A Tale of Two Binks

A TALE OF TWO BINKS

(This poem is a my take on the Jiyo Parsi Scheme! For the uninitiated and those living abroad, this scheme is Government-sponsored and is a brave attempt to increase the Parsi headcount! just thought I'd get a little current after my alcohol-infused past life! All players in this poem are purely fictional and figments of my imagination and any reference to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental  Friends, who know, know who this is addressed to.) 

The fun committee was in a vexing quandary,
A notification had been sent to all and sundry,
Find Parsi mates for your Parsi friends,
To kickstart this campaign and set new trends!

This set them thinking, they had two friends named Binks,
Attractive little ladies after you straighten out the kinks,
The need was urgent, they had to find some strong links,
Before the sun, on the western horizon, sinks!

Now the committee had a gujju and catlick,
Who looked at the crop to make their pick,
Gujju decided that purpose would best be served,
With a union of akoori, jalebi and fafda curved!

"Can you imagine?" the catlick cried,
It won't work even if the gujju tried,
That diet will bring long-term colicky pain,
No flatulent half-Parsis, pure is the new main!

We must search high and not too low,
'Tis time to go and let wild oats sow,
All those bank cashiers have passed on long,
To realms unknown with no dance and song!

Be not soft and gentle, girls, be bold and loud,
You must be part of this Great Indian Crowd,
You must contribute to the nation's population,
By indulging in generous and copious copulation!

Come out, girls, it's not too late,
Sooner or later you have to mate,
Preserve the pure line at any rate,
No matter if appetites do not sate!

Antonio

The Last Word

THE LAST WORD

Do you love me?

Yes.

Why do you love me?

Because.....

Is it because of my brown eyes?

Uh-huh....

Is it because of my translucent skin?

Mm mm...

Is it my long silky hair that attracts you?

Well....

You are not paying any attention to what I am saying!

Will you pay attention to what I am about to say?

I hate when you get all professorial!

Whatever, but when I am with you, love happens!

I hate when you go all existential on me!

Well, the greatest truths are simple but we choose to complicate them! Why?

There you go again....

Antonio

Ode to Alcohol - The Prohibition Years

Ode to Alcohol - The Prohibition Years
(dedicated to Cedric & Mario who turned 18+18+18+6 and Freddy who turned 60, twenty years ago. He was always ahead of his time! By way of disclaimer, all references to persons, living or dead, is purely intentional. Well, we have passed a milestone, let's take a look at the beginnings)

There's no time for anger or long pause in fears,
No time for envy or pride or glycerine tears,
Milestones are swift images seen through a speeding window,
Do not lie low or go slow when alcohol is in full flow!

Alcohol was the answer and covered it all,
The orgasmic peak and the ultimate fall,
As we ride life's roller-coaster, milestones roll by,
And nervous old ladies look at us and sigh!

It all began in a dimly-lit Prohibition-era speakeasy,
Modern-day drinkers would flinch with stomachs queasy,
Dickensian characters, lovable clowns, suspect hooch,
Even after two sips, you dare not give your girl a smooch!

Old aunties, older bartenders, even pretty ones thrown in,
Twilight people living in the glow of streetlight fringe,
Only the faint-hearted would shrink back and cringe,
Welcome one, welcome all to these dens of inequity and sin!

Only a few are chosen, so we were outraged when we saw them there,
Cedric and I looked at each and exclaimed, "How can they dare?",
As older brothers we had to prove a point
So we threw Bob and Bossy out of the joint!

Erotic paintings on the ceiling, linoleum on the floor,
Leave your feelings and shoes outside the door,
In the end, it is difficult your footwear to spy,
While the old ganglord, upon you, casts a mirthful eye!

Then there was Fred, they called him Wrong Said Fred,
He loved his hooch but approached the den with dread,
For Big Brother Tommy would be lurking with one eye on glass
And the other eye trained on Auntie's comely little lass!

One named Mario, to temptation did not succumb,
He preferred to play life by rule of thumb,
But in his home, he stocks nothing but the best,
So we visit to check if his single malts have passed time's test!

Out of such humble beginnings, do habits grow,
And for all one's achievements no prizes to show,
No grandstand, no stage, no Prize Nobel,
This is as far I will go with kiss and tell!

Antonio

Diabetic Diatribe

DIABETIC DIATRIBE

The doctor said your blood sugar is high,
The result of too much life, too sweet,
The result of too much chocolate on the sly
It's high time you stopped that tasty treat

When did this happen? How long will it last?
You must take a test after fifteen hours' fast
Blood has to be drawn at least three times
And you have to sit and listen as the clock chimes

They served up two glasses of water and glucose
That almost drove me to a state close to comatose
I winced and groaned much to the attendant's delight
I silently cursed him but I was wrong, in hindsight

Then, they drew blood for the first time!

A cup of tea, I inquired of the nurse, entertaining a futile notion,
She chuckled presumably at the absurdity of such an ambition,
In the manner of her profession, she adopted a matronly pose,
And banished me to the benches to await the next dose!

Bollywood actor on TV screen resembled a giant hamburger
The car he was driving looked like a mayo chicken sandwich
The attendants were deep-fried sweet potato chips
And the receptionists were giant tubs of savoury dips!

Then, they drew blood for the second time!

Sabudana vadas in hollandaise sauce, hot coffee with little cream swirls
Eggs Benedict with green chutney, mind in turmoil and in frantic whirls
Scrambled eggs topped with Parmesan, fresh toasted bread with loads of butter
All these visions are making me catatonic and they stare as I mutter!

Then they drew blood for the third time!  And I rushed home!

Blueberry muffins and creamy cheese pies were making me swoon
Sliced onions, freshly squeezed lime, Mughlai kheema with hard-crusted brun
Sat down to breakfast and could not eat, dreams and life, no similarity
Sometimes sweet, magical fantasy is far better that cold, hard reality!

Antonio

DIET Ctrl Alt Del

An ode to old friends, who unlike old single malts, never ever never mature with age.
Expect more of these old drinking shanties!!

 

 

DIET CTRL ALT DEL

 

Brother Bosco studied the menu, proceeded to order healthy,

He felt that nutritious food would make us wise and wealthy.

Cedric was aghast, apoplectic, his brain entertained a clot,

Indignantly he enquired if the good brother had lost the plot!

 

The venerable old boys gathered with pregnant anticipation,

Tonight they sing, wine and dine without adult supervision,

Eat this, don’t eat that, drink this, don’t drink that,

Tonight is theirs, no matrons to put them on the mat!

 

So no steamed momos, we kick off with all things fried,

Flax seeds, oats, pastas, salads we have tested and tried,

Fried chicken, roast pork, sausages, three plates of French fries,

And keep them coming, never mind if the big fat chef cries!

 

They declared that this was the year of living dangerously,

As for no rhyme or reason, Derrick giggled incessantly.

Four whiskies, please, and soda and keep four more standing,

Tonight, they fly high, seeking rocky and unsafe landing!

 

They say that red wine is recommended as highly anti-oxidant,

But tonight, mention it and your whiskey will have an accident.

One more round at Wonton’s, then ready for monosodium-glutamate

Mixed with salt, fried noodles, more meat, their appetite to satiate!

 

They were not finished yet, time for the sweetest coffee Turkish,

To set the pancreas screaming, blood vessels shrieking, liver skittish,

Artery walls closing in, stay still, heart, overworked pump station,

They were doing it for themselves and not for divine uncreation!

 

As all things, the glorious night ended on a welcome high

Maybe tomorrow, vital organs will break down and sigh

Hung-over, they will curse and demand alcohol stay out of sight

But then again, as the good book says, tomorrow is another night!

 

Antonio

 

 

Everybody calls me names

EVERYBODY CALLS ME NAMES

 Everybody calls me names. It all started when I was born. My parents christened me Antonio Francisco Savio Rodrigues. They named me after my paternal grandfather, a gifted violinist (so I am told) who true to Goan tradition mixed his passion for music with a fondness for alcohol. I did not learn to swing a violin but I learnt to swing myself around after a couple of that other Goan passion.

So that started this whole name-calling business. My maternal grandmother, seeking sweet revenge on those damned Rodrigues’, decided that I should have a nickname. So she nicknamed me Bunu. For the uninitiated, Goans besides the fondnesses mentioned above nickname all their children. So you have nicknames like Babush, Bachon, Paklo, Piku, Bushaan, Putlush, Baathush, Paasu, Aasoo, the list is never-ending. The name stuck and when I meet old friends from the old neighbourhood, they struggle between calling me Anthony and Bunu.

Not to be outdone, my maternal aunts got into the act and christened me Anthony. Those were the Swinging Sixties and the Beatles, Bobby Darin, Tony Brent, the Everly Brothers and mini-skirts were all the rage for the teenyboppers of that time. No! Latin names were a positive no-no. All the Latinos made their presence felt in this century. So Anthony it was and Anthony it stayed right up to Standard X.   Prior to that, I was called Babyface. I still cannot fathom the meaning behind that one unless it was meant in a gangster sort of way.

In Standard X, a new schoolmaster joined the ever-increasing band of people who shoved education down your throat thus compelling Pink Floyd to sing their famous ditty. Churchill was his name and he christened me Anton. In the beginning, it irritated me like no other name did for the simple reason that it brought to mind lackadaisical Goan waiters and bartenders doling and swilling copious pegs of feni in dimly-lit taverns. People still call me Anton nowadays including my in-laws, the exception being my mother-in-law who sticks to Anthony. God bless her Anglo-Indian soul!

The name Anthony continued its merry existence right through corporate and private life with the shortened version, Tony, thrown in for good measure. Tony wasn’t so bad, most of my colleagues who call me that are still close friends today. Here I must mention this colleague named Suryanarayan who name me Duj. Suryanarayan was a rabid cricket fan and he rooted insanely for the West Indian cricket team and Jeff Dujon was their wicket-keeper. I used to sport a beard then (before the 1992/93 riots made me make a hasty beeline for shaving brush and razor) and he felt that I bore a striking resemblance to the man.

Later on I joined Samaritans and set the record straight by putting the name on my birth certificate and everyone called me Antonio once again. Of course, there were connotations even to this name-calling. The Parsees would stress each syllable like they all stepped out of Rael Padamsee’s theatre academy. “An” would commence with open mouth proceeding to the “to” with well-rounded lips forming a perfect O and to the final crescendo “nio” like they were pronouncing some shattering denouement in some obscure play! The Catholics, Bohris, probably because of their collective convent school experience, would present me with a rapid-fire “Antonio, Antonio” like they were playing some game in the school lunch break – something like “Antonio, Antonio, you are the den!” There are other variations like Entonio, Tonio with the first syllable lost in space. And the Punjus, fortunately, do not double-barrel my name like they double-barrel everything else with generous dollops of butter. “Hey Antonio, you coming to the party-sharty? We will have some good daaru-shaaru! Khana-bhana badmein dekhenge! Everybody calls me names! 

Then there was this time I was at the food mall off the Mumbai-Pune Expressway and someone with a perfect Italian accent called out to me “Antonio, Antonio!” I turned around and met Sandeep C just back with acquired accent and Roman (Jain food on request) package tour. A Gujju, his package tour and his food are not easily parted. Well, so much for name-calling and finally, the First Lady beckons.

“Tones, dear, shut that computer and get into bed!” I like that endearment best! Hell, I like that entire sentence best!

Antonio

Anilbhai

Just back from a short vacation in Goa, so here's one about a co-volunteer who touched my life  at the  Samaritans suicide prevention helpline. He was tragically mowed down by a rash driver in Girgaum Chowpatty a few years ago.

ANILBHAI

Your weekend plan was to dedicate

your gentle voice to soothe the cruel waves of depression.

For more than a decade you strove with all your might,

Your callers never in your sight,

But your goals carefully laid down

And the ends and the means perfectly sound!

In that lay your unique self-fulfillment

And the joy that will always be yours!

You fell to an assassin’s careless whim

Who decided to cut your life short and trim.

He carries the deep knowledge of mortal sin

Whose banshee wail rises above the city’s noise and din!

But that gentle voice again soothes us

like another bright sunshine-filled Saturday

And our heavy angry hearts can at last see that

Forgiveness reigns!

I agonized over the title of this poem

Opulent phrases, decorated words,

Clever puns and meaningful metaphors

chased each other at frenetic lunatic speed.

Then I remembered!

Amidst all that worldly complexity,

You stood for splendid simplicity!

In deference, I bowed and called it just “Anilbhai”!

Antonio

Last Train

Here's one from the archive....

LAST TRAIN

The carnival is over. The giant Ferris wheel stands still, swaying gently in the breeze – a silent sentinel, a mute witness to Life’s ups and downs. The weary horses on the carousel, too, bobbing to the movements of some hidden symphony seem a trifle forlorn, missing the little children who filled the place with their laughter and the sheer joy of living. The last popcorn has been popped, the last cotton candy has been spun, and the crowds have long gone home. And on the green lawns, the white Styrofoam cups stir gently in the breeze.

I am on the last train home – 0050 Churchgate-Virar, travelling with the flotsam and jetsam of society, the debris that life chooses to ignore. Sitting beside me, the sad little transvestite studies his/her pathetic fingernails. Two surly prostitutes divide the day’s takings with their guardian of virtue, one eye on the money, the other looking out for new business opportunities. Three yuppies, sit in the corner below the sign that reads “Only Me” herbal tablets – where performance counts. They clutch their laptops like lifelines in the restless sea of humanity, exhausted from the day’s work, looking forward to tomorrow where no sunrise or sunset exists. The gay banjara plays out a soulful tune in the hope that he could invoke some magic genie that could whisk him off to a better world. The tired eunuchs sitting at the door look at him with a disdainful air. Everyone working hard for the money, everyone seeking and never finding. And despite trials and tribulations, everyone living life with their own peculiar brand of heroism and yet never recognising it in themselves. Tomorrow is another day, one day closer to death ...or life. And on the compartment floor, the dust and the litter swirl in a whirlpool of frenzy, going nowhere, affecting nothing.

In the closing lines of Tennessee Williams’ play, Sweet Bird of Youth, the sad protagonist, Chance Wayne proclaims - I don’t ask you for your pity, but just for your understanding – not even that – no. Just for the recognition of me in you, and the enemy, time, in us all.

We need to recognise that we are all in this journey together, be it the prostitutes or the yuppies and together we will continue to ride the last train until we reach our destinations. In the end, none of us can defeat Father Time or his avatar, the Grim Reaper. Simple truth: adopt a non-judgmental attitude. 

LOL

It has been a longer than usual hiatus. Just a question! In this internet age, are we really free? 

LOL

No one knows when the argument began
They put it all down to that beastly man
who placed an innocuous post on Facebook
Some understood, some his intentions mistook!

Aunt Tessie forgot to breathe and passed away.
Nephew Bertie was hard put to keep emotions in sway.
With trembling fingers, he opened his FB page,
Floodgates opened, words flew like birds from a cage!

Back to Bertie and his innocuous Facebook post.
Aunt Tessie has moved on, sailed up that eternal coast,
No more fries, will miss her sorpotel, her French toast,
But her sweet little smile, I will miss the most! LOL

At the last three letters, the antagonists furiously gathered
And demanded that he be tarred, drawn and quartered
On the poor lady's demise, how could he laugh out loud
This puts attendance at the funeral under an ominous cloud!

Why is he laughing out loud? Is he laughing all the way to the bank
Did she leave him all her money? Our dismal hopes, he just sank
Speculation raged, his character discussed, attitude fits like a glove
For goodness sake, cried Bertie, all I meant was lots of love!

Antonio   

Look what Persia sent us

An ode to a small community that has given me so much joy over the years and continue to do so. Never regretted a minute of it especially when working for a cause!

Of course, I have been advised by a friend who is a legal eagle and an expert in such matters to furnish a disclaimer of sorts:

The characters in this poem are fictitious and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental!

And for those of you who can feel the context in which this is written and find an apparent likeness, identify yourself, stand tall, enjoy and know that your laughter and joy of living is written in stone! 

LOOK WHAT PERSIA SENT US

Down South Mumbai way, live two girls named Binaifer,

One decidedly deciduous, the other constant conifer.

Wonder why they are referred as regions geographic,

Their mere existence, in the tropics, defies extreme logic!

This is said in praise and not indiscriminate scorn,

Both are as fresh as dewdrops in the early morn,

Befalling night does not darken their brows,

And they will not go gently like docile cows!

Act 2, Scene 1 presents Farrokh, that old bauger,

Sipping his first gin laced with generous lager,

Staring at the cuckoo in the gulmohar tree,

Thinking about the world and being free!

They say they are melancholy and eccentric,

Sometimes their circles may not be concentric,

I beg to differ and exclaim that is not so

Until I espy Freny trying to lick her big toe!

They stand on the shores, daring Darkness’ rising tide,

No doubt that Life and Right are firm by their side,

Following terms and conditions to the letter,

Without them, without a doubt, life would not be better!

Antonio

Naughty Nicole

Here's another one of the young who entered and exited!

NAUGHTY NICOLE

Naughty Nicole, in swirling skirt, swept into the room,

Only to find Selma playing cat-and-mouse with a broom,

She deemed her Italian, rechristened the feline Pupulini,

So that she could rhyme with cannelloni and tortellini!

She proceeded to toss Pupulini in the cold winter air

With distracted disdain and a certain kind of flair,

All the cat-lovers were horrified with wide-eyed shock,

Rolled up their sleeves, prepared to knock off her block!

They wondered and analysed this weird juggling act,

Was she sane? She’s losing some, yes, that’s a fact,

Imagine the worst if she tossed her man in the air,

The poor soul would be up-ended to his eternal despair!

All in all, she was one energetic, vibrant, bubbly lass,

Who never failed to religiously attend Sunday Mass,

That’s what she told her mother with a heave and sighs,

What would life be if not for a few little white lies!

Comprehension dawning, the multitude wept copious tears,

She could do no more, say no more nor allay their fears

It was no lie, though, when she said she had to leave,

They saluted, cheered and in her wake, lay down to grieve.

            Antonio

Interlude

You may have observed that most material published on my blog are about celebrating people - those who at some time or the other, enter and exit one's life. As one's career moves on, colleagues get younger and younger. And this poem is about those in whose presence, I felt alive! The good times, far away from the high tension that was part of daily routine.

Another lesson! Remember the good times, forget the bad!

INTERLUDE

(for Kavita, Lilian, Pooja, Shilpa, Sonali, Suchita, Bharat, Kunal & Noshir)

In the too brief interlude between work and hard work

The entire team decided their responsibilities to shirk

Rode the bus down the dark, desperate highway

No waiting to exhale and blindly seizing the day!

The rain driving kaleidoscopic patterns on the glass

The team reached for glory and attained critical mass

The noise unabated, joy was unalloyed and pure

Lost their way, got back on track, for fun, no cure!

Morning brought them to the miniscule reservoir

Not enough to contain their unbridled energy

Moved to paddle boats in a man-made lake

One safe return, the other, the shore could barely make!

Life continued on the edge of the lunatic fringe

Leaving those, not party to paradise, to cringe

Gathered around karaoke machine, one crazy dude

In macho masculine voice, gently affirmed – INTERLUDE!

Carried over to the room, on sadness, a permanent nix

Threw in whisky and vodka for a merry uproarious mix

And lyrics on the screen rendered romantic mood

A smoking hot feminine voice, gently crooned – INTERLUDE!

Then it was time to hit the disco dance floor,

As they gyrated, set the pace, what a show!

As spirits rose and the soul fed on good food

In one voice, they shook the heavens and cried – INTERLUDE!

Antonio

Quest for Jest

The holiday season has ended. And year-end reviews and new year perspectives reigned awhile. I thought I'd let the noise die down, let the usual internet clichés run their course. Old correspondence pulled out from my archives addressing common concerns. Fact, nonsense,  life learning, management lesson? Maybe? 

Hi Zoeb,

Thanks for the invitation to light banter.

However, being the self-appointed court jester, I cannot stop my fingers and keyboard from speaking my mind. And I do appreciate people who are upfront and speak their mind. I believe that positive conflict is necessary for the growth of any organisation be it our place of work (for the money or voluntary), the family, friends and society at large. And though I agree that the banter and the feel-good factor are important, we must pause awhile to address issues that are close to the heart and face up to them like mature human beings. So long as all parties to the conflict face each other in a mature fashion!

We are human beings first and, the fact that we are single-minded about our cause does not mean that we do not experience the emotions that may appear negative on the surface. I see it as passion from people who care about the cause they work for! Now all we need to do is ignite that passion further with accompanying vision, then we got it made! I think that is what we are asking for. Passion combined with vision will catapult us into a higher realm!

Even when the lighthearted stuff is not taken in the right spirit, let us remember that there are times when some of us may have other pressures that seep through our communication. So let’s excuse that.

And for your invitation, here’s a poem in your honour:

To Zoeb in his Quest for Jest

‘tis not the clime for jest, my friend,

When forthright speech we miscomprehend,

For men must learn and apprehend

Their domineering egos to suspend!

The jester stands alone in the abandoned court

And watches Passion die in the castle moat!

Behind his mask, he wears a weary frown

As no one sees the tears of a clown!

Pardon me if I strike the wrong key,

‘tis not an ill wind that blows o’er the sea

but the tumult raised by passionate men

who attempt to beard the lion in its den!

Raise the clarion call for sanity

Blow the bugle for maturity

Pray, let wiser counsel prevail

So that the cause does not flounder and fail!

Antonio