Year-end Nostalgia

As we come to the end end of another year, I just  cannot help reminiscing about the good times - old friends (in every sense of the word), old booze, hearty food, comfort zone in general, although I must confess all of us were a little cranky at times! Go ahead and read about old geezers trying to recapture  their youth!

GOA SOJOURN

As dawn broke on the orange horizon east,
The Magnificent Seven set out to the feast.
Jack Daniels waited and summed up eight,
To the Candolim shore, they must not be late!

On the expressway they pressed on to glory,
Each mile told another tale, another story.
Down the road, for tea or coffee, no call,
O! What the hell, ‘tis time for alcohol!

At the roadside, JD made a welcome entry,
Regardless of curious stares of rural gentry,
Improvised mixing in JD’s decorative can,
Over here, on drinking, there is no ban!

Touchdown four forty five at Mafia Cocktail
Owner Tony from live socket, he got mail!
Cooked up a seafood storm with sister cook,
Dig in, eat hearty and no second look!

Raucous evensong on Ave Maria balcony,
Some, in audience below, contemplated felony,
Irish couple wanted tune to dance a jig,
They did not oblige, they did not give a fig!

Dinner at Florentine was lost in translation
In the soft twilight, an American proclamation
I am original Goan, he cried, sounding surreal
For a man who knows not his xacuti from cafreal!

Lunch again at Sinquerim riverside, Tropicana Bar,
Fish cutlets, sorpotel, Canadian pay, back to car.
Monday night brought two more from big bad city,
They could have lost one, did not, more is the pity!

The mad search for sausage commenced,
To Village Agacaim the intrepid few went.
Baboi placed intestines stuffed with porcine girth,
The American got money’s worth, added to the mirth!

Then one Anglo went to dentist, the other to field,
One with toothache, the other with mooli urge,
Using Goan hospitality as defensive shield
For services, all payments they did gently purge!

That night found them at Stone House blues
Yet no one kicked off their fancy shoes
For beyond their understanding and ken
The argument rallied around excise men!

The singing was good, the guitar was better,
This was music, pure, unalloyed, without fetter.
As they listened, it struck a chord, it did ring,
The gracious sultan for the bill, he did swing!

The route swung from scenic countryside to spiritual,
Venerable cathedrals, sacred relics, car ineffectual,
Mechanics worked, leaders watched homely philomenas,
And for driving out, speculated the offer of nine novenas!

Time to leave, thanks above, it went without any major hitch,
Time to pay Sharon and, for a discount, make feverish pitch,
Two hirsute seadogs, long-haired and bearded, laid the charm,
As all drove into ensuing sunset with quiet and pacific calm!

FORT WALKS

These days one encounters a lot of folks conducting walks in South Mumbai's heritage precincts. My advice  - no package tours, do your own thing, find your own song to sing. It is a lot more enjoyable.


FORT WALKS


Woodward & Bernstein, with hearty collective soul,
Met with Deep Throat, their old and faithful mole.
Alas! Not a delectable, lovely Linda Lovelace clone!
Just another leery geriatric with a handy cellphone!

From Charni Road, their legs walked, away they went
The straight and narrow was their natural bent.
Fit-as-fiddle joggers did not create undue desolation,
In fat and unfit 15-year projects, they found consolation!

The horizon was lined with love, on the deadly rocks,
The trio marched on and ran off their lively socks!
At last! Time to put the calorie-burner on slow sim,
For unhealthy breakfast they exercised life and lim’

At Stadium Restaurant, kheema and scrambled eggs
Washed down by coffee, past weak knees, into tired legs.
Thought they’d catch culture at the Museum of Modern Art
But the doors were closed for this brand of Old Fart!

Their next move was the Museum, artefacts and antiquities,
Natural History, World History, Indian History, mummies,
Woodward was afraid they’d arrest him for past inequities,
And exhibit him in hall celebrating world’s biggest tummies!

Feet and hunger led them to Cafe Military’s expansive doors,
The streets of Mumbai were not exactly like Irish moors,
For spiritual rejuvenation, Parsee akoori and caramel custard
Left the threesome resembling stuffed great indian bustard!

Churchgate train, upto Mumbai Central in second-class can,
Just keeping company with that strange third-class man!
Onward journey in style, comfort and first-class luxury,
But no news from Deep Throat was not the morning’s strategy!

Antonio

MY LIFE AND OLD FRIENDS

 To old friends, far away maybe but always close to the heart.

THE ZEN OF THEIR WAY

(to Ronnie & Margaret, the Lords of the Dance)

He pondered the sound of one hand clapping,
As the distant sea, to his feet, brought waves lapping,
Would his arduous journey be futile and energy sapping,
In this new, enchanted course he was mapping!

As deep as his memory serves, she was by his side,
Dancing to glorious rhyme and rhythm, they would abide,
In step forever, not a moment lost by stooping to chide.
From that joyous suspended movement they could not hide!

Again, in the uncertain gray clouds of unknowing
Where fear and doubt make flight more compelling
And raucous voices rise above the gentle cattle lowing
O! Hopeful chime and toll, the twilight, thus, dispelling!

The surreal music of the spheres this life transcend
No looking back at the tenuous past to depend
This, dear friends, is no passing fancy or fantasy
This is the brilliant light, the future of ecstasy!


​Antonio

This poem started out as a full name. VNB are just initials. I changed the title and replaced  it with the initials so I feel safer. Because we are becoming an increasingly litigious society and I did not wish to entertain controversy over a figment of my imagination! I long for simpler times when there was no need to object to every word, sentence, paragraph, chapter, verse and book and imagined slights. In a world where brother does not spare brother and sister does not spare sister, where the edge of darkness is not discernible from the enveloping gloom, where people and nations long for peace but will not cease awhile to assess the worth of a meaningless fight, it is better to insulate oneself  against the forces of discord! Peace and love to one and all! And a poem dedicated to all victims of circumstance! Fear not, not all events end as tragically as the case below!

VNB

VNB is a businessman.
No matter what tense he lived in,
That was his identity: businessman.

He lived two floors above and he loved big cars.
Creature of habit, he left his home at nine,
His faithful driver ready by ten minutes to nine.

But there was one car his driver could not drive,
His electric blue Volkswagen Beetle that he drove himself.
Tuesday morning, that’s what he did, drove himself.

At ten minutes after nine, he was a dead man
Behind the blood-spattered steering wheel,
shattered fissured windscreen, two bullets in his brain.

And the people talked – underworld connections, enraged
husband of lover, deals gone sour, betting syndicates, scams.
The relentless pursuit of sensation, the warped accountancy of rumour.

And the people wept around his corpse as it lay crackling
In the haze that only heat can create, illuminating a life.
His conscience did not splutter in the dying embers.
Honest businessman. Mistaken identity!


Antonio
01/06/2013

Terminal Woman & Fat-free Fionna

Yes, Yes, I know I missed a deadline last week! But then I am free and I love the sound of deadlines whooshing by! I could not enjoy that sound for a major part of my life! So here goes my poem about a tough, straightforward one-of-a-kind boss (why do we always remember them the most?) and a colleague with wedding-dress blues!  

TERMINAL WOMAN

She gazes out her window and breakfasts on broken glass.

Know not when things came to such a frightful pass.

With that diet, she yet does not attain critical mass,

Nonetheless, she consumes with that certain touch of class!

She conducts human sacrifice by the light of the full moon,

And we will all meet our comeuppance very soon.

It’s too late now to repent, beg mercy or make amends,

We have to swallow bitter medicine that, on her largess, depends!

At the meeting, thumping the table, she had her say,

We had a lot to answer and hell lot more to pay,

Besides, she was having a rather bad hair day,

Poor Rudy jumped out of his skin and out of her way!

Hold on! In your hands hold not your head in despair,

Seize the day and for the onslaught prepare,

Although she does display virtue beyond compare,

Alas! Alack! Those moments are woefully rare!

 

Fat-Free Fionna

She woke up one maudlin Monday morn,

Feeling sad, desolate and forlorn.

It’s not fair, birds in the trees are merrily twitting

While this gorgeous, glorious dress is not fitting.

Her jaw she set in dour, determined fashion,

And rushed to the gym with renewed passion.

Treadmill miles, bench presses, diet food, the works,

No half-measures, no short-cuts, only full fat-free perks!

She dreamed, driving down the New Jersey Turnpike,

By her side, her silent man, her lucky strike.

Rainy days, traffic jams, warm people, warmer climes,

Nostalgia clouds her vision as she ponders the good times.

Late evening, at my window, streams the reluctant sun

Setting aflame memory-filled motes of dust, the joy, the fun!

And pondering this life of diamonds and rust,

I remember the little girl who belligerently fed me sawdust!

Antonio

FESTIVE SEASON AND THE HUMAN RACE

Last week, I has a technological breakdown! 

This is an old piece I had written in December 2002! Some of my Sams friends may remember it. Happy Diwali!

FESTIVE SEASON AND THE HUMAN RACE

Another year draws to a close and I love this time of year. In fact, I love this time of year commencing August right down to December because in these months I am alive to the Indian spirit. The festive mood prevails.

Starting with Parsee New Year where I spent time with my eccentric Parsee friends (I love their eccentricities). Yes, yes, we dined out but no, no, we did not go to the theatre. That tradition went out with the Queen’s portrait from their living rooms. For a community that prides itself on its cuisine, I wonder why they eat out so much? I dream of eating a great Parsee meal at someone’s home rather than Jimmy Boy or the innumerable navjyots I get invited to. And I believe that the ultimate injury to insult is when they serve you dum aloo and chicken biryani at a navjyot. But I am bitching. This New Year makes for a sound beginning and I love the festive season.

Moving on from Parsee New Year to the feast of the Great Elephant God. And for ten days the city, from Churchgate to Chinchpokli, from Pydhonie to Parel, from Dadar to Andheri to Virar, is bathed in surreal lighting and devotional music (which is so much better than the blaring Hindi ghana-shana (I haven’t been able to wipe off the influence of those two old Punjabi ladies).  We visit the Ganpati pandals and the art is of a high order and we partake of the prasad and marvel at the depiction of God in his many avatars and long for another round of modaks. I love the festive season.

After the Elephant God is given a rousing farewell and barely have the idols disappeared into the ocean then it is time for some more song and dance as Navratri rolls in to the sound of dandiyas struck to the rhythmic beat of time gently going by. I remember a place near my erstwhile home called the Kutchi Lohana Chawl where they danced in the traditional way. The young girls danced with a grace that was beholding to the eye and uplifting to the spirit as they danced around the fire. The memory of that dance uplifts the spirits on many gloomy nights. I love the festive season.

The dance beats fade into the night as the soft glow of diyas light my neighbour’s window as he stands silhouetted with his wife in the shade while hie daughter squeals with delight at the lit sparkler in her hand. The rockets rush by my window to burst into a shower, of colour, that paints your dreams across the sky. The occasional burst of crackers shakes the night into fresh revelry. The Festival of

Lights lights up lives as families renew ties, as old bonds are strengthened. I love the festive season.

The lights are not dimmed as yet. The Festival of Lights lends its light to the holy month of Ramzan. And all we want to do is wait for our friends to break their fast so that we can partake of the repast that can be felt and tasted in the bylanes of Mohamed Ali Road. The mutton rolls, the malpuas, the kababs, the firni, etc., etc., etc., life never tasted better. The only issue that defies comprehension is the Chinese cuisine they serve. When you have such excellent cuisine, why dabble in this. But I am bitching again. I love the festive season.

As the holy month comes to an end, the crisp December air offers an air of expectancy with Christmas around the corner and the hope of a New Year waiting to happen. Christmas carols, the joy of a child being born, the magic of it all. I can taste the homemade sweets, I can taste the chicken roasting, I can taste the pork in mustard sauce, and I can feel the bonhomie of family and friends, the sharing, always the sharing. One feels the goodwill in one’s bones, one feels the oneness with one’s brethren, and one feels the oneness of the human race. I love the festive season.

It is that special time of the year. It is the festive season. But, have you stopped to think of what we have. No country in the world gets to celebrate this phantasmagoria of light, this divine light. No country in the world asks, “What is Diwali, what is Parsee New Year, what is any of what I speak of above?” No country in the world is witness to the greatness in man. No country in the world will make you feel that in all this diversity, there is only one human race. But no other country fights to create the imaginary difference as well as we do.

I believe we are one. If only all my countrymen would believe!

Antonio

AUNT AGGIE

In India, everyone older than you is either Uncle or Aunty! Uncles are scary but aunts are always sugar and spice! There goes my gender bias again!  

AUNT AGGIE

Aunt Aggie went down to Australia

‘Cause India gave her piles and malaria.

For her malaria, they found a ready cure,

But her piles, they retained, they were so pure!

May have been the distance from home fires,

Not for her hardy outback men or English sires,

The fair city she chose was named Perth,

But Aussie men, she gave a wide berth!

The lady was not exactly looking for a man,

She preferred the fire, did not like the frying pan.

Until this big man came along, looking moreish,

Thereafter, only tender moments to cherish!

O! How she loved her Coke and Bacardi rum,

The concoction made her happy, that’s the sum.

But woe befell Maurice if he downed one too many

As sure as hell, it cost him more than a pretty penny!

In our climes, she could not resist delicious thali khana,

There is no doubt, this was living heavenly manna,

Existing down under, all sanitized, hygienic and good,

Out here, our cooks throw themselves into our food!

Now with her man gone, sitting in a comfortable home,

Thinking of ranges she once used to run free and roam, 

That sparkle in her eye still drives old men crazy,

And renders their knees weak and vision hazy!

Antonio

18^th March 2012

One of the singular pleasures of corporate life was the women I worked with! Men are so boring except when mixed with alcohol and too much of both is bad for health! If ever anyone tries to portray them as hardnosed, no-nonsense human beings, they are sadly mistaken. They display an uninhibited, unbridled range of emotions from tear to laughter and everything in between. Here's one with a fainting spell!  

INSIDE GRETA’S HEAD

 Voices from far, far away, shouting and screaming,

Is this really me or am I dreaming?

They are drowning me; did I miss a deadline?

Dear me! I feel like I stepped on a landmine!

They are cooing at me now, in my veins, arctic cold!

Seems like I am a helpless six-month old!

The morning train ride my energy did sap,

Wish they were silent, I need a quiet nap!

Wrapped in swaddling clothes, they anoint me with cooling oil.

Others are bringing water to a nasty boil!

I know these folks could not be any kinder

But they are burning my limbs to a cinder!

Scene Two brings two old seadogs, two experienced tars

Proclaiming cures for everything from here to sars!

About my medication they quiz, my blood count they do bandy,

I feel guilty; I don’t have my prescription handy!

Enter the professionals, they made it at last!

Delving deeper and deeper into my medical past!

Recommend that I rush home to repair and mend!

Hurrah! Can’t wait! Ahead, a long glorious weekend!

 Antonio

BROTHER ERLE’S TRAVELLING SALVATION SHOW

The monsoons are receding, moving out of Mumbai with their stock exit - all noise and bluster like an impotent street mob! Well, there is one mother of a monsoon season, any semi-conscious Mumbaikar (at that time) will never forget - the monsoon of 2005 specifically 26th July 2005. Everyone has their 26/7 story. Here is mine.

BROTHER ERLE’S TRAVELLING SALVATION SHOW

(to be sung to Neil Diamond’s Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show)

Brother Erle sat erect and white-knuckled at the wheel,

With an alert eye for some distance to steal,

He weaved through traffic with passionate zeal.

He was our ticket to a homemade meal!

The Eagles, they sang about taking it easy,

And even though our stomachs were queasy,

Sister Anita to my left and Brother Haydn to my right,

Sang the blues away with all their collective might!

Feigning ignorance, tomorrow the Chief M will ask the MC,

“What happened to your disaster scam?”

Forget them; we got no one but each other,

So who cares about them and their mother!

So let’s hold hands and move for our own sakes,

Brothers and sisters, its all about gives and takes,

Move on from these temporary heaven-made lakes,

And to hell with mealy-mouthed political fakes!

The heavens cried about their sordid mess.

We were mere pawns in this giant game of chess,

Reach out your hand to your neighbour and guess

Who is to blame and who is to bless!

Brother Erle stopped short and took stock

And turning a gentle eye, he counted his flock

Ankita and Anton, do not slip and forever sleep

For the vertically challenged, all waters run deep!

When the final struggle is taken at the flood

We acknowledge the Mumbai Spirit in our blood

All of them will stand up and salute our grit

‘Cause we moved together and never once split!

Chorus (to be sung after every verse, if required)

Brother Erle’s travelling; Brother Erle’s travelling salvation show,

Grab the old ropes; don’t give up your hopes,

‘Cause everyone knows, everyone knows

Brother Erle’s love shows

Alleluia, Alle Alleluia

(After last verse to be sung with a prolonged Amen)

Antonio

FOUR-WHEELER

FOUR-WHEELER

My heart was set on purchasing that four-wheel scooter specially designed for handicapped riders – the perfect vehicle for riding these city roads. With advancing age, I am losing my equilibrium on all fronts and that vehicle symbolised stability. What better way to negotiate the craters that dot our moonscape. Up and down and away I go!

So I put it to the First Lady. The direct approach is the best approach. No point in beating about the bush. She said, “I know that you have lost your mind! No need to advertise that fact to the whole world!” Not very encouraging words, ladies and gentlemen, my spouse! At least she did not threaten me with divorce but that is because after all these years, where will she go?

She, in turn, put it to the boys. They, in turn, were appalled, aghast and threatened to disown me. “We will have nothing to do with you! What will people say?” said the gentlemen who live in my house without paying rent, eat my food, drink my beer and think that I am a walking ATM! “Well all I am buying is a four-wheeler albeit meant for the handicapped but all I want to do is get from Point A to Point B! I am not buying some tacky, hideous monstrosity on eBay! It’s not like I am buying a piece of toast with some vague religious image for a small fortune.” “Be that as it may, think about us. What will our friends say?” they cried.

I retreated for the time being but the idea just would not go away. This status business was getting me down. “What will our friends say? What will society say?” I did not care! Honestly. And then I decided to go to my two friends, Pooja and Lillian at the office. As these ladies appear for the first time in my written word, they need an introduction. These ladies are not just ladies. They are tough young birds and they are my bodyguards! No, they are more than bodyguards. They guard me against agitating employees, disobedient vendors and nagging hunger pangs! They put up with my rants and raves, my screaming and tearing of hair! But they are no gentle ladies! They can dispense threats with a smile (have you had your lunch?) that would make a four-year old run for cover and they can give younger guys a run for their money when it comes to marital advice besides describing with precision what women want!

Despite being all that, I was sure that I could depend on them for support, these are my friends. They were my rocks and like Peter upon these rocks my belief was built! I placed my intentions before this Board and expected the resolution to be passed unanimously. I was wrong, so wrong. My intentions were greeted with stunned silence. Pooja checked my pulse and wondered when I last checked my blood pressure. Lillian gave me that withering look that she reserves for her son when he has been very, very naughty. She was flabbergasted and disappointed. “No, no, you buy a car, sir!” she cried. “And please do not buy a Nano, buy an Alto.” I was relieved. At least she did not say “flaming red Ferrari”.

So in the end status is everything. When one is young whatever one does embarrasses one’s family. When one is older whatever one does embarrasses the whole world! Everyone knows what is best for you, everyone has a pretty picture of you in their minds. But the idea would not just go away. It kept running around my brain like a Bollywood hero running around trees chasing his elusive heroine. I was determined to get on with it and purchase my beloved four-wheeler.

Except that there was an unexpected development that made me drop my plans. My maid got wind of my intentions and she declared that she would leave my employ. “Main naukri chodke chale jaoongi!” or something to that effect not necessarily in chaste Hindi. That was the last straw! In this city you cannot let that happen.

Now you can earn the displeasure of your family, you can earn the displeasure of your friends but you can never ever afford to earn the displeasure of your maid. Or pleasure for that matter.

Even minor celebrities who have paid dearly for their passion play would attest to that!

QUORUM

As you grow older, keep an open mind, reserve your judgment else end up like the Quorum! Be warned!

QUORUM

Four middle-aged ladies decided the bus was the best forum

To convene a society meeting, they had adequate quorum.

They were fed up with the liberal-minded managing committee

Who did their own bidding, leaving them fuming on the settee!

          The conductor came around asking for the correct fare,

          They snarled; gave the poor man an unhealthy scare.

          On their agenda, they arranged their serious causes

          And proceeded with single-minded purpose, no pauses!

Agenda Item 1 – Swinging call centre singles

They should not be allowed to stay; they are pretty little things,

Who are always having reckless, senseless, naughty little flings,

Keep them out; give them a cold, nasty, hardnosed reception,

After all, we gave birth through divine immaculate conception!

Agenda Item 2 – Irritating pets

        Down with those who have this crazy pet fetish,

          All those canines and felines make us skittish,

          What is so fascinating about the four-legged variety?

          That gives them goo-goo eyes; must check their sobriety!

Agenda Item 3 – Careless water users

Some hose their homes down every other week,

Causing the false ceilings, of those below, to leak, 

We should charge them penalty and double tax

For displaying behaviour so disastrously lax!

Agenda Item 4 – Illegal flat extensions

And some seek to push boundaries, flooring, walls,

As if they plan to perennially host New Year balls,

Knock them down, pulverize every bit of renovation

Blow them to smithereens, destroy their innovation!

Agenda Item 5 – Brazen condom users

And there are residents, who sow wild and casual oats,

They just should not light fires; we must burn their boats,

As with all raging fires, they consume with voracious haste,

And from their windows, discard their infernal carnal waste!

Agenda Item 6 – Non-payment of society dues

And there are those, for favours, stand in queues,

It is criminal the way they do not pay their dues.

They should be pilloried, drawn and quartered,

After that, they should be racked and slaughtered!

 Agenda Item 7 – Other gossiping old ladies

They sit every evening in our verdant society garden,

Gossiping about all and sundry without begging pardon,

We are not like them; our minds are spotlessly clean,

Not like those old witches, vicious and mean!

Agenda Item 8 – Pesky children

The little rascals run untamed, wild and amuck,

Sometimes they give us the bird and think we suck!

Their parents should be jailed for their manners,

If we had numbers, we would march with banners!

Meeting’s conclusion

Four middle-aged ladies gingerly got off the bus.

The world is changing, that’s why they raised a fuss.

Back in the old days, they might have had a host of lovers,

But they conducted their business strictly under covers!

Four middle-aged ladies gingerly got off the bus.

A spent force with no more strength to cuss,

They understood New Age had upset the applecart,

They wished they could participate and take part!

Antonio

SOMEONE SNEEZED

Hi Guys, Enough of the dark stuff. Here's a poem to cheer even the most dour church-goer! Some of you may have received this poem from me  before I started this blog but fun and joy do not suffer in the retelling!

SOMEONE SNEEZED

Someone sneezed in church today, that someone was me,

The stained-glass panes rattled, it was plain for all to see,

It started deep within my nostrils and rose to a crescendo,

The explosion was loud but innocent, without any innuendo!

The little girl next to me began with a light series of chuckles,

Chortling merrily, passed the infection to dress full of buckles,

Who passed it on to the fat lady gurgling with delightful mirth,

And shook, shook within the last inch of her gargantuan girth!

Soon the giggles, chortles and sniggers filled the entire church,

Prompting the preacher-man to peer from his marbled perch,

This is not done, blasphemy, this is the devil’s doing, he cried,

While I wished unseen catastrophe so I could have sunk and died!

The surly usher took charge, sidled up, harshly he did mock,

Keep your unhealthy sneeze in your hanky or your sock,

Told him to take a healthy hike or go fly a kinetic kite,

And out of spite, in his box, I placed a miserly widow’s mite!

But the disaster, unlike lightning, decided to strike twice,

I fought the second one back, rolled on the floor thrice,

While the choir sang its hallelujahs and praised every lord,

I lay still for it was a strange way to worship god!

Bless me, father, for I have gravely and grievously sinned,

In church, sneeze I will not, no promise on passing wind!

Antonio

REMEMBRANCE

Some of my readers were wondering about my alleged obsession with death as evidenced by the last couple of poems. As a matter of clarification, I am just speaking an inevitable truth. More importantly, the subject of death should serve as a reminder to how we live our lives. 

Steven Covey quite appropriately sums up living life - to live, to learn, to love and to leave a legacy. Just finished reading biographies of Steve Jobs and John Lennon, two individuals I admire, who seem to have fulfilled all conditions of the above mandate albeit with all the frailties that go with human nature. 

To dwell on the last part of the mandate - to leave a legacy, how can we achive this? By touching people's lives and maybe starting with those closest to us - our families, friends - those who we take for granted and hurt. It is easy to feel emphathy for the beggar in the street, the sick in the hospital, the mentally maimed, so long as they are just that - people at a distance, far removed from any direct impact on our lives. It is tougher to deal with those closer to home. and therein lies our means to leave a legacy. You may say I'm a dreamer.......

So here's an ode to one who left a legacy.....   

REMEMBRANCE

(to Constance Uncle for all those childhood years)

Wonder what it's like?

Never remembering, always forgetting!

Where do happy memories go?

And the sad ones too?

Do they hover at the edge of the universe?

Only to hurtle into the ink-black void of nothingness!

No, they do not!

They live in the heart’s portrait gallery,

a nameplate of burnished gold below

Illumined by the brightness

of noble thought and nobler deed,

and stay there.

Always remembered,

Never forgotten,

Forever touched!

                                                            Antonio

                                                            (Bunu Boy)

BIRTHDAY NO. 46 & Buzzing Off

Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa! I missed  my Saturday deadline for two weeks in a row. Unforgivable and for those who complained about being denied their weekly fix ,here's a bonus - some poetry (expanding on the theme  set in my last blog ; written 13 years ago) and some prose (dedicated to  Busybee , the late columnist, and my friends). Back to school when we English Lit was referred to Poetry and prose. Do they still do that? I wonder? 

BIRTHDAY NO. 46

On my forty-sixth birthday

I stepped down from the train.

A morbid crowd had gathered

to watch with rabid curiosity.

We willed the train to move away

to expose the gruesome view to our sight.

He lay there on the tracks.

His head was a metre astray!

What were his last thoughts?

Did he dream of home and hearth?

Of warm welcomes, of tearful goodbyes,

Of insignificant battles won and enduring love lost!

On his wrist, Time carried on its restless march

Regardless of Life’s frightening farce.

His briefcase revealed the remains of his day

Now the debris of a life as on the ground he lay!

Lunch pail, calculator, notepad,

pens, pencils and eraser,

flat file restraining paper in the damp,

fetid air of unfinished business!

On the forty-sixth anniversary of my birth,

I encountered death!

 (End of Part 1)

  

Buzzing Off

       (Tribute to Busybee)

It was nearing bedtime and I was settling down with my favourite book of Busybee essays. The First Lady cast “that” look in my direction and queried, “Why do you waste time reading that man’s essays?”

“He is not “that man”, he is Busybee and he is one of my idols!” I replied.

“You have the habit of idolizing the wrong people. How will you become a writer if you pattern yourself along people who write the wrong type of essays!” she shot back.

“He writes topical essays that are relevant to our times. If you read an essay he wrote in 1987, it has the same relevance in 2004!”

“That is because our politicians have not changed. They are the same boring predictable people!”

“That may be true but he writes about other things as well.”

“What other things? You like him because he writes about the Matharpacady speakeasies that you frequented during the Prohibition era! About police raids and running helter-skelter through dark lanes! About Flora Fountain when it was called Flora Fountain and not Hutatma Chowk! About Bombay Hockey! And all those Irani restaurants that you used to hang out in your college days!”

“Of course! He enjoyed the good things in life as I do! And there were not that many police raids! Besides, in my college days there were no McDonalds or Pizza Huts. Even if there were McDonalds and Pizza Huts, I would not have been able to afford them. That is why I like Irani restaurants with their bun maska and chai! These children nowadays will not eat anything unless there is a brand name to it. I am fine with bun maska and chai which tasted as good in Kyani or Bastani or Light of Asia or Alice Restaurant or Roshan Stores or Gentleman Restaurant!”

“This is not about children and what they like; this is about the books you should read. What about all those books – fancy authors like Kafka and Faulkner and Salman Rushdie you have purchased from all those sales at Strand Book Stall and Oxford and Crossword. Are they just going to adorn bookshelves in our house so that people can come over and say, “My, your husband is so well read!”

 “I do not care what people say and if I wanted to buy books to adorn the shelves I would have bought those coffee table editions that rich people strew around their homes!’

“We would have been rich if you did not spend so much money on books!”

“Books are wealth. But you will not understand that because they do not translate into money like stocks and bonds. Besides, I just finished reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude! In which he repeats those long South American names every time he refers to his characters! You know that they have names like Goan names! Lengthy sentences for names like my uncle, Tiburcio Joaquim Adauco Sebastian Miguel Rodrigues from Raia, Arlem, Goa! You see how easy it is to fill pages if you repeat names like that!”

“Isn’t that the fellow who won the Nobel Prize? You should aspire to be like him not like that Busybee fellow!”

“Yes, yes, Gabriel Garcia Marquez won the Nobel Prize (not my uncle, Tiburcio Joaquim Adauco Sebastian Miguel Rodrigues from Raia, Arlem, Goa) and you know what he said. He said that he does not write for the man in the street or the elite but for his small circle of friends! Of course he had friends who settled for nothing less than four hundred pages in one book!”

“That is what I said. You should aspire to be like that and begin by writing for your small circle of friends!”

“That is exactly what I am saying. I have one thing in common with Busybee; I am never going to win the Nobel Prize. And another thing I have in common with him. All my friends have extremely short attention spans!”

Antonio

CHRISTIAN BURIAL

Hi Guys, 

Well, I thought enough of all that feel-good stuff and it was time to visit the dark side, if dark side it is. As one gets older, the subject of death does come into focus. As Christoper Hitchens so succintly puts it - "The disconcerting thing about death is not so much the fact that you are tapped on the shoulder and informed that the party is over but the fact that the party will go on forever and you will be absent from it."

So I say, lets focus a little on the ineviitable and look with wonder on the vibrant life around us, see the beauty in each of us, respect the differences and contemplate on the end! Read on:

This poem is dedicated to our friend Bob - long have we been the recipients of his homegrown philosophy and casual humour!

CHRISTIAN BURIAL

Another life lies still.

Another cadaver laid to rest.

Silent sobs, vocal tears,

A tsunami of emotions mingles

with the gentle breeze of memory -

love, hate, joy, sorrow,

pet peeves, weird idiosyncrasies,

petty squabbles, major disagreements,

resentment, acceptance, generosity,

laughter, anger, smiles, rants

differences buried

amidst the distant hum of traffic

carrying people to their humdrum lives.

The percussion of tossed earth and rock and wood,

the caress of fragrant rose petals, cascading,

tinny gospel music, gentle request

to lead souls to the promised land,

as the mourners wend their way back

wondering if tea and snacks will be served

with the promise of everlasting life!

Antonio