I WANT TO DIE TODAY

 The recent spate of suicides among young talented human beings shows our shallow approach to the issue of mental especially in the media. They take their travelling circus across networks searching for sensationalism, carrying out their trials before even the courts get into the act! There is no attempt to focus on mental health issues and all we hear are idiotic opinions that trivialize mental health!

NOBODY, NOBODY KNOWS! We do not know the demons, real or imagined, that drive a human being to take his or her own life. We can add this to the long line of existential questions - Why are we here? Does life have any meaning? Why do humans take their own lives? etc. etc. 

We can only imagine and this poem is just my imagination and this poem attempts to create that scenario when the fateful event takes place. I, too, do not know and I never will know!

I WANT TO DIE TODAY

I look at my scaffold, ceiling high,
I want to cry, but suppress a sigh,
The dimming light fades to zero,
I realise now I am no shining hero!

One more time I look out my window
At the steeple, dome and minaret,
Edifices of hope, yet I'm sinking low,
Cards are stacked, have to pay my debt!

Teens practice dance and hip-hop,
Only the young can go over the top,
An old man navigates his tomorrows,
Stealing time and moments he borrows!

Mother and child bask in sunshine,
But this is their happiness, not mine,
Stable planet will rotate on its reliable axis,
As surely as people die and pay their taxes!

Thoughts peer over unconsciousness, dark hedges,
Yesterday’s dreams hang at the ends of ledges,
Ghostly winds blow fallen leaves in my tracks,
As for life, it’s over, fallen between the cracks!

Rising to my scaffold for few seconds of free fall,
Some will see greatness, a man ten feet tall,
Others will wonder where my abject failure lay,
When mould was broken, he was made of clay!

Suddenly there will be experts everywhere,
All and sundry will seem to mourn and care,
They will speculate, theorise with indignation,
Slow train of blame stopping at every station!

Mental illness is a maximum security prison,
Seizing one’s being with chills and frisson,
The old man wants to live beyond forever,
Not me. I want to die today. Life’s ties sever.

 

Antonio Rodrigues

 

Uncle John

This one is for Margaret Surin in distant Canada and Samit Datar in equidistant Australia who, coincidentally, lived in the old neighbourhood and always enquired about my lack of writing over the past months. I know it has been a long, long time! 

Disclaimer: All characters in this poem are purely fictional and any reference to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.


Uncle John

The old biddies in the lobby were all a-twitter,
As they congregated in their social media sphere,
Climbed their moral high horse, declared his ways he will not mend,
And graffitied the building walls, Uncle John has a girlfriend!

Now you would understand if they were teenage girls,
Trilling behind the school shed, Johnny's gone off the bend,
As around him, they create dark, ominous vampire swirls,
For Johnny at ten and sixty was bucking a whole new trend!

Add some more gruesome grist to the rumour cauldron,
Some perched and watched surreptitiously smoulderin'
Hands bound in dirty linen, they stirred like Macbeth's witches,
And clucked, chuckled and tut-tutted like insane bitches!

Uncle John is moonlighting with a broad,
He invites her home, closes windows and doors,
They say he performs ghastly deeds with a rod,
While listening to satanic music on his iPod!

Not so long ago, Johnny was the darling of the community,
He could do no wrong, his mind was tough and strong,
He said his prayers, worshipped at the altar of integrity,
Suddenly, he fell from grace, maligned by this faithless throng!

They shunned his much-maligned society,
They accused him of gross impropriety,
They called to question his sobriety 
And wondered why they were not picked for variety!

Around his business they assumed an air of property,
They informed kit, kin, neighbours and indignant heirs,
Who wondered if they would lose their hefty shares,
You cannot do this, cannot do this, they cried, incessantly!

She was half his age, their parting, sorrowful moans,
The witches gathered, cast the first self-righteous stones,
Uncle John foresaw an empty bed, loneliness in his old age,
As younger men cursed their luck, bit their lips in silent rage!

Antonio

Nobody Knows

I have spent more than two years in a therapeutic daycare centre for human beings who are mentally afflicted and emotionally disturbed but, for the life of me, I cannot even fathom the causes and consequences that afflict them. I try to understand but I fail miserably. All I see are brave attempts to get the remnants of life together, an attempt to stitch a badly assembled tapestry of emotions. This is my attempt at understanding that tapestry! 

NOBODY KNOWS

(Anthem for the mentally afflicted)

They say my own demons I must slay,
But I still can hear the sad music play,
The morning sun burns, is it already day?
May I lie here forgotten if I may?

I asked if it is day because the drawn curtains
Let in a sliver of irritatingly cheerful sunlight,
I cannot escape from dark night's lonesome journey,
The lions are gathering for the gladiators' tourney!

Let me lie here, let me lie here, forever still,
As flies buzz over the carcass of yesterday's dream,
It may sound like some mundane routine drill,
Nobody knows, nobody hears my silent scream!

But tomorrow I will rise in the early morn,
Stare at the sun, like a rooster, greet the dawn,
You will find me bright, shiny and brand-new,
Like a flower with a drop of early morning dew!

You give me the sour, vinegary emotion of hope,
You say I must accept, I must relentlessly cope,
You say you can imagine, you know exactly how I feel,
Your misplaced sense of empathy, I must not steal!

But nobody knows of weights that anchor me to my bed,
The days when my body is leaden with molten dread,
I stay here, my safe haven, my harbour, my bay,
Where I can listen to what the sinister voices say!

I want to set a course from this sheltered quay,
Sail away into unknown waters, uncharted seas,
Navigate in city traffic chaos, hang from local trains,
Ordinary living, ordinary death as ordinary life drains !

Nobody knows, nobody sees the scars I carry,

Go on, ignorant fool, you must not tarry,
Just laugh in your sleeve at this wretched soul,
With your stigma, you push me further down this deep, dark hole!

Antonio

Twilight and Ill Winds

As we begin a new year, looking back at 2014, some events cheered and some events saddened us but none more than the slaughter of little children in Peshawar! One can only shake one's head and hope that better sense prevails in 2015!

Twilight and Ill Winds

Shlok got a new bike this Christmas; waiting round the clock,
Jaden is the fastest kid on training wheels on the block,
Kunal does give him a run for his money, squealing as he rides by,
As Sheldon spills over on his roller skates and rises with a sigh!

Their joyous shouts mingle with the squawking parrots,
As the crows close their agenda and adjourn their conference,
The setting sun, blesses their brows with its golden glow,
As it kisses the day goodbye with a promise tomorrow to show!

In the distant police camp, a lone bugler signs the last post,
A reminder that civilised law must prevail from coast to coast,
Of this life's labours and travails we must extract the most,
So that the preservation of human life is no idle boast!

While those merry sounds enchant and warm our souls,
On our neighbours' forlorn windswept range,
Those tinkling voices are stilled as they lie in cold holes,
Unwilling inheritors of the ill winds of dubious change!

Antonio

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

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