Our dream holiday – Rotten Poem # 3

Bags are packed, we are ready to fly,
Over the miles to hill-tops high.

Bread, butter, jam we have taken,
Pizzas/burgers are unhealthy when eaten.

The taxi comes late, making us angry,
Baby begins to cry, she is hungry!

The airport is finally in sight,
We unload the luggage with all our might.

Ouch! What a long queue to check-in,
Mars and Venus quibble amid the din.

At last, the uniformed girl greets us,
Takes our e-tickets and creates a fuss.

“You are overweight”, she says to me,
What is her problem, if I’m Kg-ninety ?!!!

“Your luggage is too much”, she loudly says,
We beg and plead, ignoring people’s stares.

She finally agrees to let us load,
The bags we seem to have filled with gold!

So there we are, ready to go,
To our dream destination, our faces aglow.

But the vile woman, serves a fatal blow,
And asks us, for our photo ID to show!

“…we’re not carrying it”, said I,
“Well then Mister, you’re not going to fly”!

“That ain’t fair”, I rave and rant,
“Sorry, Sir”, comes the rehearsed, plastic chant.

After a long scuffle, we finally go,
Back to a familiar “Home-Sweet-Home” door.


(s)Miles on a train – rotten poem # 2

They looked at me, and gave a smile

Sniggered at me, again in a while;

I looked at my dress, it was fine,

My hair-do and make-up, were in line.

I closed my eyes, and tapped my feet,

Enjoying the trendy hip-hop and its beat.

The punks burst laughing, as loud as a hyena can,

When the battery ran out, of my antique walkman!


I wish…(rotten poem # 1)

Godawful Poetry Fortnight

My contribution:

Poem#1: “I wish”

I wish I was a poet,
A poet I am not.

I wish I was an actor,
An actor I am not.

I wish I was a singer.
A singer I am not.

I wish I was atleast a winner,
Of this awful poetry lot.

(See, I am so bad at poetry, that this awful stuff simply oozes out effortlessly !!)

Incidents Short story Thought and Reason

Changing times

The last time I visited Chennai – a year back (I think) – everyone I met raved about the new City Centre. I decided I must visit. And I wasn’t disappointed at all. I stepped in, and there was Valet parking. Cool! But I was shocked to see how modern the girls were… everyone of them clad in tight jeans and short sleeveless tops. Boys and girls jay-walking hand-on-waist (Gone are the ‘hand-in-hand’ days). Sipping Cokes, munching sweet-corn. To put it simply, I felt…antique (“out-dated”, if you must choose to hear the bitter truth).

Anyway, the rumbling started in my tummy. I had felt very generous that morning…you know, the thrill of converting GBP into INR … I had given away Rs.20 to a beggar. She didn’t go ga-ga but I was too elated to be back home, that I didn’t quite care, though I was a wee bit surprised. Coming back to my rumble, I spotted a nice little latticed stall in a corner of the complex. The guy smiled me a welcome. I nodded affably, and ordered a delicious-looking paneer-sandwich and musambi juice. I was startled by the contrast in customer service, between now and a few years ago. Earlier, we would see unshaven men wiping off their nose before handing over spilt juice in a thick, dirty glass tumbler. And here was a neatly dressed chef-like gentleman handing over a tall clean glass of chilled juice in a nice little tray. “Wow!” I thought aloud, suitable impressed.

The guy smiled politely. And handed over the bill. I opened my wallet with a flourish and took out the solitary crisp Rs.100 currency note, and handed it to him. “Keep the change”, I said graciously, in appreciation of the ambience and service. Wait! Something was wrong. He returned a glare that seemed to ask “Which village are you from?!!!”. He shoved the bill back into my hand. It read “Rs.75 + Rs.55”. My eyes popped out. I thought I wasn’t able to read well because of the dim lights. I re-read the bill carefully. Yes, it was a WHOPPING Rs.130 “plus service tax”.

“Er…um…actually…” I started…”Do you accept credit cards?”, the brilliant thought suddenly struck me.

“Yes, we do, but not for small amounts“, came the carefully-worded reply, as he pointed to the board hanging on a side. “Credit cards – minimum amount Rs.250”.

“Humph…rude!!”, I thought, but all I said aloud was a meek “Oh”. “Strange practices here”, I added lamely. And I returned the sandwich (as I could not return the juice)!!!

And walked away as fast as I could. I could still feel the bugger muttering behind my back.