Friends?

There were once two men,
One went to a Temple,
The other, a Dargah,
They both had dogs,
One owned a Pug,
The other, a Chihuahua
They went for walks at the same park,
Their dogs often shared a friendly bark.
Days, Months and Years,
They shared barks, wags and tears
While, the owners still showed indifference,
Their dogs became best of friends.

The Last Laddoo

It’s funny to imagine the limit of one’s ability to refrain from, leave alone spending, even thinking of spending a penny or a paisa to be more local. I always thought of extreme cases, but every time a new thought creates another record of sorts in my imagination. This one surely takes the cake, rather, the Laddoo.

There was an elderly couple in the village of, lets call it, Moneypur, and they stayed in conditions worse than Tsunami victims and did nothing that would result in them removing money from their pockets. They would eat what they made once a week and eat without plates to save the cost of washing them. Once, they wished to make laddoos for they’d eaten them last on the day of their wedding. They’d forgotten what they tasted like. The man got all the ingredients. He locked the main door for the fear of aromas going to the neighborhood. He told his wife to make not more than two, one for each.

However, miscalculations were bound to happen due to lack of practice of making laddoos. It resulted in three laddoos. The Great War now began for the third laddoo. The man had his right to eat it as he got the ingredients whereas the lady argued that she had made them. Over a long argument, they decided not to talk to each other and the one who breaks his silence first will lose and the other person will get the last laddoo.

The night passed, the next day was gradually moving towards the end, both of them lying down in pin-drop silence with a bowl of three laddoos between them. Night arrived and departed, neighbors got suspicious. The doors locked, windows shut, no sound of life inside. The neighbors broke open the door. The duo was still silent for the fear of losing a laddoo. The neighbors thought the couple had died and took them to the cremation grounds. Throughout the process neither the man, nor the woman, moved, opened their eyes or spoke a word. No, both of them wanted that last extra laddoo.

The neighbors thought of burning them in the same pyre. Thought they’d like to burn by saving the cost of an extra pyre. The pyre was lit and flames started touching their feet. Unable to bear anymore, the man shouted, “Ok, Fine, You win, have the laddoo”. Everyone in the crematorium jumped in their place and was shocked out of their wits to see them alive. The couple however, gathered the courage and told their story to the neighbors. The people wanted to kill them for this, but murder was a crime that time. Everyone else walked towards their homes tired and angry whereas the couple was running towards their house to relish the laddoos. They reached their house to find crumbs of the sweet fallen on the ground and a stray dog relishing from the bowl.

Oh Damn! Isn’t that your reaction now? Come to think of it, don’t you think you know someone like this in your surroundings? That chachi/uncle/budhau or your friend abc? Or wait! Is it that you feel, “How the hell does he know so much about me?” ….well, may be, may be not.

Courage

The best, if you wish to be
There surely, is no certain key
But you can increase your stakes
If you accept your mistakes
For, to give an apology
You need not be a prodigy
In their ego, those who remain cocooned
Sooner or later, they do get marooned
Maybe, you never be the same again
Nor share that proximity
But on the inside
Your eyes shall moisten
For it takes courage
To stand up and speak
But much more it takes
To sit down and listen

Flight

They asked me how I would like to fly,
I said I haven’t thought,
Not even a bit,
They gave me three options,
And I started to think,
Whatever flies has to fall,
Whatever floats has to sink.
They asked me if I’d like to be a kite,
Hell No! Said I, others will cut me,
And when your strings are in hands of others,
How would you call it a flight?
They asked me, if I’d like to fly as a bird,
Politely, I denied.
My pet parrot got eaten by the eagle last night.
Then I was asked, whether I’d be a plane,
I wouldn’t mind I said,
Unless of course I don’t carry any baggage,
Impossible they said, and that idea lied there, dead.
Tired, exhausted they asked,
Tell us what you wish to be?
I said, I want to but fly, like a Tree.
A tree, they were taken aback!
A life changing solution, I just did crack.
I’d be the tree, the one that flies as it goes higher,
The one that flies with the wind,
But does stay still when the wind keeps shut
The one, the higher my head goes,
The deeper my roots,
The Stronger my hands grow,
The tougher my boots
I’d fly high with the breeze,
But be rooted enough,
To grow with ease.

Mysteriously Many

Many Mighty Mates Made,
The Mindful, the Maverick,
The Magical, the Mystique,
The Maximum, the Minimum,
The Minute, the Millennium,
The Magnum Opus, the Mere,
The Minister, the Mayor,
The Magnanimous, the Meager,
The Minor, the Major,
The Master, the Mistress,
The Moving, the Motionless,
The Morning, the Midnight,
The Morbidness, the Might,
The Modern, the Medieval,
The Man, the Material,
The Micro the Macro,
The Minute, the Magnifico,
The Music, the Mime,
Many at the Same Time,
In every city they make a sty.
Mumbai, Munich, Monrovia.
Above All Mighty Mates lie
Mohammad, Mary and Mahadeva