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