Monday, March 10

Chicks

Kids, I know you loathe my poems but then as the great philosopher Jagger once said, "You can't always get what you want". Enjoy and endure.

One's a lonely ranger
Yet two will mock a stranger
Three get in a fight
Four is just about right
Five makes a batch
If six, there's a catch
When seven, they're late
And eight, one's not straight
Nine of them are prudes
Ten's just hairy dudes.

Friday, March 7

Chalte Chalte

After a thoroughly boring day in my otherwise eventful life, the Ground Floor Poly, as we are affectionately and enviously referred to by those living Higher, decided to go on a trip downtown. Apart from discovering that there are at least four Kunjes in Roorkee and at least a billion guards with another billion whistles, we found TG's school and a well he'd lost his bottle to.
With my awful sense of direction I concluded we must be heading towards the much revered Solani, only to be corrected by the more cognizant among us that we were in fact going away from it. With that settled, we rambled on till our tummies were rambling to their own accord and it wasn't long when I ordered two half-soup-maggies, with enough zing to put Mr. Bond out of business.
It was then, as usually happens to those having been unknowingly under the wing of P.T. Udaas, that this post started taking shape. I do wish this habit of being overcome with this sense of poignancy in trivial matters had not come over me but I just had to go through the drill.
For me, walks are as much cogitative as calisthenic exercises- for one, I'm forced to converse at lengths much greater than I was wired to and two, each time I end up thinking too much. This time around, I was feeling particularly nostalgic and every alley or turn would remind me of a time well spent or another walk down these lanes. First I habitually turned towards Cautley, only to be reminded of how soon me and Wona will be exes. Then after yet another discussion on ghosts and their kin, I found myself en route to my LG's place- every obligation I've overlooked and every friend I lost to time came rushing back like toddlers jumping out of their seats over a question they all knew the answer to. I really would have preferred the Solani route now.
The four of us getting dopier by the minute put all our hopes on the Century Gate but the unrelenting and decidedly overenthusiastic guard shouted out what we knew was the path to the Main Gate. It was like one of those things in life you could wallow in the mud for, but whoever was up there watching wouldn't give a rat's ass to get you for your next birthday. And so we foot-slogged towards our final destination, unanimously deciding a hot platter of half-soup-maggie would be only too welcome. But before that we had to wade through a thick, placid stench of rotting waste which could penetrate my phlegmatic self enough to remind me of those dark corners of the memory lane which leave a bad taste in the mouth every time you pass through.
Of course, as Lefty would agree, life isn't so bad for people with reasonably accommodating tastes which I've come to have turned into, thanks to Messers RJB and Ravindra. Upon my arrival to the most sacred BusTy, I discovered a pack of Little Hearts- heart shaped, sugar coated biscuits which I had long thought to have gone out of business. Out of sight, out of mind- someone had once remarked with much acrimony. But more than that, it reminded me of the best things in life. In their miniscule packages, they sneak up on you right after a long and rough patch and with their tiny sugar-coated hands cover your eyes and say, guess who?