Life is a piece of cake;
there are bad batter days
with too much sugar to take
some days the eggs spoil it
or the salt shaker falls over
the chocolate fails to melt
or the vanilla seeps in too long
you’d want a white layer of icing
and maybe a cherry or two on top
you’d waste more than a few hours
and end up with just a mush of mess.
Life’s like a piece of cake, too
when the wet and dry mix well enough
you’d have a cake you’re proud of.
Category: Thoughts uncut
Lesson to Be
When the new girl joined their class, the sixth graders had all gawked at her. She was at least five inches shorter than the shortest kid in their class.
She wore round glasses and had leather-bound books. She had to sit in the first row because she couldn’t see the teacher from anywhere else. From the first day, she knew she’d find no friends in her classmates. They teased her all the time, hid her books at a height she couldn’t reach and, snatched her specs away in jest. It was torture for her and amusing for them.
If her height was one reason, her name was another to make fun of her. She was called Hermia.
They would learn their lesson the following year in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
One of Those Days
Summer’s gone, and so’s its breezy aftermath. We’re now rushing into monsoons that could get so bad that the entire city flooded last year.
This year, it started with untimed rains and unpredicted washouts. When I put my clothes out to dry, I didn’t know it would rain. When I walked into the office, I didn’t know it would start pouring ten minutes later. When I stood on the balcony looking out at the darkening sky, I didn’t know I’d have to wade in through puddles to reach home later in the evening.
I didn’t know I had walk past polyethene bags ingrained in wet soil, worms creeping over stones, and dogs shaking their manes, drenching me in the process.
I didn’t expect to get my pants splashed with mud and my just-washed hair getting another involuntary wash.
I didn’t want to be the only person in our building to come home to soggy clothes after all day at work. Or the one that washed her shoes every day because they drowned in pools of rainwater.
I didn’t ask for the monsoon to make me miserable. I didn’t want my sunshine to cower behind clouds, unable to push them away.
But when I walked towards my office today, I saw the sun trying. Reigning clouds veiled her, yet she shone —- weak, but steady. And I smiled. It doesn’t matter how lousy the monsoon makes me feel. If the sun can get through it, so can I.
Made to Order
The ideal one is neither a riff raff
nor the tied-up, suited honest freak
not the shaven, tall, dark, or handsome
and certainly not the short-haired one.
The ideal one feels home with bell bottoms,
weeded hippies and loose collared shirts
the expert guitarists and beard nurturers
and a healthy addiction to cigars and beers
The ideal one is a peace craving soul rebel
who picks a pick, a headband over a love band
a sneaker or seeker, but with sneakers still on
or boots or roller blades, as long as it’s his own
who’s moved away from dad, and disregards every fad
who’d join hands and nods head to every new joint
who knows governments are cheats, political creeps
fights for the oppressed supports the suppressed
like a medical man and the clinically depressed,
The ideal one is one who stands his ground,
who speaks his mind, and folds his arms
and when he smiles it comes from the heart,
and reaches all the way to the eyes.
Friend Indeed
My friend,
You’ve lost my favourite pencil
folded the edges of my books
left the cap open in my marker
forgotten to use a coaster
overdosed on bill due dates
and even skipped doing dishes.
My friend,
Though your idiosyncrasies grew,
I’ve said naught for years
Be warned, though: you’re history,
if you make your you’re again.
The Chaos Within 