Five poems from the heart of South Bombay...
1. SONG FROM THE BUBBLE There is a place called Vikhroli.
No more do you shop at Fashion Street.
Vanished is Open House and
Perished the Hot Fudge Sundae.
There is an H&M at Nana Chowk
(Where once only toilet fittings lived).
Chipkniks are no more,
Not even the Lime 'n' Spicy.
Premier Padmini is full of Sepia,
And so are we that rode in them,
With small hands clutching Snowman's softies
That melted too soon, and froze in Eternity. 2018
2. SITTING ON A TETRAPOD, TALKING.
This is my life, skin-deep.
Skewered on longing
for true love, for a second degree,
For pedigree, for deep-sea divers
with Buddhist dreams,
torn at the seams.
Things, earrings,
dressing up my stillborn soul, seasonal spices to fool you,
there is a life within.
And yet we talk, you and I,
of salt spray, of Bombay.
1999
3. THE PEDICURE PARTY
I admit it, I've been to one.
It was quite pleasant!
The food was gluten - free
And vegan too, amazingly.
Both things in alignment
With my moral aspirations
Regarding genetic modification
Of plants in particular
And the mass murder
Of animals in general.
So what was it then
That screamed in my ear so quietly
That I had to throw up
The cucumber-sesame-mint hummus bites
In the 'dark-floral' powder room,
Quite violently? 2017
4. THE BARONS OF BREACH CANDY Enough about vada pao, cutting-chai,
and the jolly ladies on the local train slicing bhindi
on their way home from work.
We're stuffed on Cafe Leopold, Bandra fair,
Mario Miranda, dabba-wallas and the amazing resilience
which 'Mumbaikars' show as they bounce back
from being shafted by this and that
natural calamity, act of god, fresh new bomb blast,
building collapse, biblical flood, and so on and so forth.
We, The Republic of South Bombay -
that's 'Bombayites' to you -
do solemnly swear under our breath,
demanding a change in narrative.
English is our mother tongue after all -
you've said so yourself - not just a little disparagingly!
We want more than a tired old hankering
for Nissim Ezekiel, Adil Jussalawa, et al.,
for the Irani Cafe, as we all know, is a dead duck.
Poetic Justice however is alive and quacking,
for at Starbuck's not long ago, I saw in my latte art,
a likeness of Datta Samant, and it whispered thus:
Forsake this mill-mall and run for the hills posthaste,
ye Pedder Road Princess!
No longer are you safe here while the railways kill ten a day.
Listen up ye Maharajas of Malabar Hill,
prostrate feline on that slate grey chaise,
No longer will you be safe here, though you can afford the rent.
Wake up, O Barons of Breach Candy,
and smell the ghost of old coffeehouses,
No longer are you safe here while the coastal road offends your senses
and slashes the real estate value of your little boxes.
I see sea levels rise and the Mithi choke.
I see poets and artists gagged and bound.
I see godmen wringing hands in glee
at the twitish partitions that have festered.
They've churned the oceans, and the devil's won!
They've taken your city, leopards and all,
as you sipped a dirty martini with your BFF
on the roof while discussing gender fluidity.
They've fused your islands into a brittle spine arthritic!
Oh, colony comes in many flavours - now you know!
But darling, please don't cry!
For you, there is a second innings.
For you, there is a Second Coming.
For you, some rough beast slouches
towards Bethlehem to be re-born.
Gather up your trust fund and cucumber sandwitches!
Down that G&T, then take the cash and run!
Run to Kensington! To Manhattan!
To an island off Costa Smeralda - if you have any class! -
For this ship has sailed.
PS: Pudhchya warshi lavkar ya!
2021
5. SCRUBBING THE BUBBLE.
The air is thick as knives. Suspended particulate matter Too ugly for my lungs! HEPA filter me, baby, and HVAC me while you're there. I'm too old, too rich, for this. My Bubble got my back - And the Heavy Metals in the tap? Rock On: There's a gadget for that too. The best things in life are free? Ha. 2021
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