Monday, April 28, 2008


haiku is hard
five three five it goes
my mind runs

summer here comes
hot days force boxer shorts
ice cream melts

flies drop dead
water hisses flowers concieve for
summer goes then

hunger comes here
somalia is far far away
maggi is repetitive

she sells shells
on the sea shore see
waves drown woman

cherry blossoms crowd
white lilies float leaves green
i step on cowdung

morning brings sunrays
sleep infernally draws closer inwards
buzz not alarm

i master haiku
years work in a day
poisonous mind whirring

A Japanese form of poetry, consisting of non-rhyming words, in odd numbers.

Sunday, April 6, 2008


“You look like a giiiirl” friend screamed. “Do not” I retaliated…so what if my earmuffs are pink? I mean really, when it is eighteen degrees below zero and the whole world is freezing, the last thing one worries about is colour co-ordination. Apparently not. Winter in America is the real deal. Cold, chilly, damp, windy, sunless and snowy. Not the pleasant drafts of coolness that the subcontinent is used to during this time of the year. Hoary winds, snow and a piercing chill that makes you long for the Indian heat. Snow drafts that get your socks wet if you don’t walk too carefully and thin ice that will make you waltz like a Romanian gymnast on Prozac. However I shall stop cribbing, for spring is here. Nope the leaves haven’t begun sprouting yet, nor have the flowers started blooming in abundant profusion, but hey the sun no longer sets at three, and stays till eight! That’s spring enough for me. Positive temperatures too, now-a-days we get. No more the irritating chill that tingles the ears as soon as you step outside or the numb feeling and dread that comes with the realization of having wet socks. No more dark afternoons and dreary days. No more dressing up, which beats everything else. After six months of wearing layers that would make Pamela swell with pride (haha..pun or no pun..getit?) come single layer clothes days. Maybe even floaters...Hope.

PS: Minutes after this post was written, a snowflake wafted on to the authors nose, causing him to scurry for cover and generally curse the vagaries of weather, in a language that would make a bihari truck driver blush.