Poetry by the Seasoned Writer

An average day of doodling in class provides enough fuel to whip up something insanely spectacular. Here is the perfect example. I had conjured this up in school less than a year ago. And no, it was not the Biology period.

The Amoeba in Your Calf

A cry of pity from Priyanka Mehta, the spokesperson of amoebae

In this realm of steady darkness

Lies an oversized amoeba,

Yelling out in sorry distress

From the bleak walls of your tibia.

'I'm more than turgid, I'll rupture --

Plasma membrane has let me down...

Contractile vacuole -- help here;

I may not be here come sundown.'

The deprived amoeba lies thus

In your poor unassuming calf --

Getting drowned in your blood and pus,

Its thrill of life reduced by half.

This was around the time I was getting conscious of my syllables. I realised then that all my earlier poetry had no rhythm and was useless at best.

After this realisation, of course, I started producing better poems, like The Ballad of Semmerwater: The Parody and The Brief Courtship of Two Islands (titles still subject to change), both much longer and more rhythmic than The Amoeba in Your Calf.

I will post them here, of course, but all in due time...

I'm Giving Up 'Health' Food.

No, really. I'm fed up of having horribly tasteless or (tastefully horrible) food that is said to be very good for my health. Screw my health, I say. I can have other wonderful things and still stay alive.

This does remind me of Stephen Leacock's 'How to Live to Be 200'. I don't need nitrogen and phosphorous in my food. I can get nitrogen from the air. And I can get phosphorous AND potassium from plant fertiliser extract.

Hence, I do not need the Indian staple chapatti-lentils-vegetables-rice diet to have a balanced meal.

No, a balanced meal would be:

(All these pictures are from Google images to nurse my gastronomic side.)

Paneer chilli, a nice spicy Indian starter, followed by

(I'm not fussy about demarcations of entrees, main courses, and desserts.)
Yum yum.

Then a light course of

made crispy and golden-brown to perfection.

The main course would be

Cheesy and a bit spicy. And accompanied by my mother's garlic bread, which tastes and looks better than any of those pictures over the Internet.

Finally, for dessert, I would have a simple lemon cheesecake

along with

So there. Six very good reasons to not have 'healthy' food anymore.

Plus, I can always swap cuisines. I can go for the wonderfully Mexican

 

or go Chinese, Lebanese (I've only had baklava and mou- mouh, well, something), Italian, or Mediterranean.

All I have to do is tell my family I'm not going to be eating anything I don't want to and expect no lightning bolt to fall through the ceiling.

The Problem With the Internet

I am one of the few people I know who is very cautious of Internet privacy. I ask family members not to put up their pictures on Facebook and Twitter and other health hazards. Here's how they usually respond:

Concerned Person: Why do you use Facebook?

I: Why do I, or why does anyone --

CP: You. You in particular.

I: To keep in contact with my friends. Past and present. Or so.

CP: How many people share your name?

I: Quite a few, I guess...

CP (triumphantly): Then how does someone know how to find you if there are a million yous? By looking at your picture and recognising! Ha!

I do not give up and generally plough on that the 'bio' is more than enough to identify a person if you know them well enough.

At this point CP says, 'What if that person doesn't know you that well?'

I happily declare, 'Then that person doesn't deserve to be your Facebook friend. Screw him.'

(+1 to me)

However, now with my blog, I am at the receiving end of similar taunts.

'You're putting up pictures!' they scream.

'No scandalising ones,' I say.

'But pictures you've taken! And private ones!'

I cock my head over to the side. 'Private?'

'Come on,' they go on, ' you know what I mean.'

This is all very problematic and I refuse to get into the conversation any further. 'I know what I'm doing,' I say firmly, 'and more so without your help.' It does sound like I watch too many soaps on television by this point. (I do NOT, I swear.)

'What if someone copies your stuff and sells it off?' they shriek.

'Frankly, my dear,' I say confidently, 'That can't happen. Who would want to?' I add.

'You're right,' they say thoughtfully. 'Hmmm... Okay...'

And that, I think, is the problem with the Internet. It reduces people to Hmmms and Okays.

A Picture Party

It is only fair that I put up some pictures of Kolkata, where I sincerely enjoyed my stay. Well, at least most of the time.

These are all pictures of South City Mall (which has the largest car parking area in eastern Asia -- no, really) on Christmas day.

I've never seen this kind of mannequin. Is it just me?

(Those men in the background don't have disfigured faces; I did the needful. Let's hope they don't stab me in the back and yell, 'It's your fault we aren't famous!')

This is absolutely lovely. I had to take a picture of this.

The Victoria memorial. The interior was beautiful, but there were guards at every corner who threatened to mash us if we dared to take pictures.

I did become complacent at the underground metro station though:

At this point an officer came over and balked in Hindi, 'Can't you understand? NO photos!'

Last but not least, the hero is...

Notice the cat on the first floor? And with the clothes hanging out like in a typical Indian household, the scene does seem amusing, at the very least.

Battling the Mighty Common Cold in Ten Easy Steps

The chill in Kolkata didn't suit me and I promptly got a cold, albeit mild.

There are ten typical steps for battling the typical cold. Here is my most feasible -- honourable and cheap -- version:

1)  Catch a cold just days, hours, or minutes (in order of increasing necessity and urgency of the trip) before running out of town/country/world someplace.

2)  Complain about dreariness of illness. Though in reality you may feel fine, exaggerate your symptoms so you can skip work/school.

3)  Get told to go to the doctor.

                                                                        Usually.

4)  Refuse and say you're fine. Have gallons of soft drinks and ice-cream to prove your point.

5)  Get a fever.

6)  Get rushed to doctor despite your whining complaints.

 

7)  Get tonnes of medicines prescribed a fortune.

8)  Hate the medicine and/or be allergic to it.

9)  Pretend to have the medicine when in fact you are just flushing it down the sink/toilet or dumping into dustbin (very carefully so no one sees you).

10)  Get well in two days as others croon, 'I told you the doc would help!'

 

A Customary New Year Greeting

Mumbai was quiet this 31st December (last 31st December, really).

I should know. I was on the way home from the airport and encountered streets as empty as the inflated head of Jay Leno. Which means not entirely empty, but considerably filled, though with things out of topic, character, and expectation.

There were little vehicles on the road that seemed to be heading towards big parties of drunken fervour. Lesser, as my parents observed, 'motorbikes on the road', motorbikes hoisting people filled to the brim with alcohol.

No -- unlike what was promised -- policemen continuously patrolling the roads.

In short, any other day -- even weekday -- would boast of higher traffic and more police.

Had Mumbai locked itself indoors in fear of the predicted terrorism, or was it simply killing time in hospitals?

Ah. We'll never know. At least not now.

So, well, Happy 2011, people.

*filters mind desperately for suitable punch line*

Sigh. Maybe later.