Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….

Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy

There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska

From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings

Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!

Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart

Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”

From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.

Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful

Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.

Brown sugar sapotas
Blending with custard alfonso mangos
And bold sweet lime juice

Georgette saris
Pairing with uncut diamond necklaces
Mixed with peals and rubies

Gently sloping palm trees
Swaying in balmy sultry air
And hazy golden sunsets

Frenetic yellow autos
Competing with dusty zipping mopeds
Mixed with ambulating pedestrians

Aromas of cumin
Blending with the sewage
Other times with incense

Glows of brass oil lamps
Singing in hums of prayer
Added with turmeric's incantations

Brightly-patterned salwars
Accentuating gemstone bindis
Comfy fitted leggings

Savory masala dosas
Coupling coconut chutney
Meter-high filter coffee

the gentle clinking of

differently colored bangles

combined with

the savory scents of

spices I cant pronounce

and

chanting I can’t quite understand

feels more like home

than a television

and a frozen dinner

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.

Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.

Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.

Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.

Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.

Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.

I am waiting for a twenty two.
Two eleven's have past but they will not do
from Piccadilly to Putney
home in time for ham,cheese and chutney
and here it comes.

Humming along brum brum brum
get on the bus
swipe the card
not too hard
taking a seat take the weight of my feet
and in the air from up the stairs the smell of food
someone is chewing on chicken
******* on bones
the women in front are gabbling in phones
and the child behind cries
I've dropped my fries
then an old lady slips on these crispy fried chips
and the bus comes to a halt.
The driver jumps up
screaming this isn't my fault.

Not my day at all
just wanted to get home with no smell of chicken
no phones in my face
but now I'm stuck in the bus
face to face
with the realisation that Putney and ham with cheese and Chutney
is slipping away.
No
not my day at all.

you can't go far wrong with chutney.
a large pickle jar,
gold topped
with a seasonal trim around the rim,
made with patience and love.
- just add a strong grip
with stronger cheese
and a selection of savoury crackers
- and there you have Christmas.

.Filling my life with emptiness
...I used to be productive
But now productivity
Is like a jar of chutney
sitting in the cupboard
for years.

All I want to do,
is just sit in my room
and observe
observe it
shrouding my room
see the dust floating in the air
Like a cold, moldy coffin
And find a hole to jump  inside
and hide
my mind
colours
colours
colours
col ours
call ours
call hours
c all hours
see all hours
see the things I could not find in a minute
See a purpose in small things takes hours
I don't need a purpose.

There was an old person of Putney,
Whose food was roast spiders and chutney,
Which he took with his tea,
Within sight of the sea,
That romantic old person of Putney.

Old school, gymnasium, Christmas fair, Thursday night.
Hoops at either end. Tables. People. A woman carries a baby,
could be the PE teacher’s. A Ugandan flag. Jars of dark purple
jam next to jars of chutney, perhaps. The youth, us once,
flit between here and the hall. A choir, maybe thirty strong,
sing Santa Baby. Parents watch, as do we. Half a minute.

The head. Still a towering, suited figure. Handshakes all round.
What are we doing now? Voices like knots of consonants.
Geography man. Flecks of grey stubble. Procedure repeated.
Finger pointed. Scrabble for a surname. Exclamation.
Years rattling back to the front. He remembers, as do we.
Head of sixth seven years ago. Instant recognition. Repeat.

Half an hour. The place, no longer ours. Never was.
Friends the same. Memories. Dust between dark and light.
Car. Back seat. Barely two miles. Little traffic. Turn
into street.  Step out. Chill drizzles the face. Handshake
again? Again. Time and place discussed before home.
See you tomorrow then. Yeah. Yeah. Front door key.

“Then you should have let me die”
My father’s words to my mother in a fit of frustrated rage at something so small I hardly remember it now
Ah, I think the conversation went something like this,

                                                        She gave him his dosa
                                          “Where’s the chutney to dip?” he asked
                                                       “No chutney. The coconut isn’t good for you”.
                                          “Why...don’t you know how hard it is for me? How could you do this?!”

No, that was a different conversation, but they all embody the same thing
My father’s struggle with his tumor        after tumor                          after tumor
And as chemo pelts the tumors like wrecking *****, my father’s spirit is equally as exposed to the onslaught
Like wisps of smoke, fragments of his struggle leak out into our house, our family

My mother carries the weight, coupled with her own baggage
She simply tightens the buckle on herself, almost choking but standing ever more upright, a towering hyperion
While praying
She prays
                  He prays
                                   They pray
Falling back to childhood, to their hope, their trust in God
The hope that keeps them alive through the sheer force of their will
I’ve noticed that “God”

Is like a medium
A medium of belief in yourself and hope for a better, brighter future
A medium I stubbornly refuse to use, calling myself an atheist, the rebellion within I suppose
“Well it’s all the same” mom says

Maybe so
Maybe I will one day rely upon that medium, deeply, simply to retin the hope that someone is there for me, even if that someone is myself masked as an external “God”

“I knew then that the Lord wanted me to help people”
He said, an old man in his 80’s, clearly displaying signs of the vicissitudes of life
Couldn’t walk, cooped up in a room 24/7
Yet here he was, not blaming, nor resentful
But in tears not because of his own struggles, plight
But because the Lord gave him a chance to “help people”
He had an opportunity to improve diabetes treatment
Efficiently collect blood
“help people”
Because the Lord allowed him to get into college late to “help people”
That was his miracle

Even if no one was in time to help him

Like the teachers in Chennai, India we saw while visiting family three summers ago
Forgoing a well paying job at a government school, money and comfort
To teach somewhere where they believed they’d make an impact on young minds

Little children growing up to become scientists like the women promoting mushroom growth
To increase the village’s protein intake and empower women
Easily grown at home, it’s not meat, it’s a mushroom

The man who forged ahead to build a canal for the village, a pioneer starting a movement of innovation

An old woman in her late 80’s helping a single mother  keep her job

No cash at my dad's favorite bagel shop, the owner who allowed me to pay later

Simple little things, it’s the little things that hook you more than any superficial bait
And place you on a cloud of warmth

I belong

People can be so terribly kind
To a stranger, to an acquaintance
                                        to a friend, or even
                       to a foe
Yes, there are wars being fought, people dying every second

But as I look up at the hazy blue clouds drifting lazily along outlined with flecks of gold almost like a halo
The humming breeze caressing my cheek, the scent of dew drifting by
I couldn’t feel more glad to be alive
So, please don’t say you wish you were dead

Just open the window and gaze at the ever changing sky
    Whether temperamentally torrential
Or a lazy, hazy, pink or blue
And relish that single moment you are privileged to be a part of
Shared by countless others around the world

But although the seemingly endless sky may cover everyone
At that moment, at that place, at that time the sky and all its magnificence is
All yours

Were they children of
A loving Joint family
In a small village of
Of God's own country
Were they twelve in
Numbers of boys and girls
Making it a festival
In times of togetherness
Not a single day
They make a war
Having together
Their all day food
In a small dining room
Filling it with loud
Crackers of laughter
Enjoying even a
A watery porridge with
Fried coconut chutney
Together they slept
In an open night hall
Sharing their beds
And pillows with love
Seeing them sleeping
With their innocence
Standing the moon
With a sweet smile !

Garden to my left,
colors so bright
the snapdragons and sweet peas
nod their watercolored heads
in the morning's silken light
chutney-colored wall
leading to my door
shoes neatly stacked
with toys in baskets
upon the concrete-patterned floor
plants align the window sill,
marking the flipside to my kitchen
reminding me of wafting tastes
in the form of stir-fry
or juicy chicken
to the right
a pumpkin-spiced ball of fur
my Ginger nestled tight
body rising and falling
in deep slumber's purr
his springtime pillow
puffed just right
The laughter I hear
fills my ears and heart
as children, (mine, too)….play
and I sit with my legs upon the
Tupperware chair
and contemplate the day
Between my palms Turkish coffee
entices with its delicious steam
and here come the thought police
to interrupt my desert dream

Back off *******,
I'm not going to jail.

You Use To

drop the turkey

twice on special holidays

glaze the ham

with stubborn certainty

that lime chutney was

just the ticket

Sterno steaks

brought your short lived

grilling career to a

screeching halt

not to be outdone

by the half- cooked goose

with New Year’s champagne

what I wouldn't give  

to see you

greasing

the kitchen floor

with poultry again.

In the city of Mumbai
When you want food and now
You reach out to grab
The glorious vada pao

A round golden ball
Filled of potatoes n spice
You have one and you are reminded
Of all things good & nice

The great Equalizer
Liked by all, big or small
Have it with chutney or chili
Whether you live in a bunglow or a chawl

Dip it in sambar
or stuff it in a pao
Have it any way
You will only say "wow"

I had one today
I ate it with glee
I have realised like all mumbaikars
The vada pao is meant for me!

A lifetime in the building industry
and with hands as hard as ebony
dad took hold of me
and we walked upstream
to catch our tea.
Fish we caught a plenty
quite illegally
but such a lovely tea they made.
and mum made tomato chutney for salads
a ballad of our days
plays out frequently
in a memory
by the river.

Now it's gone into a more modern time
no weirs to walk across
no islands where we swam too
just a rushing torrent
tormenting me
a misery for all to see
and we used to have such good fun there.

Dad's gone too sometime back in eighty two
and the river stays
plays again
rewinding
binding me to the past.
Nothing lasts for long except those snapshots
of have and haven't gots
and I had lots of both.

We need more patience
Excitement
An array of food eludes
Prelude to a kiss
At his glance
Strawberry of love
essence

Earthly food cleanser
rinse
Better planning
The host appetizers
Little bites big mouths
Love commanding
Kiss worth
Still crying at birth
Food date
masquerading__

So much posting
postprandial
She is cordial
somnolence.

Your best foods in
France

Love and marriage petit four

The finest ingredients
La pour

Marriage to be obedient

"Patience is a Virtue"

Like a Professor of food,
it's so deliciously

She's the artist melts
and blends
artsy fruity deviant

"Painting the Marriage"
what colors
would you use?

Everything alive
The fruit stays fresh
Changes after awhile
Like your marble tile
The fruit that once was
Big teeth smile
Now got slightly
bruised
and you threw it

Kinda shabby chic used
A love sometimes
not to digest
So spoiled like a pest

A + love so valent.

Like a science within us,
food so good
is desirable
Woodsy Robin Hood

Rich man poor man
Marriages hit the fan
But food talent.
So Lucent
With delicate style
of patience
Our Galley Kitchen Spices

He's like the tycoon of
the magnet

Your eyes sleepy
"Racoon"

Like a magnification of love

He's the Baron with the
richest herd

of sheep's

Your digestion tryptophan

Roses all over the quilts
"I love you"

Being a sweet potato
your marriage

Gold ticket of casserole's
winner lotto

Food significant
deep thought

like the movie role
you're finished

Science the anatomy
perished

The apples of
cider spiced
chilled

More advice
"Applique"
how it's written

is it true?
Or mystique with
magnification

Hot food steams
like a furnace,
different

flavors of taste
The smells come
Strong with intensity

What marriages like
demolition of guilty
breakdown
Breakdown of food less fat
and the right calories

Art shows vibrant galleries
She is cooking up a storm
In her Galley
There she is racing
Mrs.Mustang Sally
Accountant of food
Mr. Tally or Dr. Love
Dr. Who competition
Who knew

Antique art Risque
So divine
things hold low down

He's looking up traffic
moves with shapes
Graphic
The pears divine
Apple pink lady tree
It groves like a
Honeybee how it
(Stings) with mystery
The history of historical cars
Bentleys don't break
my Brooklyn bridges
Variety page of
food mixed
with
Clarrisa & Chutney

But the stars just stay so
Movie Robert Downey
"City of Soho"
**-Oh! No

Marriages come and Divorce's
that once were

Those frequent traveler
to "Rome"
once bare he sees me
there

You breathe out to take another
breath help me

Who is out there to listen

We need to light up
Eiffel Tower to glisten

All you see are new
births to
have and to hold

Everything feels out
of touch but the food is hot

But it's like the time of
depression shot

You keep shredding
more tears still

eating jolly the fine bites
of "Holly"
Jolly Mustang Sally
Parrot Miss Polly
Marriages of food diary
Zen of Topiary
Love to be kissed
with food for thought
Nothing more than love
Cook workout to be sought

Those abdominal crunches
no belly

Apple sparling Sipp
Organic

More marriages built
with love gigantic
Ships for lovers
Titanic

Love became an
assignment

Your quite the product
so regimented

An exotic smell
women's scent
The sense of
Realism present
The soul our heart
Prism
Another soul takes over
Food of empowerment
to address in the kingdom
Wat too much food wasted
And the war goes on with
terrorism
Our futurism
More food and strength
to build this world
Again at birth

Radiating and sparkling food will always be
Energy ;ike no other striking

We blew out the Sun and went on our way home, in your eyes I saw death, but in mine you saw none,
left alone now.

The window was opened and fresh air,
fresh where it used to be
came flooding in to cover me with the scent of the pine tree,
the chutney of corn,
that was the day that death looked,
I was born.

Three score years on and that long ago and still I know little about nothing I know.

Time still stands with the latch on the gate,
as to when it will close
I will wait
and see.

We blow out the Sun again and the bright lights of memory lane come flooding in to cover me and still in the time,
still working the line,
I breathe easily.