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