Amidst the barrage of heart shaped balloons and rose wrapped love-sick loonies on this Valentine’s Day (VD), here are a few ironic, oxymoronic, uncannily apt VD acronyms which could weakly or strongly be statistically associated with the crazy VD which is today…

Very Difficult

Voltage Drop

Volume of Distribution

Virtual Directory

Value Date

Veak and Dizzy (an emergency room non-urgent complaint)


Vir Devotus (Latin: Devout Man, epigraphy)

Vivens Dedit (Latin: He Gave When Alive, epigraphy)

Vertical Descent

Venereal Disease

Vascular Dimentia

Voluntary Disclosure

Voluntary Departure

Weighty Wars


It is probably a lot that I ate,
Or an ere supressed genetic trait,
Maybe a decelerated metabolic rate,
That pushed my BMI into ‘overweight.’

But let me make this straight,
It wouldn’t really help or motivate,
If you greeted someone at the gate,
Not with a hi, hello or you-look-great,
But “God, have you put on some weight !”

Coz there is a fact, if I may be so bold, to state,
Everyday, I look into a mirror and fixate,
Twirl around and my proportions calculate,
Wondering if the reflections an illusion create,
Praying for a magic pill for my adipose uprise to abate.

So, I don’t really need my ‘wazan’ update,
Or anyone to look concerned and an intervention implicate,
That I’m upping the scales is no cause for a debate,
Let us talk about the weather, if after a pause we must wait,
Coz this tale of weighty wars is hard to narrate,
And no reason to frustrate and infuriate,
For this may be hard for you to relate,
That to shrink myself thin, is what I obsess about most, of late.

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 !’

Wrongs, righted.

Two speech bubbles drawn with chalk on a blackboard for Right and Wrong

Lose the weight, not a date or a mate ;

Doubt the mantri, not the santri ;

Fear farts in a closed lift, not the scary night shift ;

Envy your mates partying in lands sunny, not those making more money ;

Grieve your gasless past, not the wrinkle you found last ;

Anger the snobbish critic, not the annoying secretary at your doctor’s clinic ;

Hate the traffic jams, not the driver in front, with your bams and damns ;

Worry the rat at your work, not the one in house that only squeaks and irks ;

Regret history’s pillage and plunder, not yesterday’s embarrassing blunder ;

Destroy the cigarette butt, not the ants that unaware strut ;

Fight the lecture room slumber, not the competition to be a number ;

Manipulate the red tape, not your friends, to your future shape ;

Ridicule the cronies in a herd, not the harmless college nerd ;

Complain about the power cut, not the dogs in the night howl rut ;

Avenge for Maggi’s return, not to spite a rival on your turn ;

Punish the bribed babu, not a stranger trying jhappi ka jadoo ;

Reject the plastic, not a change drastic ;

Resent your frown, not the lady wearing the same gown ;

Discourage the guy licking your ass, not the tired walking on grass ;

Frighten your cousins with a spooky story later, not the helpless polite waiter.

So negate the wrongs and play strong,

Strike the gong and gather around ;

For this is the right song, if you sing along,

To find a way, to smiles abound.

Watery Woes



How in the name of Poseidon, do you think,
From a water fountain, must one steal a drink ?
Make that water-borne link,
As it is jettisoned from the brink,
While the thirst and the thirster clink.
Coz I haven’t found a task more daunting,
With such excruciating memories haunting ;
No challenge so wrecking,
Nor a blow so pecking ;
No ego buster so insulting,
Nor a failure so hurting.

Let me explain you why,
This effort makes me cry ;
The water splashes all around,
On your face and about your grin,
Flooding the bends of your chin ;
Down your neck and southward bound,
Towards your lines and creases abound ;
And thenceforth, to hound,
Some wrinkles newfound.
Everywhere, except your mouth,
Where not a drop finds holy ground ;
And whatever does get in miraculously,
Is lost and almost never found ;
Sucking you dry and tiring you helpless,
Swamped and irate and ironically drowned.

Do I tilt my head to an obtuse angle ?
Stick my tongue out and let it dangle ;
Lick every sip or sip every lick,
Till everything is a blur,
In the topsy turvy tangle ;
As I lay down my arms,
In this aquatic wrangle.
Or should I twist my head upside down ?
And pray, while I wear the idiot’s crown,
Embarrassing myself to town ;
That a miracle this might churn,
And the water may take a turn ;
Or my mouth would finally learn,
Or serendipitously itself place,
In the parabolic trajectory with grace ;
So a swig or a swallow I could embrace,
And a parched loser’s mark erase ;
Whilst not letting my neck strangle,
Nor the remains of my self esteem mangle.

Do I with my mouth,
Draw an imaginary circle ?
Purse my lips into a hollow,
And manage not to turn purple ;
And thence, with this rehearsal,
Towards that stream hurtle ;
With my mind fabricate,
A mighty pipette elaborate,
To siphon the water and translocate,
It to the droughty gustatory mounds,
Lying beseechingly in wait ;
Imploring my lungs not to asphyxiate,
While my mouth and mind collaborate.
Or should I bend down on my knees instead ?
Keep my neck unbent and a straight head,
Open my mouth wide like the dentist said ;
Hoping the water to hose down,
The barren lands downtown ;
Except that it may douse my nose first,
Prick my dignity and let it burst ;
And worse and worst,
It may find its way in,
To my nostrils and make my head spin ;
Whirl around in my sinuses and head south,
Spread to my throat by the work of mouth ;
But looking on the bright side,
Even though it would dunk my pride,
The roadblocks and the dirty route brushed aside,
At least, the water would have made it inside.

Is there a way,
out of this noose ?
Do I gulp the water down,
like my favourite juice ;
Guzzle it like beer,
Or slurp it like soup ?
Or should I sip it daintily like tea ?
A suck and a sup grand prix ;
Look nonchalant and pretend,
That this is as easy as A B C.
Do I take an easy way out,
A quick fire solution,
To abbreviate the drought ?
Just stroll around and look casual,
Going about the business as usual ;
And discreetly pour the water in a bottle,
Let the onlookers smirk,
And their chortles half-effortedly throttle.
Or should I go the Indian way ?
Purport it to be child’s play ;
Cup my hands in the stream and splay,
The geometric flow midway ;
Turn a deaf ear,
To the hee-haws and the nay-nays;
Gurgle with glee,
And a smug look display.

This solemn affirmation, I can safely make,
With spirits rock bottom and a bloody headache ;
That if a need should arise,
And to save the earth, a plan we must devise ;
I may be able to move a mountain,
But I cannot drink from a water fountain.
There is no Everest so profound,
That would leave you,
So frowned and wound.
How do I conquer this hurdle,
Without dislocating a girdle,
And turning abusively verbal ?
How do I keep my mouth open,
Just the right way,
With my poise unbroken ;
And still look like a lady,
Not dimwit, crazy or shady ;
And hope my face would not go in to spasm,
Amidst all this enthusiasm ;
To a duck face contorted,
Whilst the cruel world snorted,
Guffawed and retorted ;
Wondering to myself, why,
The dreaded fountain couldn’t be distorted,
Into a spout, a tap or a faucet ;
Saving us a whale of trouble,
With a needless faux pas thwarted.