Epitaph for a Jar of Honey

There was a man living a life
content and ordinary.
One day to his surprise
he received a jar full of magic honey.

A label on it simply said,
‘You are blessed with magic today.
To keep it sweet and unending
Just send some honey regularly its way’.

Now he was an ordinary man.
He did not believe in luck.
And like any ordinary person would, he regarded the gift
with complete mistrust.

At first taste, he loved it.
He dug in for some more.
The yielding jar joyously poured
Honey from its store.

The man enjoyed the honey to the bottom of his heart
but soon yielded to misgivings and serious doubt.

"How could I be so lucky?
The honey must be drugged.
It will make me behave like a monkey
and look like a lovestruck schmuck.
Why is it pouring out so willingly.
It must be a ruse.
So much honey
is surely more than I deserve."

The honey jar was sad,
but didn’t know what to say.
It hurt to know that he thought of its giving
in such a belittling way.

So the jar did the only thing it could
to calm the man.
And stopped the honey from flowing
Faster than he could understand.

The sweetness getting lesser did not seem to help.
The man just went out of control and he yelled and yelled.
"Take off, get lost, I don’t want you honey
you won’t get my words, my heart or my money."

The honey jar was puzzled.
And worried for its life.
All it needed to keep going,
was a little honey to survive.

But the man did want the honey you see.
He really did not want to give the jar up.
He wanted to keep yielding its sweetness
Without the honey giving it involved.

Now every time the jar poured,
The flow stemmed and dried.
With no honey coming its way
The sweetness slowly died.

The man he got sadder,
But did not show what he felt.
Rigid to the end,
No honey he did send.

If you don’t understand my words, You will never understand my silences.

What should we talk about?

What makes for an interesting conversation? Captivating, even.

Someone told me the other day that she likes my blog.

She looks forward to my posts and has even noticed that they have been coming at longer intervals.
(Guilty as charged Maria aunty! And thanks for pointing it out.)

But I thought my blog was mundane.

About everyday things.

Small things that have happened to me or people around me.

Little things that should be interesting only to me, right?

Little things that make up a day. My day?

Just a thought. Just a glimmer. Just news. A small new dream. A hare brained plan of escape that Monday morning will drag you back from. Or that you will discard the next hour. A joke someone told. Or that you made up, like my Jack and Jill one.

Is that mundane?

And if it is, is the mundane ridiculous?

And even if it is ridiculous, so what?

What should one do?

Stay silent? Hide the mundane? Wait for a momentous happening?

And when that does happen, will you remember to talk?

Will you remember how to share? Will you even feel like doing it?

When I am lost

In the pitter patter of the rainfall

In the ‘insane' cuckoo’s call

In the gulmohar carpeted on the street outside

In the gay, twinkling Diwali lights

In the bright orange on my wall

In my doggie's punctual 4 a.m. call

In the boat at Allepey lazying downstream

In the myriad colours of the Tiomann sea

In stupid giggles echoing around

In Leonard Cohen’s growl

In every swig of Glenmorangie

These are the places you will find me

- November 9, 2004

Love Wells Up

You take an old top knowing it is torn.
Damn. You’ll have to stitch it. And you are late for work.
Hell, where is the darn rip.
Where? It’s not there. It’s been stitched. Better than you would ever do it too.

You are half asleep. You are also half awake.
You don’t know what, but something woke you up.
You hear the curtains being drawn. And it’s suddenly dark again.
As you snuggle back to sleep you know what woke you up.
You know what made you go back to sleep.

It’s Saturday and you have to go to work.
As you pull on your jeans there is a pitter patter of feet.
Two large eyes and a little pink tongue stare at you from under your dressing table.
Sniff, sniff. Someone sure would be happier if you stayed back.

You are crying. Your friend is at the wheel.
There was a song playing and it reminded you of something,
someone you have lost. Or who lost you.
But you have mastered the art of discreet crying. Soundless crying.
The car stops for fuel.
Your friend comes back and puts a box of tissues next to you.
That’s it.

You swore you cannot sleep during the day.
You can’t siesta. No No No.
Then you are.
Very happily so.

A giant wheel ride.
You are screeching in sheer glee.
The person who took you for it is screeching in
(what I realized later was) pure terror.

You want to walk out on the beach.
It’s a moonlit night.
You just want to be alone.
It’s all too much to handle.
It’s your birthday.
But you can’t. You are not allowed to.
And just when you have forgotten you ever wanted to,
There is a concert on the beach.
And the waves are coming in.
And people are dancing. And it’s oh so beautiful.
And you know you have got your gift.

‘Here drink water. You are thirsty.’
How did you know?

There is a song that reminds someone of you.
Different people have different songs.
But it’s important to have it.
You have one for them too.

You have fever. The lights have been dimmed.
There is a guitar playing softly.
Your favourite song is being hummed.
Sleep didi. Sleep.

You wake up in the hospital bed and you see a face.
‘It’s not visiting time. You don’t have a pass. Don’t you have work.’
‘Hush. Sleep. I will be back.’

You have an early lecture.
You are dreading the walk to the station alone.
You come out of the building and suddenly it’s not so bad.
Your friend’s waiting.
She will attend your class. For you.

'I want to go to the library. You promised.'
'I am tired my darling.'
'But you promised.'
'Okay, I'll take you after tea.'

The fever has broken. It’s the middle of the night.
You are suddenly ravenously hungry.
You don’t want to wake up anyone.
But your little guardian is wide awake.
He is on your watch. You get into bed.
By the time he gets toast and tea you have lost your appetite again.
He waits, takes the tray, covers it up. You may eat something later.

People call you different things.
Try staying angry when someone calls your name sweetly.
Try staying angry when someone calls you by your sweetest names.

Some days must have been easy.
Most days must have been hard.
But someone always remembered to walk in with my favouritest snack.
Every day.

I never felt they were showing off
or was pressured by all of the above.
I just watched and knew that the way they love me
is the way they want to be loved.
The way they love me and how good I feel
is how much better I can love.

My very own PJ

If Jack was the ripper, who was Jill?






Jill was his Alibi. For all you know Jack never went up the hill in the first place.

Walk Slowly. Smile More. Laugh Often.

Yesterday, I went to a stand up comedy act.

For the first time I understood what getting a stitch at your side means.

Or laughing your guts out.

So, it was this show where there was Papa CJ, Aaraon Keder (hope the spelling is correct) and Sugar Sammy.

From the time my friend Ray told me about it, I kept having second thoughts.

Firstly the show was in Shanmukhanandan Hall.

I don’t have anything against this hall personally ... except perhaps the name which is a tongue twister and a mouthful and needlessly long perhaps.

Wow … I do have a lot against this Hall already! And there I was, thinking I am comfortably numb.

But now that I have admitted I am not, I can already think of more things that go against this hall.

It’s location for one. It’s in Sion.

Not that I have anything against Sion personally.

It’s just that Sion is not in Bandra. That screws things up a bit. Because Bandra is where i stay. Now Sion is not even remotely close to Bandra. (And all those upstarts who are going to pipe about the Dharavi link right about now please save your breath.) Now what's not in Bandra or on the way to it is obviously out of the way. Plus it’s a weekday. And no one even knew exactly where the hall was. Well it’s hot. You don’t get cabs …

And to add insult to injury, I got stood up at the last moment. Which is never a good feeling.

So, all in all, I wasn’t in the greatest of mental health when I reached the place.

The show started 45 minutes late.

And some minor celebrity action happened. (Page two and a half, a friend would say.)A smattering of Bollywood stars too.

Which again cheesed me off no end. For no reason. Not that I have anything personally …  against Bollywood … but …

However the show was as I said … hilarious.

So word of advice my friend. Yes, you who are reading it.

Never ever miss the chance to laugh.

Nothing else in the world is worth it.

Not love (And I am saying this). Not money. Not work (that always waits and manages to sort itself out somehow.)

Next time there is a stand up comedy act in the neighbourhood, make sure you are the first when the ticket counter opens. Buy up a row. Buy one for all your loved ones. Buy some for your enemies and they will become your friends.

What a hilarious evening! How well worth it all!

Laugh my dear. Get others to laugh too.

It’s the best gift you can give.
(Don't let my getting stood up stand in the way of your shoring of good karma.)

Tell you about walking slowly and smiling more some other time.

Although you could maybe take me at face value on those?!

Unless you have something personal against doing these things …

Which as we concluded earlier does tend to throw the spanner in a bit.

The grass is green on all sides

Want to know how to destroy a party?

Just turn on the TV to a football match.

No football on? Any match will do.

Just turn on the TV and watch the fun.

The other day I was at what was supposed to be a party

But it quickly became a get-together to watch the football match.

Arsenal v/s MU. Or some such nonsense.

With seven or eight faces, basically the entire male population, glued to the television.

Not that men make for the most scintillating company most of the times.

But at this particular soiree, the only times you even saw who these blessed souls were, was when the smell of herbed chicken wafted out and the guys absentmindedly put out a hand for a wing or two.

Even this interest in food was grudging, mind you. Conditional on their level of elation or disappointment with their team.

Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach obviously did not have television!

Then there is cricket.

Ever been out with a guy whose eyes are fixed a foot above your head.
Yes, I did say above. This is a new age guy.
All he is interested in is the match playing on a big screen behind you.

As if one dayers, world cups, test matches were not enough,
now we also have 20-20 to contend with.

Let me not even talk about tennis. Pool. Poker.

Or even farming games.

The other night Kim and I were trying to find a pattern in this male madness and we stumbled on this profound insight.

Green. Green Grass.

Speaking of grass … but let me not digress.

It can spoil a party.

Ruin a new haircut.

Put paid to dinner or

Or your night out.

Green is the common enemy.

And it’s not even ‘on the other side’ anymore.