The Old Church

The old church –

Thief of the best Sundays of my childhood –

Is dilapidated.

The courtyard is unkempt;

The parsonage is surrounded by weeds;

The Belfry and Vestry need maintenance;

The Alter, I don’t know;

The garden has a few shrunken shrubs;

And, some shriveled betelnut trees;

The trees under which we ate potluck lunch are gone;

So is the Sexton’s wooden cottage.

Yet, there it stands erect;

Having seen Governors, freedom struggles,

Teargas shells, riots,

Deaths, births, weddings, confirmations, and christenings,

Passing by below its arches.

Yes, now when the bells of St. Mary the Virgin toll

A sad funereal message,

I feel like a child again,

Lost in innocence.

What Science Does!

The world is suffering from:

SARS;

H1N1;

Mice Fever;

Bird flu;

Chickengunia;

HCV;

HIV;

Cancer;

TB;

Dengue;

Malaria;

Malnutrition;

Hunger;

And so on and on and on and on….

But science is only obsessed with inventing:

iPad;

iPod;

Android;

3G;

Live video Streaming;

You tube;

Twitter;

Facebook;

MP 3;

Playstations;

Google search;

Tablet computers….

And you say science has advanced?

You say science saves mankind?

Invent some vaccines,

Bring in some new medicines,

Or, is it too much to ask?

For science to do this disagreeable task?

Don’t You Know I Have It in Me

(A song I wrote this morning. Boom, it was there in my mind with lyrics music and all.)

Leave me in peace

I want to be alone

Let the way be clear

Let the silence surround.

I surrender to my loneliness

Life’s battles forgotten

The iron-and-concrete city’s far away

And I lose myself, my agony, my angst, my sanity.....

Don’t alienate me

Ostracise me

Criticise me

Marginalise me

Stereotype me

Don’t you know I have it in me? (chorus)

Let me to my serenity

The chosen path is long and lonely

I have no bitter memories

Of loves gone wrong.

Don’t alienate me

Ostracise me

Criticise me

Marginalise me

Stereotype me

Don’t you know I have it in me? (chorus)

Lest We Forget the Night of 26/11

Lest We Forget the Night of 26/11

(Written three years after the attack on Bombay in 2008)

I

Night of 26/11

Lest we forget the night of 26/11

When sleep didn’t crawl into our eyes,

We lie vacantly staring at the television,

Playing, playing, playing footage of burning Taj,

Trident exploding in gunshots and fire,

Stories of bravery and treachery,

That came from across the seas.

Lest we forget what happened that night

Washed away in a burst of tears in the gloomy night

When the sky above the Gateway was a smouldering black

And over Marine Drive hung the smell of death

Rich men paraded to their untimely end

And a child left without parents

And parents left without son

We mourned all this; still we forget

Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we? Can we?

II

Victoria Terminus

The blood that stained this floor

Its sanguine past

Has been washed away

The huge cavern of V.T. station has been sanitised

The bullet-chipped granite has been replaced

That bloody night has been erased

From memory

From consciousness

From priorities.

Amnesic we plod

On granite floors smelling of disinfectant

Wondering where bombs will explode next.

Where will shrapnel enter soft flesh?

Where will cries echo in the night?

Where will the men and women be carried:

In trucks,

Handcarts,

Plastic sheets,

Stretchers,

Blood oozing from fresh wounds?

Could the surgeons stitch together?

The wounds inflicted by nails, ball bearings,

In the hearts and minds

Of the people they call brothers?

Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me.

The Ladies Special Train

Saw stardom sprinkled this morning on a drab derelict platform


Rainbow colours, delicate features, sleep-swollen eyes, vivid dresses:

Salvar suits, chunris, ear rings, bangles, toe rings, bindis and stringed jasmine

And -- since it is raining -- variously coloured parasols and raincoats.


A bored voice on public address says there’s a Ladies Special Train passing by

Men, If you dare enter you risk being beaten, abused, it’s a Ladies’ Special Train

A whirl of colour, thunder of wheels, bursts of happy, determined faces, smiles

Knitting, mending, food smells and talks of disobedient children and declining education.


Children are pressurized, burdened, you know, we don’t know what they teach

They are making them into idiots, unoriginal thinkers, teaching them to conform

Our children will have the best; nonetheless, we will slog to work so they prosper

This corrupt political-business nexus, you know, has corrupted the education system.


It’s the happiest hour of the day, freedom from housework, while work waits

The times are bad, vegetable prices are high, groceries, oil and spices, too

Discounts are available in local malls and bulk purchases are advised

Careful, there are predatory men on platform, staring, whistling and cat calling.


There’s work in the office, corporate politics, a little time to exchange recipes

The bosses are increasingly intolerant and lewd, they make indecent remarks

They expect us to manage emails, make worksheets, presentations in no time

When we don’t have time to have lunch, even apply nail polish and makeup.


The morning Ladies Special Train is our special refuge, our peace haven, our space

From the cares of this world, from the stupid ogling men and their indecent gestures

This train may pass on bridges, through rain, violent storms, torrid heat

But inside the Ladies Special Train we know we are secure from the mad world outside.

(This is the poem I read at the event "100 Thousand Poets for Change" on 24th September 2011.)

Wounds That Do Not Heal

The doctor said you are nearly diabetic,


It is a condition that’s genetic,

Beware of wounds that do not heal,

Avoid spices and sugar in every meal.



My wounds are deeper, doctor dear

All you see are scars up here

Life has taught me wounds heal faster,

If you make forgiving a little easier.



I have travelled this continent far and wide,

Touched its boundaries on every side,

Shared spirits with men and women,

Told them of wounds and sins forgiven.



But, doctor the wounds that don’t heal are,

Wounds of juvenile dreams gone sour,

Look how they insult experience and age,

As if they would never see dotage!

Where Giant Mushrooms Grow!

In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow


One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show

That’s where they test how to vaporise people and flesh

By splitting and fusing atoms and starting the world afresh.


A new era, a new definition, will dawn with nuclear shields

Oh, how fresh are the huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields!

It can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks

Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks.


They are making bullets, shields and missiles with lasers

That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers

Soldiers of the future won’t have to die for the country’s glory

They use their Global Positioning bullet, that’s another story.


Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line, futile windmill tilters

Your wars are lost even before you see victory, dissenters

No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley

They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.


They say their soldiers are smart, they see in the dark

Their bullets can pierce armour; they can blast your flimsy mark

Where were you, soldiers of the mind, intellectuals, I mourn

When from your ceaseless toils such Frankensteins were born?


No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley

They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

I Want My Freedom

I know this world isn’t a friendly place
any more

I know I am not here ‘cos I don’t belong any longer

I know this ain’t my own complaint, no, it’s not true

I know you all feel the same; all are of my view.

I want my freedom, I want a free world

I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

I want my music, I don’t want this noise

And this cacophony isn’t one of my joys

This petty fake piracy offends my freedom

I want my software free from officialdom

I want my freedom, I want a free world
I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

I want these killings to stop in our country

I want the world to stop this banditry

I want the bloodshed to end in your land

I want you to be free, please understand.

I want my freedom, I want a free world

I want to be there for the entire human race

I want the sun and wind to touch my face

I want the wide world to be a better place.

Poem - Sandra from Bandra

She boards the 9.30 Bandra local

With fellow passengers she is quite vocal

Don’t you have eyes, can’t you see?

I am wearing my brand new saree?

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

She is late to work; “Oh these fisherwomen

They think they own the railway, yeah, men

“Just watch, I will teach them some manners

Let me get my foot in; fit in some corners."

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

That Katlik boy in office, Frank Furtado

Serenades her every day with a Fado

He is good-for-nothing, I tell her, he can’t jive

He can’t talk, he can’t sing, even to save his life.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

Can’t see you, I have to attend mass

Novenas, confessions, I have no time to pass

Not you, not Frank, no one except Prince Charles

Or, could be, Prince Williams, Prince Harry of Wales.

Oh, Sandra from Bandra, my maiden fair

Won’t you meet me tonight at the Bandra Fair?

To have a some bread and some sor patel

At the Bandstand, oh dearest Sandra, please tell.

(Originally written to be performed at the Bandra Festival, but, sadly, time and inclination didn’t permit.)