Chai

There! Drink up sir! That is my Chai, laced with ginger and turmeric. I bang my wares upon each other, but it is made with all the love you can find in a tea stall under the shade of the banyan here on this crowded Bombay alley. Things are so transient here upon this city and so much more on this alley. The faces are new, the weather uncertain, the politicians, poets and parents all talk differently with passing time, even the street changes it's colour. But me? No sir, I stay right here giving you this adrak wali chai laced with the love that is found only in this sweltering shady tea stall. This place is that one unmoving spot which you will know exists when your spouse fights with you over breakfast and that bastard in office bums you out again. My Chai is the unchanging parameter in your insurance policies and in how you bring your kids up, as you discuss them with you friend. We need these honest faithful parameters don't we sir? With all these crazy changes there ought to be some honesty in our existence, that is my job sir, I give your reality a sense of truth and then of course, I give you Chai.

Gateway Evenings

Getting of the bus near Sailors Home and walking past Wellington Mews to pass by the Naval Mutiny Memorial Garden I walk down Accommodation Lane to meet Colaba Causeway and even before I can cross the road, I see the salty naked horizon. The rains are not too good this time and the air is warm, but near the sea there is breeze. I take a walk down the pavement leading to Radio Club and stop like drifting wood near a rock to stare at the waves. It is high-tide and the waves are giving out a deep low rumble. As the waves rise along the stone wall, they fill in the pores which empty themselves in spurts before the new wave fills them again. This part of the shore is dotted, perpetually, with small fishing boats and large tankers. Across the road are colonial buildings with pretty names, their windows opening to this Arabian splendour. When I look at the Gateway from the Radio Club end, I see the Ramchandani Marg flanked on one side by colonial architecture and pleasant road side trees and the Arabian Sea on the other, and I can tell that some thought has gone into creating this urban landscape. I walk down Appolo Bandar road and turn into one of the alleys to bump in to a fast-food corner that sells juicy chicken-shwarma. I munch on the juicy melange of alternately soft and crispy chicken, filling potato ,beetroot and the heavenly white sauce from Lebanon, thank the fast-food guy and take the bus back home.

My City

Let me write one on my city.
The one about a flock
of birds, talking off near Gateway.
The one about winding lanes
of Fort market.
Or the familiar beggars
and sugarcane stalls.

Let me write one,
for the esplanade road,
for the local trains,
the bhel puri, the vada pav,
and one for the tired city dweller,
floating home in the 6:15 VT crowd.

My city,
it is a place for poeple to sing,
for bombs to explode
and lives to stop.

My city,
It is a place for people to come,
a place for picked wallets.

My city,
a place for dreams to crash
upon the tetrahedrons
that reclaim land.
A place for hope to dwell.
A place for the humid sea breeze
to blow past mercurial synagogues.

It is a place for drain pipes,
and dried turds.
Old walls and new products.
Art galleries and starving artists.

It is a place for shimmering waves
to gently lap up
to the rocky coast of Haji Ali.

A place for hearts to grow,
souls to wither and memories to lose.

It is a place to sip masala chai,
while your dreams sail
on free salted skies.

Not in Bombay

I rode the familiar asphalt,
looking for busy faces
and chilled beer.

I saw a woman beat clothes
upon rocks,
as the sun showered acetylene
upon her.

"How is my beloved sky?"
I asked her.
"And how does the Arabian do?"

"The sky is chained"
She said.
"And the Arabian died of guilt".