Mumbai
Chhote chhote ghar
Restaurant mein chhoti chhoti tables
Saath satee hui seats
Waiter stretching across your plate
Kyunki aapki chair peeche waale se lagi hai.
No elbow room par khula gaya hai Khar mein Elbo Room.
Gaddhe interruptions nahi, hain auto ke liye parallel lane.
Highway par nightie mein ghoomti ladeej-log
Kyunki yahi unka aangan hai.
Yahi potty, manjan, Ganpati, diwali ka venue hai.
Bhaari truckon ke pahiye tharrayein expressway
Wahin bache bhaagein apne ghoomte pahiye ke peeche.
Pub mein jao, toh aage jaane ka corridor nahi, yahi pub hai.
Angdaai lo toh beech mein art director ki nose hai
Ek kanaal ek beeghe ki baat toh hoti hi nahi
Per square foot mein duniya khatm hai.
Par local mein jagah mil hi jaati hai
20 minutes waiting ke baad table reserve ho hi jaati hai
Mondy’s mein kya rehta mazaa
Agar hasee sirf apni table ke jokes par aati.
Baaki jagah parents ya badon ko wait karna pad jaaye
Toh sharm aa jaati hai
Mumbai mein who khud mazze se lamppost ke sahaare tik jaate hain
Kya rakha hai ek beeghe, ek kanaal main
Jab soonsaan sadke avoid karni hi hain.
Zzzzzzzzombie & Bambi
Sleep is lil deaths we do
To pass an extra holiday
A listless noon
When you don't want to just not to do anything
But also not think about anything
Or even nothing for that matter.
Away from TV surfing
Away from preplanning dahi and counting rotis
Away from water conn that will return only at 6pm
Away from a hustling bustling exciting world
You somehow don't wish to wet your toe in
Not yet, not just
And later will be too late
Ahh too much on my plate
Time to die a bit
Zzzz it out.
(10 minutes later i realized i was just writing about sleepy procrastination.
What.. you waiting for Bambi?)
Eye-rene
If I had 1 eye
I'd use it two times over.
Put it in her soap dish
Bounce with the rubber ducky.
Slip it down the door knocker
To the keyhole below
Hanging by an optical nerve
Stretched rubberbandily low
Would set it on a tray at the chicken shop
Rest with all the heads
Stare eye to dead eye
Avoid all the pricking pointy beaks
And protect my punctureable retina film
That sheath between the world
And my I
My private eye
My only one
Mind you.
The Pathos is Unintentional by the way
Women in high heels
Holding their bags tight
Their cigarettes alight
Stub out in front of Mummy Daddy
Switch back on
In the dark alley
Right behind Morisson’s
Tiny points of flash
Like their tiny sequins
Going glitter glitter glam glam
2 hrs later
Speeding down the highway
It’s tera baap and his brother
A wheee scram to Moorthal ke paraanthe
Pickle pyaaz chutney n dal
Saare baithke ungliyaan chaante
And the hands go back
Licked clean and wet
Into the pockets
Feeling linings, dry fluff inside
Digging into warm dirty depths
Anywhere, somewhere
Just away from the cold cold cold.
Or maybe in another’s pocket
To pinch an inch of skin in between
A nipple or friendly paunch.
A cop leaning, keeling over the car
Bring the windows down
The boot up
Throw up your hands
Open your legs
Let them check within without
And let you go
Because it’s just a charade you know.
Pass a blanket
A curved bent foetus of a figure
Scrawny neck, deep socket eyes
A small flame, a lil spoon
And a bubbling bit of high
A drag a puff a fix
As the glit clit glam goes by.
A day in the life of a BDC
Branding and Design Consultant. That’s what the board said in front of office. A very sarkari board that I felt showed off gravity as well as a tongue-in-cheek joke, whichever one chose to notice.
I think it was the gravity that worked for them. In they walked, not even giving my secretary time to warn me. I didn’t get a chance to taker my apron off. When not photoshopping or ideating, I liked to bake cinnamon cookies in my office, one of the reasons I left my earlier job and started on my own. I also liked to sprinkle water on my plants, scratch kittens on their tummies as they rolled about or do crunches one day, leg raises the next.
They strode in. Three of them. The main guy took a chair, mind, my swivel chair behind the desk, not in front of. The other two positioned themselves behind much like coat-hangers within easy reach. They positioned themselves as if ready for a penalty shot in soccer, protecting respective family jewels.
Since business was low, and a logo for home-made potato chips was my best ongoing project I decided to overlook the slight.
The main guy lifted a heavy hand, pointed at me in an “Uncle Sam wants you” way and said – “Malwalkar, that’s the name. And I need your.... (pause, he hadn’t used the word in a long time for himself) help.”
“I have a small business – Malwalkar Associates. We help people recover money that is due. And we do whatever it takes. It’s quite a public service. Only last month did we help a man recover his rent from a tenant, who wasn’t even moving out, and why? Just because his wife was the pregnant. Not only this, as a complimentary service we even got rid of the tenant.”
“Ooh lovely!” I said. “Would you like a cookie?” He took one after his crony picked it, bit it and assured him that it was baked to fine perfection with the goodness of whole grains and wheat, and butter made of cows that basked in golden sunshine in abundant pastures. He also added they weren’t poisoned. All was communicated in a morse code of grunts and snorts; dot dash, dash dash dot. “So, how can I help?”
Well, he explained, business had gone a little down. During recession it had shot up with people scrimping money from wherever they could; mom-in-laws asking daughter-in-laws to return bangles, septuagenarian professors honoured with handsome pensions for their distinguished service were asked to make do without cornflakes for breakfast, and Sourav Ganguly was asked to return land bestowed upon him for bringing glory to the nation. But now with recession over, people were getting back to their careless selves in financial matters and Malwalkar was not able to buy the Garmin he had for so long set his heart on.
“I want you to make me an ad” he said.
“Ok, what’s your target audience?” I got down to the brass tacks of it.
“Anyone who wants money back. Father-in-laws promised dowry but not given, school principles promised donation but not handed over, brokers, land-owners, politicians, the hitman who must put food on the table.”
“Since this customer base seems to be dwindling, do you want churners? Is there a new market you would like to venture into?”
“Yes yes. That is one of the things. I want to target younger people, the yuppy crowd that does not traditionally associate with people like us, but after approaching HR, or the courts find that a solution has not been found. Y’know, young couples working in MNCs whose landlord is not returning the four months security they gave on the house etc etc"
Ok, I said, as I penned it down, muttering – TC: Sec C to Sec A, average education, mostly male. Reads newspapers, not much else. TC to target – yuppy, facebook users, believe in delighting their friends two to twenty times a day with youtube links (now vimeo) – mostly accident videos they would not appreciate if happened to their mom. Avid followers of coke studio clips (pakistan, not india please).
“What is the USP of your service and who are your competitors?”
“We have no competitors. My brother-in-law is in the same line of work but he operates in the Dadar to Bandra area while I cover Bandra to Andheri, both East and West. My USP is that we get the job done, no matter what.”
“What are your services, like what do you do exactly under the spectrum of recover money?”
He brought out a sheaf of photographs. Each showed him and the concerned client shaking hands while the service was performed in the background. He explained showing the first photograph – “We threaten verbally first. Our special R&D team develops choice abuses. Sometimes the classic ones centered around mothers, daughters and other female relatives work; other times we have to more creative to get across to the subject, to like open his mind to the possibilities. Then we may break his legs, in public view for added effect and humiliation. For stubborn ones we kidnap a family member or worse a love interest, though we don’t normally like to do that as we have to add food and bedding charges to our bill then. We may also walk into the subject’s house or office and simply pick a thing of value to sort the money matter. Or we let our interns puncture tires, cut off electricity, contaminate the water supply– mess with amenities to get back which the subject often pays more than the initial sum, and very quickly too.”
“This is our team”. He showed a photograph of young men, each full of spark, entrepreneurial promise and a weapon. A banner overhead said – Annual meet of Ace Action Team 2011
“We have even worked for celebrities”, upon which he showed photos that I cannot here discuss for reasons of professional confidentiality.
“What kind of an image would you like to portray?” I continued. “That of quick, agile agents, y’know catalysts in business. Or that of an alternative police system, one that the public can count on?”
“G-O-D”, he spelt out. “I am GOD when even the one up there doesn’t hear your prayers. I balance the system of justice, for what? Not payment, but a little token of gratitude; just one peti or one khoka. Not too much ask for such specialized, niche services.”
“Ok, I think I’ve got what I want”, I ended, shutting my notepad with dusty finality. “Could you return in 2 weeks? My secretary will discuss the charges with you.”
“2 hours”, he declared, and walked off to the mall round the corner. I hoped he would take 3 hours with the many sales going on.
2 hours. Shit. Too little for any thought to be conceived, developed and executed. I went to the loo and took a leisurely dump for half an hour. Dipped my ginger tea-bag in just correctly hot water for ten minutes. Checked out a guy whose friend request I was going to reject for another ten. Watched Russel Peters’ latest show for another forty. (Very very good mixing of “Be a man” and “Someone gonna get hurt real bad” by the New York DJ.)
In he walked again. I had already taken a seat by the window. One of the cronies held large shopping bags, the other held a melon smoothie.
I stood up, walked to my display board, Don Draper style, and with a tango-dancer swish unveiled my print advertisement for Malwalkar Associates.
The client met it with a hard stare. The title said Malwalkar Move-their-Ass-ociates. The tagline read – Whatever it takes. The visual showed Mr. Malwalkar as a godly figure, halo intact, levitating a good three feet above mortals. With his palm facing outwards he was shown returning Draupadi not only her sari but also a car, a palace and a TV. The Pandavas in the background looked overwhelmed, and very happy of course. The same happiness you see on the faces of Complan kids, the woman who applies anti-aging cream and regains the interest of her husband, or man whose house still retains its coat of lustrous paint.
I wanted to explain how the title would attract the yuppy crowd with its empathetic lingo, while still being meaningful. How the mythological reference would.... But something in the silence of the room forbade me from disturbing it.
Malwalkar stood up, walked to me looking every bit like a God whose wrath could strike you down. And then..... he hugged me, a bone crunching masculine affair, with warmth that scorched.
Standing back he said – Only you, only you see my work in life as I see it.
With a brisk wipe of the tears he said – “Get the prints rolling”. And he left the building depositing a loaded briefcase on my secretary’s desk. (Yay! No income tax).
I sat back (in my own chair). Threw my feet on the table. And from my top drawer, brought out the picture of a former client, who in my early days as a BDC had made use of my enthusiasm and prompt services but never really sent across that check.
Cake Chronicles
10 am
I am a big fat chunk of butter and flour. Sitting in the fridge. A leftover of last night’s revelry, a stranger’s birthday party thrown with heartfelt love in the living room. Somebody’s best friend. Clicked pics. Smeared cream on face. The drill. Right now I am not your guilty indulgence, sinful oohness. No longer bedecked with candles, I am just a few roughly cut pieces of ceremonial gluttony in the fridge.
1pm
Ok ok. Let’s agree to disagree. Let’s co-exist in peace. Pick the apple next to me. Yeah, that’s it.
4 pm
Umm.. I am a quick bite. A little yumness you absolutely deserve after a hard day’s work (and more to go). Just a bite to give some body to that heavenly, but ephemeral ginger tea (dip, dip). No? ok. Have it your way.
10 pm
As cats to dark alleys, as shifty glances to a burglar, as a moustache to Frida, so do I belong to your tummy. You have held back too long. Worldly inhibitions hold you down. Media-made, artificial ideas of fitness and beauty. Consider those full bodied Renaissance figures with rosy, peachy glow. Let down your defences, tomorrow is another day. Right now, just have me. Devour me. A slim slice, no not that slim never did anyone any harm. There we go.
Smelly Solace
Sister cries over misunderstanding among friends. With a red nose and quivering chin. Aww.. so cute. Like back to school. I hug her, still smelling of a long grassy, rainy jog. If I were her, I’d turn me away. Send me stumbling backwards over an imaginary table-lamp in slo mo. Krrashh.
Anyway, so there she is. Figuring out life. Maybe still giving new year diaries to teachers. Just that there are no teachers in life anymore. Just movies and shayari that to lend some wisdom, in case you care to catch it. The last that stuck is from the movie Zindagi na Milegi Dobara. Something to the effect that you know you’re Zinda when Aankhon mein hain Haeraaniyaan and Dil mein hain Betaabiyaan.
Muahhh to all crying sisters over the world, to sniffling mice and kids who didn’t get their muffin with rainbow sprinkles. To all kids who didn’t get the dog they so badly wanted because moms won’t potty train it and Dad won’t take it for a walk.
Now just pray she never reads this.
