“ The system doesn’t understand us.”
“ Their government will never accede to our demands.”
“ This is a war I owe my brethren.”
“ They killed our people and we will avenge their deaths.”
“ Nothing came out of meetings or discussions.”
“ If you want something, you have to take it by force.”

Yes, we don’t understand you. Because we don’t understand terror. We don’t understand killing those who never wronged you. We don’t understand how taking a life could have so little meaning to you.

What is your cause really? And in all the terror attacks you raged, did you really get anything your brethren and your women and your children wanted ?

People are killed by idiotic, selfish pricks on both sides. No wrongs could be righted nor the dead returned no matter how many innocents’ blood you shed or bombs you blast.

You may call yourselves ‘brave’ for putting your life at stake for your cause, but nothing could be more cowardly than to sneak in to our cities and our homes while we are unarmed and unaware, and spray your bullets on our children and women.

A kid who doesn’t like his meal and throws away his plate of food only goes hungry. An angry teenager could never make his parents listen to him by smashing things around in frustration. Just like blasting towns and destroying lives will never get you anywhere. Because we will never cower down. And no matter what you inflict on us, we will rise again. Like we always do.

Nothing may come out of a single or many meetings. But nothing, for sure, came out of a war. Nothing except needless killings and burnt homes and shattered lives. And no cause could justify that. No cause in the world could look into the eyes of the dead and uphold itself to be for the better good.

Rainy blues


Rain, rain go away,
Come back another day;
Neha doesn’t want to wade,
Through waist deep water in Bombay.
Muck and sewage come to play,
With germs and disease and decay;
Lets not forget the road spray,
The price we all pedestrians pay.
In plastic shoes you must sashay,
Even if they squeak, to your dismay;
Jeans and cottons are passé,
But with synthetic garb, you’re okay.
Umbrellas are no protection, by the way,
Maneuver them in crowds, I dare say.
Monsoons are the best, they all convey,
I’d agree, if I whiled away, sitting in a café;
But I walk to work, everyday,
Drenched and soaked and in disarray.
‘I hope it doesn’t rain,’ is all I pray,
But its four more months with the Season Grey!

A pinky nail inquisition

Riddle me this, my thinking hat ;
Why do Indian men, keep a long pinky nail like that ?
Is it to better scoop their ear wax ;
Or to better pick their nose boogers with ?
Is it a spoon to sprinkle the salt ;
Or a knife to cut meat like a paleolith ?
Is it to scrape off their grimy scalp ;
The muck and the mites and all such menaces ?
Or is it a jugaad for a toothpick ;
To extricate plaque from the corners and the crevices ?
Is it a screwdriver to fine tune their gadgets ;
Or a weapon to gouge someone’s eye ?
A contraption to crack open an egg ;
Or a key to a secret closet, lest their wives should pry ?
Is it to better scratch an itchy bum ;
Or to stress that they really need to pee ?
And to top it all, they adorn it with nail paint ;
For women to chuckle and giggle with glee.

You are FAT, missy ! – How the Indian salesperson ‘subtly’ rubs it in.


“Bhaiyya ye top dikhana.” “Ai Chotu, zara XL mein red top lana.” (I didn’t tell you my size. Please stop guestimating.)

“Madam, size barabar se dekho, haan. Badme change nahi hoga.” (WTF)

“Hamare pas dress material aur darji bhi hai.” (Maine poocha kya ?)

“Bhaiyya ye top dikhana.” “Is piece mein large tak hi aata hai.” (Again, will you stop sizing me up ? Its offensive.)

“Ye color heavy logon par mast dikhta hai.” (Abhi mera heavy haath tujhpe uthega.)

“Anarkali lo madam… ek dum slimming effect aata hai.” (You should be my stylist !)

“Medium size ?! Kisi ko gift karne ka hai ?” (Tumse matlab ?)

“Jeans? Aapke size mein ? Dekhna padega…” (Really ?! Coz, believe it or not, the pair of jeans I’m wearing, were actually made on earth.)

“Aiiye madam… bohat suits hain. Aapke size mein bhi milega.” (About turn.)

“Itna margin hai is kurte mein. Aapko kya, kisi ko bhi aayega.” (Haan, teri biwi ko bhi.)

Mousy troubles


There is a mouse in my friend’s bathroom,
Who wanted to add to his diet, a little zaiqaa ;
So he started munching on her bath soap,
And is now suffering from pica.

He thought he would slip under the radar,
And no one would smell a ‘rat’ ;
But he isn’t very clever, you see,
Coz every morning, he leaves behind a trail of crap.

At first I thought he might be a cute fledgling,
Who’s gnawing and chewing because he’s teething ;
But he seems to have a mature taste,
On a detergent bar, he wouldn’t dare his buds waste.

A metrosexual male that he is,
Only a fruity, flowery soap would do ;
To keep his bowels velvety smooth,
Rinse his interiors and soften and scent his poo.

Does he lick the wall paint,
or more abominably, eat his own shiite ?
Does he sneak a snack of chalk,
Or devour some teeth chattering crushed ice ?

Is there a bloodsucking hookworm lurking in his guts,
Or does he have tingling and numbness and bones that are weak ?
Is he suffering from separation anxiety,
Or is it a companion that he longs for and desperately seeks ?

If you, my dears, see a mouse roaming,
With bubbles from his mouth foaming ;
Do not scream and get a load of wrinkles,
Instead, just keep calm and give us a tinkle.

We’ll load him with iron and pump him with calcium,
And put him on some counselling and therapy ;
We’ll even register him on a wedding dot com,
Find him a beautiful wife and yell ‘whoopee !’



Dear Mom,

For waking up at nights, to put your crying baby back to sleep,

For dressing her up every morning and teaching her how to tie her shoe laces,

For being by her drowsy side, day and night for two days, when she drank half a bottle of cough syrup (true toddler story, that),

For never letting her bunk school, even on sick days,

For being there when she was in pain,

For teaching her school lessons on brown paper bags,

For waking up at 5 am to wake her up with a glass of warm milk,

For packing her school bag every night,

For helping her make friends, when she was a shy kid,

For laughing at her silly jokes,

For never telling her what not to wear,

For forcing her to take dance classes which she resented then but loves now,

For being her friend, her movie and shopping companion and the buddy she watched cricket with,

For loving her even when she was difficult and unreasonable,

For believing in her when she didn’t,

For cheering her up when she was down in the dumps,

For teaching her what was right, even if it was the hardest thing to do,

For always being with her, even when you were gone.

I love you, each moment, every day.

Hope you’re having a rocking time, up there in heaven !

An ode to Maggi


O Maggi, Maggi, how much I have missed you,
Wherever, dear, did you flee ?
I cry, I whine and I sigh for you longingly,
Whilst this cruel world chortles with glee.

I hear you eloped with Mr Lead,
Chose not me, but that rascal instead ;
And now the two of you are nowhere to be found,
But baby, what goes around, comes around.

You have been with me since I was three,
I hid you in my lunchbox from hungry eyes galore;
My special treat on Fridays,
The one I fought and nagged my Mom for.

How could you forget the rainy evenings we spent together,
You, me and our cutting chai ;
Or those exam nights when the world slept,
And you were my sole companion till the sun hit the sky.

The only reason I could flatter that I cook,
My saviour when my stomach growled in rage ;
You rescued me when I was dreary and famished,
On every weekend and at every age.

This is an ode to Maggi,
My one true love that ten rupees could buy ;
Who left me stranded in despair and in woe,
Wondering to myself when, how and why.

Desperately and in vain have I searched for her,
I know she hasn’t left of her own volition ;
When I look for her in grocery stores and stalls,
People exclaim no and what and eye me with suspicion.

Now when the hunger hits and my guts shout,
I grumble and frown and say with my teeth grit ;
Maggi is not here, fellows,
So you better get used to eating some healthy shit.

A classic conversation in the life of an Indian female doctor



(I am not responding.)

“Ai … Hello sister!”

(Seriously, this is how you address people ?!)

The guy now confronts me face to face.

“Sister, main aapse baat kar rahan hun.”

“Main sister nahi hun.”

“To kya ho ?”

(Kya ho ? I am not a ‘thing’, for starters…)

“Aap hi soch kar batao bhaiyya.”

“Mujhe nahi pata.”

“To mujhe roka kyun ?”

“Arey, aap to bura maan gayi, didi.”

“Didi ?”

“Ab sister nahi to didi hi bulaenge na.”

“Bhaiyya, main aap se pehle baar mili hun. Zahir si baat hai, main aapki didi nahi hun.”

“Uff, to kya bulayen ?”

“Socho. Thoda dimaag par aur zor lagao.”


“ Behenji ?….Behenji ?!! Main tumhe behenji dikhti hun ?”

“Accha …Sir. Ab Sir to theek hai na?”

“Pata nahi. Mujhe to lagta tha ki ‘Sir’ sirf aadmiyon ke liye use karte hain.”

“Oho, acchha chalo Madam… khush ?”

(Well done !…you are getting there. At least ‘madam’ tak to pohache.)

“Haan, batao.”

“Hamare mareez ki pishab ki thaili bhar gayi hai. Usko khali karna hai.”

(Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Count to ten. Ommmm…..)

“Bhaiyya, us counter par sister baitheen hain, unko bata do. Wo orderly ko bol dengi.”

“Accha, ek baat aur. Hamey woh doctor saab keh rahe the…”

“Kaunse doctor saab?”

“Arey woh doctor saab…” and he points to a male resident in the ward.

“Acchha ! Woh doctor hain, to main kya hun ?”

“Main kya janu ?”

“Kyun, ladkiyan doctor nahi ban sakti ?”

“ Ji TV par dekha to hai. Banti hi hongi.”

“Maine bhi safed coat pehna hai. Mere gale main bhi aala hai.. aapke doctor saab ki tarah.”


(Okay, I give up.)

“Main bhi doctor hun.”

“Accha, aap bhi doctor hain ? Batao.”

“Haan bhaiyya batana hi pada.”

“Arey koi baat nahi daactarni, bura mat mano… Philhaal, hamare mareez ka saline bhi khatam ho gaya hai, aake badal do.”

To the space and beyond !


He said, “ Great dreams of great dreamers are always transcended ;”
Oh, what a sad day, what a splendid life that has ended ;
Unto the almighty, the great soul commended ;
To carry him to heavens, the angels descended ;
The mighty tears, leaving every face bended ;
A glimpse of his greatness, that we all attended ;
A life, simple, honest and contended ;
To science, service and education, all moments expended ;
His inspiring lessons on life, with anecdotes blended ;
The nation salutes, the best teacher we befriended.

RIP Dr Kalam.

Diwali Nostalgia


Wo beeti hui diwaliyon ke goonj abhi bhi yaad hai…

Jab mummy ki fatkar aur anar bomb ke dhamake se neend khula karti thi ;
Aur sari subah, apne kamre ki safaayee aur ghar ki sajaawat mein, ek pahaad si padti thi.
Poore din, doston ka ghar pe taantaa bana rehta tha ;
Aur kisi diwali gift mein mithai ya dry fruits ke bajaye chocolates nikal jayein, yehi armaan rehta tha.

Dilli ke sadar bazaar se bhar packet pathake, teen hafte pehle hi khareed liye jaate the ;
School ke toilets mein, classes ke beech mein, bijli bomb ke footne se sab lot pot ho jaate the.
Jab ek haath mein patakhon wali pistol, aur doosre mein saapon wali kali goli raha karti thi ;
Aur ‘atom bomb’ ki sannate ko cheerti hui cheekh, kano ko sunn kar deti thi.

Wo papa ke saath ghar ki chhat par bijliyon ki ladiyan lagana ;
Aur lakhsmi pooja mein chehre banakar apni behen ko hasana.
Mummy ka kisi tarah hum shaitano ko pakad kar diwali ke naye kapde pehnana ;
Aur paach minute mein hi, un kapdon ka mitti ya fuljhari ki chingari se chhalli ho jaana.

Wo cousins ke ghar pohach kar unke pathakon par dhhaava bol dena ;
Kiska rocket kitna uuncha fata, isi competition mein aadhi raat bita dena.
Jab nani maa prashad ko batkar sabko ashirwad deti thi ;
Aur kabhi angaare haathon pe lag jayein, to puchkaar kar haathon ko choom leti thi.

Jitna besabri se intezaar, mohalle ki aadhi raat ki aatishbaazi ka hota tha ;
Utna hi khayaal mummy ke haath ki poori, paneer aur kheer ka rehta tha.
Jahan doston ke saath tark-witark aur vipakshi dalon se muqablon mein, khilkhilaahat jama karti thi ;
Usi ullas ki goonj, aur diyon aur mombattiyon ki roshni mein, diwali ki jagmagati raat dhalla karti thi.