He looked around him. It seemed like it was going to be a slow day. Hopefully, he’d be able to sell half of his stock atleast.
He took out his bag, laid a cloth on the cobbled pavement and began arranging his wares in careful, parallel lines- dolls on keychains in the first, torches in the second, miniature guns in the third, and plastic mobiles in the fourth row.
Aai shapath, he had forgotten the bangles! Arey, arey. Now Padmini would shout at him. He should remember to buy her a small Dairy Milk on the way home. He shouldn’t forget…shouldn’t forget…
“Dairy Milk, Dairy Milk, Dairy Milk…”

“Dairy Milk! DAIRY Milk! Dairy MILK! DAIRY MILK!!!!!”
“Uff! Will you just keep quiet?”
“But Papa promised!”
“Vinod?”
“Huh? Haan, haan, we’ll buy him one Dairy Milk! What will happen? The sky will fall on our heads? No, na?”
“But he’s putting on,Vinod! You want him to grow up and have your stomach?”
“Ay, hello! You fell in LOVE with this stomach!”
“Sure, that’s what did it…”
“MAMMA!”
“This child is going to make me break my head! Okay, Sanju! One small Dairy Milk.”

“Arey sir, kya karein? Garmi hain na, isliye stock bilkul nahi tha.”
“Arey baba, mere customers kya khareedenge? Hawa?”
“Dekho, Harilalji, is mausam mein toh chocolate vaise hi pighal jaayenge. Jitna hain, utna hi bhejo,na?”
“Aur mere bacche kya khaayenge? HAWA?!?!?!”
“Yeh aur iska hawa, saala gaa..”
“Kya bola?”
“K…k…kuch nahi, Sir! Bas, voh…Himesh ka naya gaana…”
“Hatt! Tu saala, topi pehenkar ghoomta rehta hain, jaise Apollo Bunder ka naya Amitabh ban gaya. De, chocolate de! Ek chocolate deta hain, voh bhi itna naatak karke! Yeh le, paisa…ab hatt!”
“Harilalji…woh…AIR lagaoon? Bas, score sunna tha. India-Australia ka…”
“Abey haraami! Radio bajaane ke liye thodi rakhta hoon! Ab nikal! Madar…”

Business was slow. He had only sold 2 of each. 40 rupees. Less 5 for the chocolate. Aila, Padmini wouldn’t even let him buy his lottery ticket this week!

“Mammaaaaa…It’s HOT! Can we go there?”
“Sanju, do you see that man over there? He’ll EAT YOU UP if you go near him!”
“PAPPA!!!!!”
“Happy? Scared the boy with your stupid stories!”
“What was I supposed to do? He wouldn’t stop talking!”
“Really…you’re India’s next Mother Theresa, hanh! Sanju beta…? Sanju…? Oh le le…Mamma was just joking…Come, come. What you want? I’ll buy you whatever you want from here.”
“Balloon! Torch! GUN!……Papa, Papa, can I have that mobile? It’s like your only!”
“It’s not real, beta. Accha, you want chocolate?”
“BUT PAPA I WA…Dairy Milk?”
“Haan. Come.”

He was getting too old. If only he had had a son, he wouldn’t have to carry this heavy bag. Mustn’t forget: “Dairy Milk, Dairy Milk, Dairy Milk…”

“Arey, Harilal! Kaise ho?”
“Prakashbhai! Bhagwaan ki meherbaani…sab theek hain. Tu bata?”
“Bas, theek. Uh..Prakashbhai, ek paanch rupaiye ka…”

“Excuse me, excuse me! Bhaiyya, ek paanch rupaiye ka Dairy Milk dijiye…jaldi!”
“Papa, can I have 5 Star?”
“Sanju, I’m buying a Dairy Milk. You want it, or should I only eat it up?”

“Thank you, Papa!”
“Yeh lijiye aapka chhuta. Bye, beta!”

Padmini was definitely going to kill him tonight.

a

Have you visited my life-in-Sheffield blog yet?
Come on, you know you want to.

www.bobadspeak.wordpress.com

Looking forward to seeing you guys there!

Hello one and all!
I’ve had a very,very busy few weeks in Sheffield, and am finally beginning to settle down. Expect juicy details in a little while.
Today, I was just surfing the web, when I came across an poem by Yeats called ‘Death’.
This led me to revisit some of my favourite poetry by those who I believe mastered the form.
I’d like to share them with you.

Death
W.B.Yeats.

Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death.

(Reading here )

Ode to Clothes
Pablo Neruda

Every morning you wait,
clothes, over a chair,
to fill yourself with
my vanity, my love,
my hope, my body.
Barely
risen from sleep,
I relinquish the water,
enter your sleeves,
my legs look for
the hollows of your legs,
and so embraced
by your indefatigable faithfulness
I rise, to tread the grass,
enter poetry,
consider through the windows,
the things,
the men, the women,
the deeds and the fights
go on forming me,
go on making me face things
working my hands,
opening my eyes,
using my mouth,
and so,
clothes,
I too go forming you,
extending your elbows,
snapping your threads,
and so your life expands
in the image of my life.
In the wind
you billow and snap
as if you were my soul,
at bad times
you cling
to my bones,
vacant, for the night,
darkness, sleep
populate with their phantoms
your wings and mine.
I wonder
if one day
a bullet
from the enemy
will leave you stained with my blood
and then
you will die with me
or one day
not quite
so dramatic
but simple,
you will fall ill,
clothes,
with me,
grow old
with me, with my body
and joined
we will enter
the earth.
Because of this
each day
I greet you
with reverence and then
you embrace me and I forget you,
because we are one
and we will go on
facing the wind, in the night,
the streets or the fight,
a single body,
one day, one day, some day, still.

(Please let me know if you find a nice reading)

THE HARLOT’S HOUSE
Oscar Wilde

E caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot’s house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The “Treues Liebes Herz” of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille.

The took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
“The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.”

But she–she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

(This version of the poem brought tears to my eyes. Have a listen. here )

Ode to a Nightingale
John Keats

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness,— That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves; And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain— To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

(Reading here )

And lastly, on a lighter note:

This Is Just To Say
William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

(Find a reading here)

Hello, al!

Just thought I’d put this up..found it while surfing aimlessly (isn’t that the best?)

Presenting: the female form of Lord Ganesh:

In other news, I leave for the UK on September 18th. Missing out on doing another show of Harold Pinter’s ‘The Room’, as well as Agatha Christie’s ‘The Mousetrap’. Do catch these plays on the 19th of September (Will update as to location) , and the 2nd and 3rd of October (St. Andrew’s, Mumbai), respectively.
For thoe who don’t know and are bothered to care ( ) , I am leaving for the UNiversity of Sheffield to do my Masters in Broadcast Journalism (It’s a funny thing, but I can never spell broadcast correctly at the first go!). It’s a one year course, but I hope to work in the UK for a little while after the course. Am super nervous about living on my own, since I’m quite the spoilt brat at home, so any pointers would be welcome! Will hopefully be blogging quite avidly from there, so watch this space to read about the Adventures of a Sheffield-er!
On tangent, I saw ‘District 9′ yesterday. Now, I’m not usually a sci-fi fan, but this was a pleasant surprise! Set in Johannesburg, South Africa, the film revolves around what happend when aliens land, and are housed in District 9, a sort of camp, which eventually becomes a slum. After 20 years of co-existence, which includes rioting, human and alien deaths, etc., the people revolt, and move for a rehabilitation scheme. This is undertaken by Multi National United (MNU), headed by Vikus Van De Merwe (if I remember correctly, that is how his name was spelt). What follows is an account of how, during Vikus’ efforts to rehabilitate the aliens ( also known as ‘prawns’), something goes terribly wrong, turning his life upside down. The film is a sort of satire, and I loved the tangible elements to it, showing a side of aliens we as an audience have never really explored. The prawns aren’t here to take over the world, nor are they cute and cuddly, like the E.T. of yore. They have real human emotions, filial relationships are explored and bonds are forged. The film is shot like a documentary, with bytes from sociologists to the common man, which I think was an excellent device.
This isn’t hardcore science fiction, with strong currents of humour and farcical elements. Worth a watch, even for those who, like me, believe that ’sci-fi’ is completely unrealistic because, frankly, it’s never going to happen.

Also, the songs of Sweeney Todd are constantly running through my head. For those who haven’t watched it, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

Till next time, dear reader. I now have to go and cook something (hopefully) delectable. Mom’s attempting to domesticate me. I bet she spends sleepless nights thinking that I’ll walk into Uni wearing soemthing *gasp* UNIRONED!

Tatabyebye, and thank you for reading random, tangential jumps of this currently-overworked cranium.

As the night bears down upon us,
I wish to say to you,
Thank you, for being there, for being near.
This is for just 4 people who I’ve been with constantly in the last 3-4 months.
Thank you.

My little Machhli- Swore I’d never make a friend in Xavier’s. Thank you for proving me wrong. Here’s to all the drinking, the rotten moods, the tears and laughs…and did I forget the coffee?

Zaiu- No matter what, when or how, I feel more complete knowing you’ll be there. I love you.

Bumikaaaa- I wanted my best friend back. And God, am I glad I got her. I love you so much. A day spent with you seems like minutes, and yet, like a lifetime. And you better believe that I’m always going to call you that. Thank you for hearing me out even when you were half asleep, and I promise I’ll try my best to be half the friend you’ve been to me.

Lastly,

Aladdin- Would it? Wouldn’t it? Would he? Should I?
I’m glad I did.
You came into my life at a time when I thought I was done making new friends. A play I was doing just for timepass. All it took was one look, and I knew we were going to have something special, something that hopefully will last for a long, long time. And I’m going to make sure it does, Aladdin. I love you. (M)Achoo!

To everyone who's made the last year so, SO special, I say hats off for tolerating my nakhras, my randomness.
I say LOL..because that's the best homage to all the laughs we have shared, and will share.
I say I'm sorry, not only for the times we've fought (If we have), or for the times I've hurt you (If I have), but because you know I tend to say it just like that.
I say Waduuup!!! Because you know I've OD-ed on HIMYM.
I say Rawr, because we've all had these moments.
I say REDDDDYYYY, because it's changed our lives FOREVER.
__________-eshwar. Insert as applicable.
I say thank you for the best birthday EVER, Aakriti, Jai, Raza, Shalaka, Wali, Suprateek, Atiya, Shawn, Danesh, Prince, Karan, Ruheen, Vishnu.
I say thank you, for helping me, laughing with (and at) me, creating some fucking brilliant memories, and keeping my mind more packed than all the suitcases I'll be taking.

♪ Don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you need somebody to love? ♪

Don’t you simply love that song, darling. I remember when we first heard it on the radio. I said to my manager, I said, “Darling, we simply HAVE to use this in a musical!”

Of course, he scoffed at me, but I went straight to my table with 2 bottles of vodka. Over those bottles, darling, I wrote what I think was the best play to hit Broadway since Jackie Curtis and Candy Darling.

Of course, EVERYONE wanted us on their stage, being the attractions we were…I was. I tell you, darling, when men saw my name on the bill, they couldn’t help themselves. The women, they loved my clothes…the 1930’s gowns I picked up from those quaint little thrift stores and made my own.

I always got into trouble as a boy. I remember this one time, when I was just coming back after having dressed down, the police pulled me up for speeding. Not that I cared, you see. I mean, that poor boy didn’t know who I was! Anyway, I had no eyelashes to flutter, no lipstick to accentuate my pout. It was the first and last time I actually received a ticket!

Anyway, I’m digressing. Where was I? Ah, yes. The men. You see, darling, it was quite fascinating, really. They didn’t know what to make of me! Was he a man? Was she a woman? Was it a transvestite? My answer always was, “Darling, I’m just fabulous lil’ old me!” In those gowns, that jewellery, and those wigs, darling, I had the audience in my manicured hands. They would feed like starving children upon the scraps of glamour I threw them. Don’t look at me like that, darling, it’s true!

I never really had a house, you know. There was always someone’s bed to sleep on, and often not alone. You’d be surprised, darling. You think people are open about it now? I’ll have you know that, with just one click of my heels, I could have had any man within a ten-mile radius itching to push me up against the wall of a dark alley. I was a warped Dorothy, they used to say.

I was called a ‘drama-drag queen’ by some trashy newspaper once. I loved it, darling. Loved the attention. I could walk on the street, my hair done up just like Barbara Streisand, or Judy Garland, and there would be a horde of faces, just trailing after me. I remember the time I merely wanted to get some cigarettes. It took me 4 hours to get ready, because I felt particularly drama-drag queen-like. I never went anywhere without glitter in my hair and around my eyes. I think it lent me character. Not like those fakes who stuffed their bras. Anyway, I walked towards the corner, and, darling, it was phenomenal! The streets were simply crammed with people, all sidling up to me.

A diva? Darling, of course! With my entourage, and my airs, I would’ve been insulted if they’d called me anything else. I tried, you see, to live a normal day once. Waltzing towards the theatre in a polo-neck sweater and jeans didn’t do it for me. The swish of my hips, the tilt of my head and a swish of me hair…it’s what I simply lived for.

Today, of course, it’s not the same. I live in this, this hole. It’s the first time in twenty years that I’ve had to pay rent, and I tell you this darling, it is NOT pretty.

Oh, you must see this picture they clicked of me. After all this time, don’t I still look stunning? Don’t crumple it so! I put it in my little memory box, along with all those tokens of love from over the years. There, there, no peeking!

Aah, you have to leave? Well, you’re the one who kept me up talking for this long.

Anyway, darling, you know the way out. I simply must have my afternoon siesta.
♪ You better find somebody to love ♪ …

Hello, all.
Here are some of Emta’s photographs.
Please feel free to comment, I’m sure she would value your comments just as much as I do.
Thank you, and till next time.

Photographs from her ‘Conceptual’, ‘Street’ and ‘ .:. ‘ albums.
Some rights reserved. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.

I have a friend on my FB list, who goes by the name of Emta Clause.
She clicks some beautiful pictures, and I’m going to, with her permission, of course, display them here.
Watch this space, but remember, only watch, dear reader, don’t whack. Her work’s licensed under Creative Commons.

Cancerous swirls envelop her,
Loss of technicolour, nothing on the horizon.
In the distance, the strains of a lute are heard,
Shadows of raindrops on her face, as they trickle down the window-pane.
She stares at her reflection.

An early morning ritual, sacred to him,
Walking out the door, bucket of water in hand.
Smiles as he goes through the Sunday morning motions,
A clean, shiny car- as good as new.
He stares at his reflection.

A spritz here, a flick there,
All the final touch-ups completed.
A sniff, a snort of the pure white stuff,
She’s ready to walk that road.
She stares at her reflection.

She squeals with joy, and chuckles with glee,
Splashes around a bit, just to irk Mommy.
The little rubber ducky bobs in its turbulent sea and a soap bubble escapes,
She is full of wide-eyed wonder,
She stares at her reflection.

Downcast, full of guilt,
Unable to look at her and confess.
Looking at the ring on her finger, an errant, telling tear rolls down his cheek.
She lifts his head and looks in his eyes.
He stares at his reflection.

A glint of steel, a flash of light makes it all so clear to her,
What had to be, what ought to have.
Mistakes of long ago, haunting her still,
She feels at peace as she grips the knife tight.
She stares at her reflection.

Have you ever stood at the edge of the world, waiting for it to explode in your face?
Have you ever felt the wind rush around you, encompassing your very soul?
Have you ever wanted to know what it would be like to look at your life from an outsider’s perspective?
Have you ever wanted to be someone else, just for a day?

Have you ever looked at your life like it’s a suitcase, where every mood and every situation is represented by a new costume, a wig, an accessory?
Have you ever owned a dark-coloured trenchcoat, a soft felt hat, and a pair of dark glasses?
Have you ever walked down a road, wishing you could be invisible?
Are you a master of disguise?

Wait a minute, don’t answer that.
We all know what you’re going to say.
A fervent nod, a gleam in your eye.
A realisation of every man’s dream.

So put on your face for today, Maestro, and turn to the world with a smile.
Play the game better than the rest; deceive them all with a swish of your cape.
Wear your personality, and stride out the door.
With the knowledge that you’re a master of a disguise, but you’re the biggest fool of all.