Stuffed with my identities
a red checkered wallet lies.
Old photos and old cities-
knots of memories it unties.
I stare at it quite often
but I rarely carry it.
It helps my nerves to soften
as my past nears bit by bit.
When it gets worn out and blurred-
It will lie in my cupboard.
I never liked cauliflower - still don’t. My hate for this vegetable goes back to my college days. Once I drank half a bottle of rum and ate cauliflower like crazy - those days it didn’t matter what you ate after drinking. And so - after drinking, what felt like, gallons of rum I puked - and the floor became a cauliflower garden. So I gave up - not drinking - but cauliflower.
My mom had a belief that one should eat all the vegetables and since I didn’t like cauliflower ( not aware of the reason ) she was hell bent on feeding me. So she devised a plan.
She cut this bloody cauliflower into small pieces and shoved it into pav bhaji. She camouflaged it like a true detective that she was -some secret mission. She served me pav with this bhaji, and sat back. Generally there was always a smile on her face when she served food but this time there was no smile and so I suspected something fishy. And then I spotted just a tiny bit of my nemesis sticking out of the well disguised bhaji. To not disappoint her I ate the bhaji with extra pav so as to reduce the know-ability of cauliflower. She smiled and asked me - How is the bhaji?-
I said - It is terrific -
She smiled even broader and said - There was a bit of cauliflower in it -
I gave a silly-overacting-astonished look and said - I don’t believe it-
She busted out laughing and said - See, you like my cauliflower.
I nodded vigorously - overacting in full force.
I hated to spoil her secret tactics. And went along with it. But told her laughingly not to do that again else I would fear eating pav bhaji next time.
She said ok. But she did that again many times. And I acted even more stupidly every time. We played along with this game for quite some time.
After many years of this, she eventually stopped making cauliflower pav bhaji.
One day we talked about it and I told her that she quite fooled me with that dish. She was getting old but more alert. She rested her legs on the table, reclined her head and said
- Oh! of course you knew there was cauliflower in it. You just played along to please me -
she smiled and then added
- hope your acting has improved since then-
She passed away a few days later.
I wish to have that cauliflower bhaji again.
A silent strength you possess-
lazy bum precious priceless.
Kings and queens maybe many
but just one little princess.
I first saw her when she was two years old.
She spoke to me in her broken English.
- Talk to people - She was probably told.
We were unaware that that was her wish.
Bubbly child sounded much like a dolby-
Aishu was born to spread love and laughter.
This little kid brought out the kid in me.
And her presence I will feel much after.
She was a friend, and she was a daughter.
Someone you could just dream or hope to be.
I will pluck memories from my jotter.
And wish her joy wherever she may be.
I will miss those big, naughty, dreamy eyes.
Though they will appear in a different guise.
Memories are just versions-
some are real, some made up.
When truth finds no diversion-
we conveniently dream up.
Mysteries are glorified.
And the history is blurred.
War and peace are storified
for we like the written word.
A myth is passed on as fact-
unaware what truth it lacks.
Leaders talk back and forth in their lingos.
The interpreter stands by translating.
The future of the world is mapped and coursed
as people around live in hope- waiting.
But somehow the interpreter blunders.
Exchange of dialogues turns ambiguous.
People now stand stupefied in wonder,
and the curious become furious.
Unaware that the language was twisted-
the chaos these leaders fail to fathom.
Toil is wasted for the time invested.
The peace-talks become a meaningless hum.
Was this an error or just theatre?
The interpreter becomes the scripter.
In the mornings they come wagging their tails-
fluttering eyes intent on buttering.
Let us out - they shriek with cajoling hails-
my demeanour melts at these utterings.
Kismis wobbles and rolls towards the gate
prodding me to open their heaven’s door.
And poor Kaju stares in a trancelike state,
but imitates Kismis’s fancy uproar.
Sometimes I ignore their silly gimmicks,
and pretend to silently walk away.
But these naughty rascals know all the tricks
so swiftly they chase, nudge and block my way.
So I open the gate and let them loose-
soon they will find something else to amuse.
