Monthly Archives: October 2008

Mary Jane

Mary Jane

Sometimes in my spare moments
I remember the times,
those that I spent with Mary Jane.
Mary Jane,
the love of my tender years
who would do things to me
that only she could.

I remember
the build up of anticipation
as my lips would touch her slender figure.
I remember the slow droop of my eyelids
as we would join and became one
in a heady embrace
which would make me melt
as the strings of the cobwebs
which had held my mind captive
would snap one after the other
and I would seep through to heaven
bit by bit.

As Mary would shower kisses
inside my each and every pore
making me feel special, loved and wanted,
telling me that I belonged.
That the world, although mediocre,
was good.

When in reality
It was only Mary who was good;
So good that her goodness used to take me away
from what this world
recognizes, and accepts, as reality.

Spending time in Mary’s arms,
and going to live, after that,
in the dominating, debating world
started getting tougher day by day
and to survive here, that I had to,
I had to learn
to take on the chin what the world was giving
without having Mary’s comforting embrace
soften the blows.

We are no longer together,
but love her I still
and am grateful to her
to this day
and will always remain so
not for the things which she did to me
not for the magic of her embrace
but because of how well she understood
when it was time to part
and let go.

Categories: Poems | 19 Comments

The girls I know

God has some pretty strange ways of putting thoughts into your head.

The night before last, I had a dream that I had written a very beautiful poem on my blog, and in the first comment, someone had written another poem.

I woke up, my insides all feeling like syrup. Try as I might, I could not remember the lines which I had written, but somehow some of the lines that were written in the comment had stuck in my head.

Seedha matlab ye, ki Bhole Baba sapne mein aa ke poem suna gaye. Jai ho!

Here are the lines. And well, I would write the same lines in the first comment if someone posted a poem, however beautiful, on the girls I know.


I just read some pretty lines

Written on some girls I know.

They were enchanting, engrossing,

Heart warming, much more than mere show.


I don’t have words for them.

Such things are seldom seen.

Just want to say that they’re beautiful

Those girls I know, I mean.

Categories: Poems | 15 Comments

Review: Bollox, a play by Dramatics Circle Hyderabad

Yesterday I saw the play “Bollox” by Dramatic Circle Hyderabad at the Ravindra Bharati Rangmanch. While acting live is a challenging order for the actors, seeing them live facilitates a more direct contact between the viewers and the artists than media like cinema can provide. For me, theatre is always an enriching experience.

Following is a review of the play “Bollox” by DCH. For those people who are yet to see the play, it is unlikely that they will find anything of interest here.

Disclaimer: The views given below are entirely my own opinion and do not necessarily reflect the aesthetic/ literary/ any other quality of the play which was created by seasoned artists.


Theatre art demands a balance between form and content to be at its best. If any one aspect dominates the other, the work loses its appeal and doesn’t deliver what the audience expected from it.

This is what happens with the Dramatics Circle Hyderabad play, Bollox. It’s based on a Farook Dhondy story, which is no doubt gripping and entertaining, but was written to be read. After the play, you realize that probably that was exactly how it was meant to be.

Edward, played by B.S. Prakash, is a rich Britisher who is about to be transplanted the organ from a man from Bihar through an international agency. The donor’s cousin Gajan (Anuj Gurwara) gets in touch with Edward through email and tries to exploit his urgency. A series of hilarious emails is exchanged between the two people from entirely different backgrounds, and the ending cannot fail to surprise.

A series of e-mail exchanges surely made for some very interesting reading, but theatre demands a few other things as well. The series of long monologues by Edward and Gajan in the beginning comes across as dry, and even their lines start lacking variety after a while. The uninspiring, flat dialogue delivery by Prakash doesn’t help the cause. The story gets thick only upon the entry of Comerade Subroto (Vijay Marur) and this part actually makes some very strong and thought provoking satires on the average Indian middle class greed and equivocacy and on the double standards of the so-called Communists. Before the end, the narrative was bound to get slower to set the platform for a surprising end, but it only loses its tightness in the process and is saved only by a great twist in the tale.

All in all, a good story, which doesn’t translate into that good theatre.


Story: Farrukh Dhondy


Pranava Singhal (Direction)

Zakir Alladin (Background score)

Prakash Savio (Lights)

Monideepa Sen

Ekta Bahl


Anuj Gurwara (Gajan Nath)

B.S.Prakash (Edward Cruikshank)

Vijay Marur (Comerade Subroto)

Kunal Kasturi (Donor)

Jayant Dwarkanath (Lawyer)

Sonal Gandhi (Secretary)

Categories: Review | Leave a comment

Expressive expletives

Warning: This post contains explicit content. Parental advisory advised. Those (biologically and/or emotionally) below 18 years are of age strictly prohibited from proceeding further. Ladies and former nice boys of girly-girly co-ed schools warned to proceed at their own peril.

Those from all-boys/ government schools, try not to get too nostalgic.


I’ve been fascinated by expletives ever since I was introduced to them in class VI by my friend who used to sit next to me in the class. This friend, Arun, was a born teacher, and very patiently explained to me the meaning and usage of each and every in-vogue word and also helped me out with the pronunciations. These free of charge classes of his, which used to run parallel to the regular classes which our parents were paying fees for, later advanced to using visual and textual demonstrations for those generalities of which the expletives are but a part. I got away with just a 5% decrease in my percentage at the end of the year. Arun failed all the subjects and had to start off as my junior the next year.

Anyways, coming back to expletives, I’ve always been fascinated by them. Not of the form as such, but of the content and purpose. I’ve also always been a fan of creativity and subtlety. Put two and two together, and you have a combination that well and truly turns me on.

Yeah, improvised expletives, (nothing to admire in the normal bolvachan, any bum can pronounce them) the epitomes of cheek, the heights of creativity. The lethal weapon which turns tree trunk like legs to jellybeans and makes chameleons (of the type that only turn to various shades of red) out of thoroughbred Homo Sapiens. Aaahhhh… the beauty, the wonder, the creativity!


This incidence happened in class VIII. It so happened that two of my classmates, Vicky (Vikkee) and Vikas, if I remember their names correctly, started arguing. The argument soon transcended the physical boundaries set by the school authorities, went beyond the principles of decency (of the banal type) set by the society as well as defied the laws of physics set by the almighty and reached a transcendental plane where the focus of the debate shifted over (from whatever it was) to who was capable of giving more pleasure to the feminine members of the other’s ilk. Fisticuffs soon began to fly, and it wasn’t too late when the next teacher’s appearance at the other end of the corridor caused swarms of classmates to grab and push away from each other the protagonists of this philosophical, metaphysical debate.

While they were being pushed away, and each was still trying his level best to have a go at the other’s chin, hair, tie or shirt, Vikkee swung his fist desperately in thin air. Frustrated at the little contact that the efforts of the referee classmates permitted, he roared at Vikas threateningly,

“Saale tu ruk, mein aaj raat ko tere ghar mein ghus jaoonga!” (Just wait, O you-whose-sister-I’ve-married, I’ll forcefully enter your house tonight).

Biting, pushing and scratching against a wall of humans trying to push him behind, Vikas then spontaneously delivered the line which, some of my south Indian friends might argue, depicts the typical north Indian sense of justice, but which remains the epitome of creativity and timing for me to this day.

Vikas simply shouted this, and no more, to Vikkee over the din and clamour on the classroom –

“Apni Ma ko bhi leta aaiyo!” (Come with your mother).

I think Vikas said something further, and the remaining part of the sentence got lost in the uproar. But maybe it was just I whose senses could work no more, as the brain was too awestruck with the pure genius hidden behind the veil of a seemingly innocent dinner invitation.


In Kota, where I went for IIT coaching, my building was shared by a group of Bengali guys from Farakka.

Living in a city where no one speaks your language can be a very liberating experience, as one of those guys, Anirban, revealed to me. While we Hindi speakers were a bit circumspect in throwing endearments on one another in public, the Bengalis found that they had no such inhibitions in a Hindi city like Kota. So they talked in endearments as the rule rather than as the exception and relentlessly tried to outdo each other, since they had little else to do all day. (For the uninformed, studying is one thing that comes last to an average guy preparing for JEE in Kota, be it a Bengali or a Haryanvi). The sense of innovation crossed the barrier of language and several Hindi endearments which they threw around still arouse a sense of warmth in me as and when I recall them. Ahhh!

Anyways once it so happened that my room partner, Rahul, was demanding a treat from one of the Bengali guys, also named Rahul. This Rahul Mukherjee had recently won an ESPN school quiz and was going to New Zealand to spectate a test match between India and New Zealand. Rahul Choudhary was requesting, cajoling, coaxing Mukherjee to give us all a treat in Convenio, a popular hangout in Kota.

Mukherjee was restrained in his replies, as he still didn’t talk much in terms of endearments outside his Bengali group. Occupants of the communist Bengal, the usually fixed-incomed Bengalis are known to keep their money well, and this particular group was penny pincher to the extreme. They would think five times before giving 5 bucks to the guy who came and cleaned toilets for them. Spending more than 50 bucks on a meal would play havoc on their digestion.

Choudhary, the quintessential Jat from Haryana, fell a little short in the art of cajoling.

“Kya yaar Mukherjee, tu New Zealand jaane lag raha hai fokat mein. Hamein Convenio hi le chal. 400-500 rupaye toh kharch karde!” (What pal Mukherjee, you’re being taken for a free ride to New Zealand. Atleast take us to Convenio. Spend 400-500 bucks atleast!)

As soon as the figure was quoted, a hush fell over the room. The 6 Bengalis, in permutation and combination of any of the acts of talking, laughing and scowling fell silent and looked at Choudhary, dumbstruck, as if he’d just given to each one of them a Jat version of the friendly ‘slap on the back’, knocking the wind out of their lungs in the process.

Mukherjee himself took a step back from where he was standing and regarded Choudhary as if he was an alien from outer space. Then slowly, he thrust his hand inside his pants.

We all looked on, our mouths open, as Mukherjee’s hand did some halchal (activity) inside his pants. It then came out as a fist. Stuck between and emerging out from the tightly clenched fingers were some small, shiny hairs.

Sticking out his fist at Choudhary’s face level so that the small hairs emerging from the fingers almost touched Choudhary’s nose and tantalisingly threatened to reach inside his open mouth, Mukherjee looked straight into Choudhary’s wide eyes and stated very firmly in a very matter of fact manner,

“Le, le le, le. Treat Chahiye na, kha le treat.” (Take, take take, take. You want a treat, huh, eat the treat.)

Needless to say, Mukherjee was never asked for a treat again.


PS: I really, really regret this. I forgot to mention earlier that this post has been inspired by GB‘s post on expletives. By inspired I mean that the incidences and narration are entirely my own, but the idea of writing on expletives I got from his post. It’s sort of like, a small band covering a legend. And I should have made this acknowledgement while posting the first draft. Will keep this in mind in the future.

Categories: Humor, Incidences | 21 Comments

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