The Ninth Letter of The English Alphabet

I have an idea
Its called Love

I have a story
Its called Life

I learnt a new spelling
Called Subterfuge

But couldn't master the trick
Called Mind

I avert a curse
Called Religion

I am on a high
Called Spirituality

I have two names
One’s called Mistakes

I ride on the carousel
Called Intimacy

I dog-eared the ghost pages
In the Book of Yore

I slip into this cardboard box
Called Memory

Concealed in the circus tent
Where murdering The Clown
Is a felony

Warm Glow
I have fallen in love with these old fashioned wrought iron lanterns. If anyone’s got anything similar and antique, I’m buying it.

Red

These nail paints can have such amusing names, Scandalous, Vampire, Sugarplum, Bohemian Blue, Jealous Green and so on. This one is called Always Flaunting. Go figure!



Sharing a Secret

Bruno and Brutus

Cola wallah at your door-step
Super cool! I mean I was like what the……!!! Happens only in India?



Chirp-ling
Early morning this she sparrow was perched on the bamboo vase in the balcony, tweeting away. Groggily I dragged myself out of bed and snapped her.



Monkeys
I shooed these boys who were climbing up the almost naked tree to pick the last remnants of spring. It was hilarious that they actually believed I was clicking them to pass their photo to the Environment Police.



Brutal
500 pieces of this Dutch picture-painting puzzle. The pieces are not as big as they may seem in this close-up. I think I will frame it once done. Next challenge is a 1001 pieces.




To Bee or not to Bee
This bumble bee was most likely struck by the ceiling fan . I found it lying there on the table, head twisted, its antennae still alive when I stroked them with my pinky.



Sweet
My ``Happy Birthday!'' cookie with a mini chocolate topping and a candle.

Untitled

Since her children left home she has been cooking much less. Her recipe book which has pasted scraps and cut outs from weekend supplement magazines or newspaper is resting on the headboard next to the picture frame of her kids when they were nine and eleven.
Some good years ago there was a time when she would simply not hear of those exotic smelling soaps for the skin. She insisted malai, besan and coconut oil were the essentials to a healthy-glowing complexion. Of course I fancied the shampoos and those beauty bars the emigrant aunt would get from abroad but she never relented.
These days she calls often, sometimes even up to four to five times in a day. I sometimes feign a patient ear (being not at all a phone person). She asks me,
``Do you remember if I used to put tomatoes in UP waali saunf-aloo sabzee?''
``Certainly not. You were never a fan of tomatoes, anyways.''
She agrees and is plainly irritated at her frequent forgetfulness. Then the other day she sounded troubled over her thinning hair (result of taking prescription medication to treat diabetes), wondering hopefully if I could suggest a remedy or a shampoo. I tell her about Fab India stuff that I swear by. And as always she readily believes I know the best.
Before hanging up she asks again if I will be able to make it home for Diwali. ``The ticket is booked,'' I assure her.

Hello, Reader, just talking

I like my ice cream halfway melted
always avoid coleslaw in my burger
and blush at the drop of the hat.
I hug trees and trust me it doesn't look ridiculous
I think Vega's songs have the soporific cadency of poetry
I find prolific out-of-kilter cliches and phrases in Cohen's lyric poems
I know Jimmy Page was not a charlatan
and Clapton, uh nevermind
I find this fact amusing that Steely Dan is named after a giant steam powered dildo featured in some novel
and that 10 cc claimed its superiority over the average 9 cc sperm count
I think Swift is entitled to more than a passing consideration
and Coleridge was the ultimate dreamer
I turn to Gulzar and Kabir for comfort when I want to unburden.
Perhaps a lesser known nazm but very distinctly Gulzar I am putting down here. For the not so familiar with Urdu reader I have translated a few phrases at the bottom.

Mod pe dekha hai wo boodha-sa ek ped kabhi ?

Mera waqif hai, bahut salon se mein use jaanata hoon

Jab mein chhota tha to ik aam udaane ke liye

Parli deewar se kandhon pe chadha tha uske

Jaane dukhti huee kis shaakh se jaa paanv lagaa

Dhaad se phenk diya tha muje neeche usne

Meine khunnas main bahut phenke the pathar us par

Meri shaadi pe mujhe yaad hai shaakhein dekar

Meri vedi ka hawan garm kiya tha usne

Aur jab haamla thi 'Biba' to dopahar main har din

Meri biwi ki taraf kairiyan phenki thi isi ne

Waqt ke saath sabhi phool, sabhi patti gaye

Tab bhi jal jaata tha jab Munne se kehti 'Biba'

'Haan,usi ped se aaya hai tu, Ped ka phal hai'

Ab bhi jal jaata hoon. jab mod se gujarte mein kabhi

Khaanskar kehta hai, 'Kyo, Sar ke sabhi baal gaye?'

Subah se kaat rahe hain woh Kameti wale

Mod tak jaane ki himmat nahin hoti mujhko
...............

parli (on the far side)
haamla (pregnant)
Biba (the wife)
kairiyan (the raw green mangoes)

My box of charcoal and colour pencils

Gossamer

MOJO
The politics woman

The girl from next door

Krishna's Birthday (Krishna Janmashtami, 14th Aug.)

Preparations for the Puja( the ritualistic worshiping).

Thali (plate) of Gulab Jamuns (the brown yum yum balls, my favourite), the Swastika, Marigolds, Sweet Lime and Custard apples(the weird looking fruit), Akshat(rice), Roli(the red powder beside the akshat)



the stringed flowers




my swing for Baby Krishna

Paraphernalia

getting ready to give the baby his first bath



with water, milk and honey

bathed and dried

and we now let him be, resting, swinging.

Fogged

Weekend Camera

Home, lost and found

The earnest Kootchie Koo feelings and Gifts

I shall not buy you a teddy bear
Or get you a bunch of dried flowers from the old lady
A hieroglyphic pebble from London isn’t my wish
I wouldn’t pick curious stones for a pendant
Pink would certainly never remind me of you
For the personalized blue and white text-ed tee
I am not going all the way to the city
I will have to be entirely loony
To marker a palm with your name
Or to leaf your trace on the grass
When I don’t even miss you on my forearm
Forever and One isn’t my song
As aren’t the poems, all in all 97 so far
The long haired violinist
Had seen the last of her
Sitting on the tin of your cup and saucer
If at all you want a ring, apart the one for keys
Then a band would be my last idea
Happening only just by chance.