Grown-up

I asked my daughter,

What dya want to be,

When you are a big girl?

Her answer made me

Want to dig my own grave,

On a stolen plot somewhere,

And jump in, without a tank

Of Oxygen or Oxycodone.

What an oxymoron!

I didn’t even want the grave marked,

For she said she wants to be a “socialite”.

Warped

Brain noodles,

Polynesian poodles,

Yahoo doodles.

Unibrow model,

Half throttle,

Fizzless bottle.

American Rubel,

Aristocratic strudel,

Lawyer mogul.

Scatting yodel,

Zero subtotal,

Rhyme, McDougal.

Bloody fences,

From your menses,

Diva cup frenzy.

Glitterati, Illuminati,

Take it nonchalantly,

What’s with the shite-shitey?!

Extra shirt buttons,

Who is that glutton?

Got’em by the dozens,

Bitch, pick your cotton.

Bleeding brain noodles,

Writing Warhol doodles,

Mush in your puddle.

Return, hillbilly,

With ass in chilli,

Boo! Scaredya totally.

Babble

Oh you don’t my cackling laughter?

Why, I will just giggle like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like my one liners?

Why, I will just say oops like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like my stinky bombers?

Why, I will just eat kale like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like my slam poetry?

Why, I will just draw hearts like Barbie.

Oh you don’t like where I’m going with this?

Why, I will just take my top off like Barbie.

Poison Pen Letter

There’d be a myriad of wise men and women on this platform, and I’d really appreciate some communication.

I am filled with rage, anger and suicidal thoughts over something as trivial as being cheated on.

I do not want to cry anymore, I do not want to be sad anymore. I do not want to think about it anymore. I want to erase the whole thing from my head. I have gone to the lengths of exploring (laughable) things like black magic, voodoo, witchcraft, electroshock therapy, lobotomy, hypnotherapy, what have you. I even stepped into a church, a mosque, a temple, a synagogue. Divine intervention didn’t work either. Medication, meditation, yoga, death metal, nothing worked. I drown myself in a sea of pills and alcohol. It hurts like a bitch. I can’t tell day from night, today from tomorrow. I have panic attacks in malls. I break down in public places. I have gone to psychiatrists and therapists and other horde of doctors. The only thing that keeps me calm is a hug from my husband and son. I’ve cried a river. I just have one simple wish now. I don’t want to be sad anymore.

So if there’s anyone out there who can help, please help a sister out. I am on the last rung of the ladder.

Money

Yes, it’s true what they say. Money cannot buy you happiness. But it sure can buy you 5 star vacations and that’s about as happy as a grown-up can get. Sure, there’s the unhinged, unwavering, unwarranted happiness that is in a child. But that child grows up, in a society fret with problems. Problems created by grown-ups who build schools and colleges to help solve those problems. Talk about going in circles.

I have been on the planet over three decades and I can narrow down to two moments of sheer joy: one, when I married my now adulterous husband, and two, when I saw the man holding my baby in his arms. If that isn’t true love, I fail to see what is. And that same man denied me a hug a minute ago because “he needed some time apart”. I don’t even have any Valiums on me to counter that shrug. All I can do is whine to the world, where I know I am not even going to be heard. This man, he cheated, lied, and beat me up and blamed me for everything. I have started thinking that maybe I am the monster who torments someone so much they want to beat the shit out of them.

I have sobbed, slept on hotel floors, waited for a taxi at 2 in the morning because I was thrown out of the house, made to leave my child behind, been called a whore who can’t even sell her body for sex, and beaten up black and blue; why? Because I asked this person why he needed another woman in his life.

Five tequila shots down, I finally have the courage to share my story. I know there would be several women out there going through this and worse shit possible. If you are one of them, leave a message and the least we can do is give a metaphorical shoulder to cry upon. YES, face it, world! Women cry. They’re not being melodramatic, they’re just being real.

And if you are one of those wife-beaters, please, for the love of whatever you love, stop doing that, no matter how much she provokes you. You were born out of a woman. And just because someone annoys you or you are filled with rage, does not give you the right to hit a woman. Women are not the weaker sex. Women are the smarter sex. That’s why “housewives” is more common than “househusbands”. That’s right, we put our pedicured feet up and send the man to make money to buy us shoes.

In spite of everything, a woman would do anything in her power and beyond to protect her family. She is not just a mama bear to her sons and daughters. She’s mothering you as well, the “breadwinner”. She’s the glue that keeps it together; without her, everything would fall all over. RESPECT, mofos, RESPECT!

Wise Bud

Continuing with the photography, this was pre-meditated. Four Budweisers down, I wa able to carefully peel off the stickers off the bottle and label them on the tabby.

He has been my billboard for most anything.

🍻 Do not drink and drive. Put the bottle aside, pull over, take a swig, and then drive.

Nooo… seriously, it is not a question of capability, it is a question of safety. Drink at home or Uber. 😬

20

Getting shit-faced,

Passing out drunk,

Lying in your vomit,

Hammered beyond recognition,

Limbs in different directions,

Fucking in fast cars,

Dancing with the devil,

Rolling bills to snort cocaine,

Unprotected fornicating,

Wasted, hungover;

Stumbling on the office floor.

Being young and carefree,

Is a young people’s poison.

In mid-life, you can’t be 20.

Turban troubles: A not so metaphorical true story.

PG18

*All the characters are real, the names haven’t been changed*

Once upon a time, a young whore was born out of, probably a wedlock. The young whore was braindead at birth. Her eyes looked North and she saw South. Her teeth grew like a heavily fertilised cornfield, too many to line up in the jaw. She went to school and did not pay attention to the teachers, but instead kept admiring her fingernails.

As the young whore grew, her grassy hair grew and she learnt a thing or two about tying them into a whorilicious way. She learned about co-ordinating skirts with blouses and hot pants with tank tops. She attended a “fashion school” to learn this. As she reached her 20s, her hemline went higher and higher and the neckline went deeper and deeper. Despite this, the little whore was not able to walk, talk and act like a whore because she was trapped in a family who lived by the book.

One day, as the whore was juggling jobs as a showgirl juggling her boobs, a young, lost soul caught her eyes. She spread her legs wide open and immediately the lost soul decided to marry her to be the sole owner of those legs and that body. The lost soul started out humble but worked hard and reached places in life which the whore had never heard of.

Being free from the shackles of her family, she started her Babylonian epic whore journey, spreading her unfertilised eggs, from one man to another. In the meantime, the lost soul was clueless about his little whore’s business and loved her dearly and showered her with the latest gadgets. iPhone, myphone, a lot of phones were given to her to communicate with her.

But alas! the lost soul failed to see that the little whore was guzzling wine and beer like a parched whale and making other lost souls fall from heaven like Lucifer. The elixir of alcohol went to her braindead head and she looked in the mirror and saw a demigoddess. She levitated with a delusional delight and her feet never touched the ground. Of course, her knees did a lot of groundwork, performing fellatio on any male genitals that came her way. At one point there was also an equally braindead whore who decided to facilitate each other’s deviant desires while the lost soul looked on.

A decade passed by and the whore decided that she needed to mess around with more genitals. She moved to another country seeking cheaper wine and cigarettes and gullible middle-aged men. Her eyes had gone puffy, her voice had grown hoarser, and she was still grotesquely attractive to men. Another dumbass lost soul came her way and they fornicated each other’s brains out, not that there was much to lose to begin with. The dumbass had a star by his side who guided him back to his heaven. The whore kept on luring him back in, and the guardian angels stopped him many a times.

The star that stood by the lost soul’s side while he vomited the germs passed on by the whore, was mangled up, smashed and left at the curb side, begging for help from a child. At last the lost soul opened his eyes and saw the light. He gave his star his American Express Platinum card and the star transformed into Superwoman overnight. Superwoman shouted a lot, because she was dealing with dumbasses and the dumbasses paid no heed to the words and registered the noise as abuse. (*eye roll)

After much deliberation and debates between his brain and phallus, the lost soul decided that the star was indeed right and decided to follow her path. There were slip-ups, mind you, but the star stood her ground. One day, the whore lured the lost soul into a seedy watering hole and filled him to the brim with alcohol. Then, the little whore produced a pack of cigarettes that were hidden in her ass crack and they both smoked like an industrial chimney. They rolled home in their carriage, drunk as skunk and slapped the star across her face.

Now the star got very very angry and decided to bulldoze the whore once and for all. Collected but uncalm within, the star hatched a plan to demolish the harlot. After multiple attempts, she succeeded; first crushing her sunglasses, next crushing her head which was quite easy as there was nothing within and finally, crushing the whore entirely with a speeding truck. The star smiled with a deep sigh of relief and told the lost souls, both of them, “And that’s how you kill a whore.”

The End

Whoops! I just farted.

Lucky nobody’s around.

Smells terrible too,

Like a corpse in the ground.

There’s no meaning,

To anything in the world.

It’s all there and not there,

At the same time.

I am trying to rhyme so hard,

It hurts, because words were made,

To communicate, not heard.

Payback’s a bitch, you’re right Stephen K,

But there’s also good karma,

And all that bullshit people sell you.

The world isn’t dead, just not “woke”,

For every struggle two hands go through,

There’s six more to help you.

Is this good enough to rap, I wonder,

Heck, who cares, as long as the beats are thunder.

I have so much to say, I forget what it is;

I pay a shrink to remind me this.

Catharsis is getting it out of your system,

But what if your system is full of holes?

Shouldn’t all the pain escape through the pores?

I make no sense, but I see the light.

Not at the end of the tunnel,

But right here by my side.

Grace

Grace: Must be someone’s name. But when I hear “Grace”, I’m reminded of Elaine Benes.. Remember that? 😂

I am currently in the phase of coming to terms with being single. Younger lady I once was, no longer I am. The novelty wore off; kicked to the curb. And I thought, SHIT!

So, here’s a reminder to all the gentlemen out there who abandon their partners for a younger, lighter, prettier one. She also poops. And her shit smells like shit too.

Pooping with grace, but poops nonetheless.

Living without BOYS

In a decade, I haven’t been alone. And I mean ALL ALONE. Four cups of coffee down and I feel like a new me.

I just realised the toilet seat can stay down 24 hours now. There’s no aimless yellow sprinkling all over the toilet.

I just realised I can wake up anytime, sleep anytime and eat anytime. I am not a mother, I am not a wife. I am ME. I can stand on my feet without anyone’s help. I am still hurting. A LOT. An unpardonable sin was committed and I will perhaps never forgive the sinner. But I came out stronger.

A 79 year old man, a lonely homosexual woman, friends from far away in time and space helped me. There is still hope in the world. People are nice when you are nice to them. For the first time ever, I believe!

Thank You all for your support and kind words. Strangers, but not so strange. And women out there, it REALLY us that have the power. Patriarchal society, my ass. We make them from scratch inside our bodies with just a drop from anyone. 😜 We are smart, that’s why we put our feet up and get pedicures while the “patriarchal head” brings home the bacon.

-Hugs!

Endgame

So I was one of the very few millions who got an opportunity to attend the premiere of AVENGERS: ENDGAME. No spoilers here, I promise.

Okay, I lied: Spoiler 1

Did anyone feel that over an hour was spent in dramatic entrances? I mean I whooped and clapped at every single one of them but there’s just so many. I had to put down the popcorn tub so many times to clap and do a little dance when Cumberbatch and Pratt and Cooper and the girl with antennas came up. (She so funny!)

Spoiler 2:

A smash on the head is all it took to kill Thanos? Why didn’t Thor think of that before? Perhaps all that beer gave him the idea. I mean, Iron Man and Hulk talking some real physics, chemistry, science, divine, intergalactic, robotic sh*t, and all it took was a blow on the head with Mjölnir! (By the by, I could’ve just written hammer, but Mjölnir just sounds so fancy, and getting that O with two dots is a task some may appreciate.)

Spoiler 3:

Iron Man dies?! I was waiting till the ushers came in to clear up the movie hall, hoping that something will happen and he would come back. And my my! The funeral; I think I cried more than I cried at my aunt’s. Will little Morgan walk in her daddy’s suit? I hope so. We could use an Iron Woman!

Spoiler 4:

Rene Russo says, “Eat a salad”. And I immediately signed up with that meal plan. I mean if salad is what it takes to get to look a little bit like Hemsworth, I’d eat leaves, sure!

And that’s about it. I enjoyed the movie. Pardon the technical/fictional errors. I am just one of those people talking in the parking lot after the movie.

LBD

As my Michelin paunch strolled down the road,

My four eyes spotted a skinny mom,

Not a hair out of place,

A little black dress,

With a toddler at her heels,

Bet she’s never heard of crisps.

Then I looked at my shoes,

But oh my!

The lipids got in the way.

The ogling goblins,

In their mid-forties,

Would give an arm,

Just to see her charm.

Can’t blame them skinny women,

They work hard and reap the rewards.

While us lesser mortals with a glass of wine,

Dream of a fairy tale like a swine.

Prince

A mangled, half eaten frog,

It’s mouth and eyes open,

Ready to leap and kill.

By the bark of the tree,

In the mangy grass,

Stood the shadow,

In the pouring rain,

Shielding it’s eyes,

From the brightly shining sun.

Cymbals and tambourines,

Knocked heavily above,

As the ant-troops marched.

Dotted with water,

Bathed with light,

Specks of blood,

Shards of bone,

Splat! on the dirt.

Food Talks and BS walks

The other day I was watching Anna Faris getting all riled up about a plate of risotto. She said, not verbatim, that it was a pile of gooey rice and the “Food Nazis” are going to judge that glop. In another show, I saw Aziz Ansari Instagramming pictures of food while Adam Scott, Nick Offerman and Robe Lowe ate on. In yet another show, I heard Kaitlin Olson say, “I am just going to be one of those douches who takes food pictures”

Rings a bell, anyone? I am one of those incessant food picture taker. In my defense, I have taken other kinda pictures too. Food pictures started happening as this whole brigade of Food Nazis and critiques and Masterchef and Facebook and Instagram phenomenon happened. My family still gets irked by the picture taking. Why, just today, a Peking Duck sat on the plate and I was taking pictures. My husband asked, “What do you get out of this?” And I had a very dumb, unprofound answer to that, “Instant gratification”. What am I going to do with instant gratification? Stew it and eat it?

Seriously, what is the need of being a Food Nazi? It’s food. Everyone eats. It’s as banal as breathing. Is there a “Scrumptious Air Buffet” available? (Although I am sure it will be in the future) Chefs are tarnished, restaurants are blamed, there’s name calling over paltry reasons like why your hash browns are not as good as mine. Then there’s the wizardry of weaving words about food. “Holy Basil from the Indian subcontinent infused in free range, locally sourced lamb, which was carved by our master knife-ninja, and cooked for 38 hours on a low flame, lightly basting with zatar and matcha extracts and virgin peanut oil with a side of organic plum tomatoes injected with wild jalapeños and stuffed with shredded mozzarella made from a farm grazing buffalo milk which was milked after the calf was full” That’s just one dish. The critics on Yelp and Facebook and wherever would elaborate it even further by dragging back two generations of the buffalo and lamb and the earthworms that fertilised the tomatoes. Admittedly, some describe food in a most tantalising way, and if you notice, these are the ones that put it simply.

The two most memorable food writings for me have to be Enid Blyton’s and Yann Martel’s. Enid describes toffees and tarts, just like they should be described: sweetly and with a childish delight. Yann Martel, on the other hand, talks about Idli: the South Indian steamed rice and lentil cake. A very simple food that is made almost every morning by the protagonist’s mother who has just tragically died. There is no nonsense around these writings and yet they live on.

My finest dining experience of all the multitude of meals I have had are easily boiled down to two. One, back in 2008, on my birthday, I decided to trek the Himalayas. After eight gruelling hours of witnessing an avalanche unfold, getting stung by unknown thorns and crossing rivers without help, I was so tired, I could’ve just slept on the ground. A local mountain lady, who did not even have a bathroom in her house, cooked me a cauliflower and pierogi stew, and hands down, that is the best food I have eaten till date.

The other one was in 2013, when I was pregnant and could not eat anything except ice cubes. 🙄 I was prescribed medication to keep food down and something that would stimulate appetite. I was at work and we ordered takeaway. And by jove, when the food arrived, I was on it, like a vicious scavenger. It was just a bunch of sandwiches and some Indian fare, but I remember having tears in my eyes while eating, I was so happy.

Both these instances simply point to one theory: When you are hungry, EVERYTHING tastes good. It’s a plain and simple truth. All these “foodies” (don’t get me started on that term) mushrooming up everywhere claiming their unparalleled love for food.. well, let’s just say, I need a baseball bat to deal with them. The constant Instagramming and Snapchatting and Facebooking and Yelping and the orgasmic ooooohs and aaaaahs; bulimic baboons, really. “Eat with your eyes”, they say. What the fudge! “Presentation is important”. I say, “What for?”. It’s food, take it or stay hungry. And those super-effing-annoying minuscule portions in oversized plates. I absolutely detest that. The goop in there looks so delicate and photoshopped, you wouldn’t want to disturb it. You can gobble it in one go and that’s it, meal over! The next day, it’s going to turn to poop and smell like poop.

The whole molecular gastronomy has left me speechless. There’s liquid Nitrogen and deconstruction and reconstruction and flames and smoke and mist and magic. Its like the Cirque du Soleil of food. Honestly, I get lost in that Tantric deviation. It’s okay to do it for TV, but do we really need the theatrics when we are hungry? All celebrity chefs, big or small, will tell you at the end of the day, that their favourite dish is something their moms or wives or grandmas or dads cooked on Sundays. Why? Because, in the end, food is as pedestrian and as essential as sleeping. A bed and a pillow is all you need.

By the by, I am also guilty of embellishing my food stories and constantly taking pictures of what I ate. Yes, I am one of those. And let me tell you, it’s stupid, fucking, daft. I mean, just eat, man!

Like a pillar,

That can blink.

But cannot move.

Goes around the focus,

But never in focus.

Take me over,

Guitars and cymbals.

I have love to give.

I know not where.

My head spins,

I jive.

The mother and children,

They wait.

To sleep and forget.

The agony.

Clouds in sky,

Clouds in mind,

Rain in blue.

Thirty four years,

And four years.

Intertwined.

The love, for two men.

Dotted by tears and smiles.

Happy and sad,

Part of life.

If death comes by,

I am camera ready.

That skin

Yes, it’s the same colour. 

Time machine,

Whirred back,

Naivete reigned. 

Stars in the eyes. 

Blurred and clear, 

The heart was a harp,

The steps, frozen in the muck.

Bait, hook and fish,

Reeled in without a wiggle. 

Dragged on for minutes and hours. 

Weeks and months and years and decades. 

Signs, dreams, signs and dreams,

A cynic grew, like a fruitless tree. 

Thanks to that skin. 

That skin..

That skin makes mine crawl. 

I wanted everything and now,

I want nothing. Except that skin..