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