Butter

 Now I am orphaned. And all because of some butter. 

Baba always had breakfast with me before I went to school. Toast, boiled eggs and his tea. The egg had to be perfectly boiled, eight minutes only, if it was more the yolk would get hardened and if it was less than eight minutes then it would be runny and almost raw. The toast had to be hard, not the soggy nonsense you get after cooling, not blackened either. The butter would be laid on the table, soft to the cut of the knife. He likes things in order, he would always tell me "Biju if there is no discipline, things would fall apart, there would be no sun every morning and no fruits on the tree". And he is right, that's what my mother would say. At least just tell him he is right, she would add. 

When someone doesn't listen to him, things get ugly and I have seen it first hand. If I mess up something, I am sent to the dark room. It is not a special room, our house is not so big. It is just a room but the lights are put out. I can't see anything and everything seems to be closing in on me. I can hear Aai, my mother, pleading with him to let me go. But Baba is relentless when it comes to disciplining. Like the other day when Aai made his eggs to soft so he dropped the hot yolk on her palm. I was sure it was painful, but she said it is fine. She is very brave. When I came back from school, I saw the blister on her palm, but she said she should have been more careful. Those times were good, when Baba was not home. She would be happy and laughing, listening to radio and even dancing if her favorite song came on. 

Last month during Ganpati festival Aai danced the lavni for the function downstairs. She looked so beautiful, everyone praised her. Baba came home late that night. Aai had put me to sleep early hoping he would also give her come words of compliment, but he took her to the dark room. I don't know what was her mistake but next morning I saw her lip was swollen and her right eye was black. She was shakily putting some powder to cover it when I woke up. When Chandru's mother asked her what happened she lied "I fell down in the bathroom"

Aai did not want to trouble anyone. She did not tell my grandparents when they asked. They did not tell my aunt. She would tell me nothing happened, and all the time I think she was just lying to herself. She loved Baba so much, she was sure he would be better one day. And some days he was. Some days he would take us out to movies, buy her flowers and we would go to the beach. 

But then Aai would miss something like today morning. I think she had forgotten to put the butter in the fridge and it had stayed out the entire night. When Baba cut into it with the knife, it was dripping and when he tried to maneuver it to his toast a giant blob fell on the table. Baba grimaced, as if in actual physical pain. I was sitting across from him and I looked at his face and knew this was not good. Aai came running from the kitchen "What happened??"

He looked at her and pushed away his plate of food with so much force that a little bit of the tea spilled on the table. He got up and got hold of her braid. Aai always braided her hair before going to sleep. She gave a little yelp and apologized for a crime she was not aware of yet. Generally a profuse apology would get her out of such sticky situations, but today he was in a one of his moods. There was some pushing and shoving. She tried to get away a couple of times as well. But then he started shouting abuses that Aai would generally tell me were very bad words and never to be used. Baba was abusing her and even my grandfather. Last week, my grandparents had paid a visit and when they visit they subtly mention that Baba should treat Aai better, but they don't know that it always has a very opposite effect to what they expect. Instead of putting a balm on a bruise they are actually inadvertently adding fuel to fire. 

The abuses continued. When such situations occur, I just silently take my bag and go to school. I did the same. I picked up my bag and opened the main door and stepped out to the corridor outside the house. As I gently closed the door behind me I remembered I had not taken the keys. I was hesitant to enter the house again to fetch them considering the tumult in progress, so I stopped there for a moment to think what I should do. In the chawl there are no secrets, our homes are adjacent to each other and the walls hardly contain any sound. Chandru from the adjoining house had stepped out and was wearing his shoes, tying his shoelaces very slowly. It appeared he was listening to what was going on in my house and lapping up each word with utmost relish. Baba was a guidebook for cuss words and Chandru was a diligent student in that department. Chandru's mother stepped out handing him his tiffin box and giving me a look of pity. I decided I will go ahead without the keys, when suddenly the door to my house opened and Baba came out in a huff, pulling Aai by her hair, she was not her composed self either, she was disheveled and crying. Chandru's mother tried to intervene as Baba continued the beating in public. I stood there, my face turning hotter by the minute as I saw Chandru enjoying the show from the corner of my eye. This had never happened before, no matter what, Baba kept it in the confines of the home. Chandru's mother went inside to call her husband, people from the other houses were also peeking out. Baba pulled her along as she sat down on the floor, resisting him, he reached the stairs and that's when he slipped and fell. 

Chandru's father called the doctor, they said he broke his neck. Chandru's father bought me an ice cream, he is not angry like Baba. He was telling Chandru's mother in whispers that now I am orphaned. 

Phone Call

 "Hello"

 No response. This is what  bothered Aniket the most. He was on the way to work, in fact he had just left home and immediately there's a phone call. To top it all, there is no response. As if he did not have enough headaches to manage already.

Aniket was a very busy person holding a very serious position in one of the many multi-national companies that mushroomed in the city in the late nineties. This once sleepy town had been nudged from its slumber and forced to grow. Needless to say there were more cars than roads, unending serpentine lines of traffic. Every day he had to traverse through hours of traffic to reach work. He had little time to do anything else. His daughter had gone to college just this year. He was not returning home to anything really, his wife was equally busy and there was a mother in some part of the house who barely recognized him on her best days. 

Aniket was a man of discipline, waking up at 6 AM, going for his morning walk, meditating, eating his cereal breakfast and taking his diabetes medicines without fail for the past many years. He did not have time for inefficiencies in his life. When he received a phone call while driving from the home's landline phone he was far from pleased. A landline phone! Who uses it any more? But his house has one, a legacy of a bygone era that they were holding on to just for his mother's sanity. Last time, he had brought up the topic of surrendering the account, she had thrown such a fit, holding the paper bill that was generated every month and gets piled up in their post box that no one checked anymore. Something to do with it being an utility bill bearing his father's name, as if that's how you can hold on to some one who is long gone. He was truly baffled and frustrated with this kind of sentimentality, but indulged his mother this one idiosyncrasy. 

Who would have called? His wife Mitali had travelled to Mumbai for a conference. It must be the nurse. he just hoped everything was alright at home, because he did not have the strength to navigate through the traffic back home again. He knew he should be thinking about his mother's wellbeing, but his mind was occupied with the quarterly report he needed to turn in today. Soon a rogue motorist cut him off in the traffic and Aniket stuck his head out and gave him a piece of his mind, completely forgetting about the phone call. As he was reaching work, his phone buzzed again. It was Mitali. 

"Hi Mitu"

"Hi Ani, good morning. Listen is everything ok at home?"

"Ya I am just reaching office, what happened?"

"I got a call from home number, but when I called back no one picked up."

This both worried and irritated Aniket. He had also received the phone call, but unlike Mitali he had not bothered to check in. But as usual, with a man who recognized his failings, he did not admit it. 

"So call Jasmine and find out Mitu. How do you expect me to know? Look I have a really busy day, can you just sort this out and text me?"

There was a terse "Sure" from the other end of the line before disconnecting.  Aniket went ahead with his day with the diligence of an ox. Around lunch time, he had a moment to look up from his work and noticed a one-word text from Mitali: "Sorted"

The kind of message where he could cut through the clutter and hear her annoyed voice, but he was in no mood to indulge these petty feelings now. We can speak now when she is back from Mumbai, he surmised. The day's rigmarole continued surely and quickly as any other day, there was nothing extraordinary to write home about. 

As he started back for home, he had a moment to himself in the parking lot. He was relieved to have been able to ship out the report on time. The team had worked well, he would probably need to take the kids out for a few drinks this Friday. As the car trudged back, he dialled Mitali, but she did not pick up. This is what happened with them, like two large ships crossing each other in the ocean, they feel each other's waves, living highly successful parallel lives together. 

He reached home and turned the key on the door he was met with a familiar scent of white lilies - or rajanigandha as his mother called them. Aniket knew that these were prohibitively expensive here and was surprised at their presence in the house today. As he took offf his shoes, he could hear the sound of laughter  from the living room. He peaked in to see Mitali and his mother were sitting on the couch watching some TV and talking like two old friends, but that is not what arrested his attention. He noticed a bunch of rajanigandha neatly arranged in front of his father's photograph, along with two almost extinguished incense sticks. 

It was fourteenth June, it was his father's birthday, Ma must have been calling about this. The woman who forgets her dentures had remembered the date, yet he who had the company's financials at his fingertip had forgotten this number.

We Grow Old

 She was quite unhappy. She stood in front of the mirror today and suddenly realized that she had become an old woman. It shocked her how sudden the transformation had been. It was only yesterday that she would stand in front of this very mirror combing her long, black hair. The person who looked back at her seemed to be the reflection of a different person altogether, someone who looked like her mother, or her mother-in-law. Something deep within her stirred in dismay and she shook her head, turning away from that image. 

Anyway, she did not have the time to stand around looking at herself in the mirror. Someone had called her from the other end of the house. It was time for breakfast. She hurriedly headed to the kitchen and concentrated on kneading the dough. It was a busy morning and she needed to see everyone off to office and school. She went through the motions absent-mindedly. She forgot the sugar in her husband's tea, which he jovially pointed out, "Anu, age is catching up."

On other days she would have dismissed this as him being funny, but today these same words cut deep. She unconsciously wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye as he packed his lunch and handed it over to him. As he smilingly accepted the bag and proceeded to his car, she paused there at the doorstep for a while looking at him as his figure slowly became smaller. She remembered how she would lovingly look up different recipes and make food for him in the early days of the marriage. Everyday would be a surprise. She would stand like this at the doorway bidding him goodbye and he would say a few sweet words, promises would be made about returning early or catching an evening show at the cinema. Slowly the routine broke, she did not have the time to pause, she had to quickly get back to the kitchen to prepare lunch boxes for the children. There was no novelty in the recipes even, they plateaued at some sort of variation of potatoes. He would still smilingly accept the bag, but no more cinema rendezvous took place. 

She paced back inside the house, which was now empty. The children did not need to be dropped to school anymore, the house needed a thorough cleaning up though. As she picked up after everyone, she felt caged. She felt like a cage herself, a cage whose birds had all flown. 

As she was picking up the wet towel from her son's room, she again absent-mindedly looked at the mirror in the room and again that old woman looked back at her. This time, she did not look away but went closer to have a better look, her face had opened up like strawberry skin, her hair had thinned and was mostly white, the laugh lines which her father would jokingly say made her cute looked like ravines on a deserted planet - what has she become! She stood at a little distance to take her entire figure in. Gradually, more shameful facts came to light. The muscles on her arm were loose, her breasts were sagging, beneath her long and loose kurti, she knew she was hiding a paunch. Everyday, during her very quick shower, she would see it, momentarily sigh and think about starting yoga the next day and forget all about it later.  Today, however, something had changed. 

Earlier in the day, she had gone downstairs to buy some vegetables from the vendor across the street. The mornings are always a hurry and she did not have time to dress up. Her focus was to prepare the food for everyone and she was missing a few carrot and lemon, so she quickly put a dupatta across her worn out kurti and the slippers she had worn during Holi. These slippers are always kept outside the house because they know no one will steal them. They are the rubber slippers that can not tear even if used to thrash a thief! Her hair was not combed and was frizzing all across, tied in an untidy bun. The lift stopped at the third floor, and the new tenant walked in, Smita or Sweta, something was her name. This Smita or Sweta, who Mrs. Saxena from across the corridor said was working in some big company, just like Anu's husband. She entered the lift, looking engrossed on her phone screen. As she entered, she saw Anu and flashed a well-practiced wide smile. 

"Good morning, going somewhere?"

She surveyed Any from head to toe, a quick judgement, holding on to that smile all the while. Anu suddenly felt very conscious of herself. Last week they had done a house warming and gone to everyone's house to distribute sweets. When they came to Anu's house she had naturally invited them in for a cup of tea. During the conversation, she discovered Smita or Sweta was her senior from college. they had chatted a bit about the reunion last year. How Smita or Sweta had chaired it and how Anu had missed it as she was busy. This lady standing in front of her, not a hair out of place, perfectly manicured nails, high heels, pencil skirt, her name brand purse was older than her, yet she looked so young. Her skin was powered perfectly, her lips luscious and perfectly colored, her earrings tastefully selected. Anu balled her hands into fists beghind her back, feeling a smalls nails smeared with turmeric. She only briefly smiled at Smita or Sweta as they parted ways. 

As she picked a few things at the shop and asked the boy to add it to the family's tab, she wondered where all the years had sped her by, how did she lose everything. 

Now, the empty house seemed to be coming at her. The looked at everything which he had poured her heart and soul into and hated it. the curtains that she has meticulously chosen, matching with the color of the wall, the paintings she had made, the showpieces that she curated from her different travels and spent hours dusting and cleaning - they all seemed to be looking her and mocking her. This is where all your time went Anu, you were buying curtains and cushion covers, buying duvets and wall hangings, instead of taking care of your skin and hair. Look where it has brought you now, you look like an old hag and behave like one too. 

She moved around the entire house, traversing one room to the other, nothing seemed to give her any respite. She brought out photo albums to cherish moments with the family, she looked at the medals and certificates of the children, she tried to divert her mind by watching some TV - nothing seemed to bring her peace. She felt like a fever was coming on, she tentatively touched her forehead with her fingers to check the temperature, like she did with her children. She drank some water. She made some tea. She took the cup outside to the terrace and forgot it there on the parapet. She looked at her small garden and busied herself in clearing some weed. 

After having spent around three quarters of an hour like this, she realized that the larger part of the day was still left. She went inside and took a long bath, showering in hot water. She used all the exfoliating creams her daughter had lined up the bathroom window with. She even used some of the expensive cream her sister had got for her from Paris last month. She wore the pretty pastel dress she had bought when she went to the mall last month and put on some lipstick. The face looking back at her was a little more presentable, but she could still see the dark shadows beneath the eyes. 

She picked up her purse. Let me go and surprise Ashok at work, she thought to herself. As she hailed a cab and settled in she remembered how she would often do this in the earlier days, drop the kids over at school and meet Ashok for lunch. She knew things had changed. He was not just a clerk who would not be missed, he was an important person and could not just walk away. As the cab meandered through the traffic, she fiddled with her phone, wondering if she should call once. He might not like her making an appearance out of nowhere. It would not have bothered him earlier, but now, things were different. How did it become so difficult, when did it become so difficult?

She had reached the building where Ashok's office was, it was a gigantic building with glass walls. Just looking at it was daunting enough. She paced outside and fought a thousand battles within before entering the lobby, she would make up her mind and try to enter and then she would again debate in her mind. Is this appropriate, will he be angry, would he again say age is catching up?

"Anu!"

Suddenly she heard him call her name. The voice was not coming from within the building, but outside. She turned around to see him and a few others walking back at a leisurely pace. The others nodded a courtesy at her and entered the building while Ashok came towards her, concerned, "Is everything alright?"

Suddenly she stood there lost for words. The simple request of having a lunch was stuck at her throat, she was unable to say this to the man with whom she had shared the most intimate moments of life, two children, three houses, two cities, innumerable cups of tea, heartbreaks and laughter, yet this simple thing she was unable to share. 

Ashok stood there impatiently for a while waiting for an answer, then took her by the hand to the sidewalk and said, "Are you here to meet someone?" After what seemed the most interminable few minutes of her life, she said she wanted to check if he would be free for lunch. The words tumbled out of her like collapsing Jenga blocks. Ashok laughed a laugh she had not heard in a while, "Wait here, let me get my wallet from my office", he said sheepishly like a child slipping out of school. 

As he ran back inside, she stood there watching him. He had aged too, there was the bald patch you could not miss anymore, the paunch was there too, she was not alone. 

Red

 I wish I was born in another time

When there was no war, 

no clashes among people, 

each baying for the other's blood, 

Or lying, without shame, 

without batting an eyelid. 

No blood, no death, no bomb shells, 

Where people were not afraid to return 

to their own homes, 

lest a bomb be lying, 

undetonated, undetected. 

But I can't think of such a time, 

every century, every great Age, 

marked by some bloodshed

As if we can't progress as a race without some red.

Always red, but believing in different Gods. 

So, logically, 

I wish I were never born.

Have Not

 It is the same story every morning, with a fresh realisation about a lack of some kind. Today it was not his mother saying that the rice is over so she will not be able to pack lunch, or his sister furtively asking if he could spare a few bucks, or even his father embarrassingly pointing at his empty shirt pocket indicating he was out of cigarettes. These demands he could indulge, they were placed with the right amount of platitude and guilt that would make him feel that without his generosity this household would simply fall apart. 

Today it was his brother. There was something really vile about a fifteen year old boy creating a scene. It could not be neglected due to his gruff and still forming voice that would alternatively be high pitched and heavy. It could not be ignored as a tantrum of a child either. His brother Munna was an otherwise quiet child. He remembered how they used to play catch with a tattered tennis ball in the lane in front of their house just a few years ago. But this was not child, this was a man, sitting on the plastic red stool that stood beside the door and putting on his shoe. He held up his left shoe and waved it towards their father

"Look at this, do you expect me to go out wearing this?"

The pasting of the shoe's body and the sole had come apart. A twenty buck job at the roadside cobbler should do the job, thought Bablu, still sprawled across his bed. He tried to draw the sheet over his head to block out the morning sun and Munna's voice. He agreed that the shoe was in bad shape, but there was no sense in shouting about it now. Bablu had returned late last night as he always does and he needed his sleep before the delivery rush of the lunch time starts. 

As he lay in the bed thinking if he could squeeze in a couple of more hours to get some overtime, he could hear voices being raised in the other part of the room, not that it was a large room that he could not hear them clear as crystal. Mother got up from the other end of the room which doubled up as the kitchen and entreated father and son to keep their voices low. 

"Munna, we will do something about this. Wear your father's sandal and go today."

Munna happily left his shoes, and took off wearing father's sandals. Father was just going to mumble something in between sipping his chai, when mother glowered, "it's not like you are going anywhere"

As Bablu sat up, he could see his father shrink away just like an insect cowers when someone prods at it with a twig. Still groggy, he squinted to see his mother again settling on the floor with her knife and vegetables. His father used to drive an auto, but his license had been suspended by the police, when he was caught drunk for the third time. Mother was not pleased with this. It is not like father used to be a really busy driver, he would hardly have a few rides in a day, but at least he was out of her sight. Now he used to sit in the corner and order unlimited cups of chai through the day. It is not like Bablu was mighty pleased with his father either. He knew the state of the house, he knew about the expenses, still he has to be unreasonable. When does this end?

Maybe he should get ready and start his deliveries since morning? Asif was telling him a lot of people order food for breakfast as well and that's a busy time. Bablu had been working as a food delivery boy for the past year and he had been doing pretty well. He was more than happy to fill in during the graveyard shift and that allowed him to make a few extra bucks. If he had not started in this line of work, he would never know about all these different kinds of food that people eat. Dosa, Falafel, Momo, Sushi - the list was endless. Since Bablu had a two wheeler that he could drive really fast even in peak traffic, he was a popular guy. His manager Swami said if he continued this way, he could go to the top, and he knew he would. He was not meant to spend his life in this one room with his parents and two siblings forever. 

His sister was already working in a hospital in the reception since the last two months. She had already left for work and would be back by evening. She was a diligent girl and he knew she would do well. Even Munna for all his whining was turning out to be a dependable chap. He was in college and would finish up in another year. the pressures were different for him and Bablu understood that. Kids that age can be cruel and walking into a place of study with a torn shoe might have been embarrassing for him. 

Mother gave him some breakfast that he thankfully polished off and got ready to go for work. 

"Are you leaving already?" she enquired. 

"Yes Ma, I think I will do some overtime today. I will get a pair of sandals for Munna on the way back."

She went to the other side of the room and picked up the shoes that Munna had mercilessly discarded. 

"These still have some life left, I will take this to the cobbler. Don't waste money."

Bablu smiled as he put on the uniform, his bright red t-shirt which his mother had cleaned and ironed for him. No matter how late he would come back at night, every morning he would find his clothes laundered to perfection. This is what he loved about this small rickety existence of his, it was small but never shabby. 

He hopped on his two-wheeler and sped away. The usual orders of breakfast time started trickling in. He picked deliveries and zoomed through traffic to reach his destinations. After the breakfast rush subsided a little, he drove to the regular tea stall where he and his buddies caught up through the day. Chandru was already there, in some deep discussion with two other fellows. Bablu collected his ten rupee paper cup filled with steaming hot sugary tea and joined them. 

He was happy with the work he put in this morning, this was sure to earn him a few extra bucks today. While the others discussed about the latest movie or some such nonsense, Bablu was busy preparing for the rest of the day. There was new shop near the railway station, they have a very good collection of shoes. Last weekend when Munna and he had gone out, he recalled standing at the window and admiring one. While Bablu was an avid fan of shoes with laces, Munna loved those slip on kind of shoes. there was one particularly nice pari that appeared to be made of plastic, but Munna told him they are called Crocs and apparently they were all the rage these days. Bablu did not understand the appeal of these but if Munna liked them he would try and get them for him. 

He was brought back to his senses as his phone buzzed. Delivery order for a pizza. Two boxes and some garlic bread and Coke. Someone is having a party on a Wednesday afternoon. Good for him. He whizzed to the pizza shop and waited to collect the order. He quickly loaded it on his bike and informed his customer that he was on the way. As he was driving to the destination, he got a call from the customer. 

"Hello!"

"Hello madam" he said with the most polite tone he could conjure as he dodged being hit by an SUV. 

"Bhaiya, Pizza delivery?"

This is what got his goat, he knew that when a customer got his number, they got his name as well. Why can't they ever call him and say "hello, is this Bablu?"

When he shared this with Chandru sometime back, he almost doubled up laughing. 

"We are all the same to them, you, me and few days later even Munna - Pizza, Dosa or Momo - that's all that we are."

As he thought about this again and the pain and shame of his existence washed over him as clear and real as the ashen smoke emanating from the school bus in front of him, the madam on the other end asked him to leave the pizza at the door and not ring the bell. Sure thing, he was happy to comply. In a few minutes, he reached the gate. This was the large apartment complex at the end of the road. He comes here very often, sometimes with multiple orders. He wonders if these people ever cook at home, but does not waste too much time thinking about it as this makes him his money. The security guards know him too. He opens his helmet and smiles at Suren who is sitting under an umbrella trying to protect himself from the scorching sun and catching a nap. He flashes the code which will allow him entry, but Suren seems to be in a lazy mood today and simply nods his head to let him know he can pass. Bablu parks his bike and takes the lift to the sixth floor and gets the door immediately. 

It is a party indeed! He needs to wade through a sea of footwear to get to the door. He stops looking around, wondering where he should place the pizza box. There is a shoe box by the door and he finally places the boxes on top. The Coke bottle rolls over and falls on the floor. 

"Shit!"

He mutters inadvertently. He can see the fizz forming inside the bottle. He carefully picks it up and places it on the shoe box again. It was somewhere in this entire time that Bablu first sees it and then no matter what, he cannot unsee it. There it was right beside the shoebox, a shiny, blue pair of Crocs. They were so pristine it seemed like they had been never worn. In those flashy corridor lights they looked even more stunning than they looked in the window of the shop near the railway station. He was not aware how or when it happened, but he extended his arm to touch them. His fingers quivered as he first touched them. They might have looked like hard plastic, but they were actually quite soft to touch. Oh how wonderfully comfortable would they be to wear he wondered. He looked around, no one was there, it would not hurt to just see how it feels. He opened his dusty pair of shoes and tried them on. How ugly his earthy, bare feet looked in those shoes. He was suddenly overcome with a deep disgust for himself. He took them off as quickly as he had worn them. It was as if the entire gathering of footwear - the Crocs, the sneakers, the ten other pairs whose names he had never heard were all looking at him and laughing. He pressed the button to summon the elevator but kept looking at the spread of shoes. 

How casually they were strewn around, he wondered, would they even notice if one goes missing. Clearly Munna needed this more than anyone of those pasty faced Pizza eating little babies beyond this door. As if an invisible hand pulled him, the elevator came and the doors opened. It was vacant. He did not take it, he went back and picked the blue Crocs. He held it close to his chest as if caressing a child. He took the stairs, roughly shoving the pair inside his jacket. How happy would Munna be to see this tonight! Hell with the rest of the day, he would go back home immediately. He wanted to see the look on Munna's face when he walks in and sees this shining near the door. After two flights of stairs, something happened and Bablu could not breathe anymore. What would he tell him when he asks me where I got it from? What would he tell mother? With father, she was just annoyed, to find out he stole would break her heart. He had made it to the ground floor and past the security fellow, but could not go further. He could not leave with this, but there was no excuse for him to go back either. Suddenly the import of the moment dawned upon him. He sat on his bike and went towards the exit gate. Suren was still dreaming under his umbrella. Bablu thrust the pair in his hands and left without a word.

Later, when they saw the CCTV footage, they saw this delivery guy walking to and from the corridor, trying out the shoe. The security in-charge told the madam of the sixth floor, you can complain with the company. 

In the other part of town, Bablu sighed and went to the shop near the railway station.

Have you read the newspaper?

 Have you read the newspaper off late?

What have we become?

Lesser than we used to be. 

Sitting in your larger, 

Air-conditioned living rooms, 

Having cereal, with milk from a carton,

And California almonds,

With frozen berries, of every kind; 

As you chomp down your breakfast,

‘Cause you need to catch the 10 AM meeting,

Have you read the newspaper?

The poor become poorer,

But that’s old news.

We are more severe on the weaker,

War looms large, knocks at our door,

So what? It’s not our children who are bullet ridden.

Somewhere a delivery boy kills someone

Over a parking spot, for he was getting late 

For a 30-minute or free delivery. 

Uneducated brutes, we smirk, as we sip our gourmet coffee.

Children are killed by mothers in hotel rooms

And packed in suitcases like dirty laundry

Young boys getting catfished by old men, 

Or vice versa,

Bullies everywhere.

We turn the page, big match tonight!

We turn the page, there’s some great offer on pizza, 

Delivered in 30 minutes, else free!

Festival

It was the ninth day of the festival,

A little too much sequin on people

And everyone seems to have taken a day off!

It was exceptionally hot,

The pitch on the roads were undone

Heaps of that horrid asphalt

Seems to have been scraped off

Like unwanted pizza toppings

And discarded on the sides

Electric wires streaming out

Like a fountain.

On such a sultry day,

We found our lost pooch,

Licking at the scabs on his haunches

Lest the flies fester again.

Not a spot of shade to bury his head in.

The fellow who sells coconut,

Tirelessly hacking

At those tender green fruits,

Was not here today.

The solitary shade from the flying plastic missing.

What is the mongrel to do,

But hide his muzzle

In the mound of garbage.

After all, the cleaner took the day off too. 

Summer

Summer reminds me of home

Of glorious Calcutta summers

of mangoes, of holidays

and sweaty afternoon siestas.

When Shakespeare was comparing 

someone to a summer's day, 

my teacher in school joked about him

not knowing the wrath of a Calcutta summer

Maybe not, more poor he for it.

Nothing goes past the summer,

She watches with her endearing grandmother smile,

as children graduate to new classes

make new friends, and foes. 

Mothers find a patch of shade

and sit and enjoy a cup of tea

while cutting thin slices of gooseberries 

to be neatly arranged out to dry in the sun.

The sun is a raging rebel

taming everyone with his iron will

but evening brings the kalboishakhi,

and no rebel stands a chance before a storm.

All rage washed down with

some cucumber water with mint