An order rings out:
Slosh-a-osha, Gimme mosha!

If a Hamburg citizen ate a Hamburger, would it be cannibalism?

The tight, dry buds unrolled

And the dregs were blossoms.

Seaweed down the porcelain cup.

Jasmine tea.

Hey, how is it a new day?
Till today I had the same name.
I played the same game.
My intentions were uniform.
But today, I felt the need
To flip the day,
Change my creed.
I walked into a bar
And no beer
I ordered vodka.
You see, I had in tow with me
A Russian celebrity.
I went to the Circus
And no I didn’t applaud
When Mr Whiskers
Jumped through the hoop, a fireball.
I took a hop, a skip, a jump myself
And entered the centre-of-attention ring.
Shoving the oversize kitty away
I did my own ballsy thing.
I went through the hoop.
I went through the flames.
I perched on a stool
And sulked and roared to the ringmaster’s cane.
And then, just for effect
I blew a bubblegum and jumped into it.
Now can you do that
You big furry black and yellow?
Leave business to the real fellow.
Off I went again.
Call me Fiza.
In one place I cannot stay.
Main hawa hoon, kahin bhi rukti nahin.
Ruk bhi jaaon agar toh main rehti nahin.
I went to an advertising agency
To see what they were trying to sell to me.
A postpay connection?
A bottle of Mr.Muscle?
A mosquito repellent spray
Valentine’s Day Special Prepay?
They brainstormed and argued and chewed their pencils,
Sat with feet up, on swivel chairs in ill-disguised dismay.
I thought I’d lend a hand or brain
And help them push their idea train.
A concept, a deep thought, a direction need you?
Maybe an additional promo idea
Or a 360 proactive what-have-you.
Why not try and base it on smart urban home-makers,
Calling them expert housewives and astute career-makers.
The ages old idea won the day.
It would fuel 30 new TVCs and radio scripts again.
A washing machine, a microwave, a refrigerator
Would be sold.
The same stuff but new enthu.
Having done my thing, said my say
Having established that everyday is a new day
I returned to my not-so-humble abode
And fixed my chai.

 Fat Fart fit fart

When it decides to stop, it stops,

It puts up a placard

That says Mental Block.

Closes the shutters

And draws the curtains.

Sits inside

As good as a hostage

Hands tied and mouth stuffed with sock.

My brain – a snoozing chowkidaar

On duty par off-duty

Having a party called Mental Block.

Brrrr cold.

SGPGI, JNU, Delhi University folk wake up early and head to dewy lawns or amphitheaters to be hit by the first warming rays of the morning sun. Bougainvillea weighs down heavy, blotting the sun with pink and mustard.

And in unflattering but warm sweatshirts, floaters with socked toes or sturdy sports shoes, they practise their plays. Shakuni, Sootradhar, Hamlet, Desdemona, Puck, Pappu ke Papa onstage. Mom, in a scarf, salwar-kameez and a tweed coat directs PGI actors in Lucknow, as I roll in my warm bed, and somebody flings a newspaper at my window; and Leo at La Martiniere Constantia continues to roar alright, well after the dark night. And Pip returns from his guilty trip to the convict, a file short, and charged of sin by staring oxen, back home to tread once more on the creaking tattling staircase. What must he say but Haaye Raaaam.

Photo of La Martiniere College (School actually); photographer unknown.