Amidst the skyscrapers, where live in the sun tan fearing population, do you see The bricks moulded by those rusty hands , Of the sun-scorched migrants Blackened by the chimney exhaust?
On the hoardings, do you see A dejected young man Drooping on his table, the pills spread out? The creative loner drugging to spark ideas in absence of sleep, For a presentation next week?
Of the cars that glides smooth Do you see that solemn driver Marred by the uncomfortable silence Of the fatigued couple, entangled in a nasty, felonious fight of a young girl suddenly coming In-between their 25 years?
On the driver’s side, His thoughts tossed by the loss of the education he couldn’t complete?Dampened by the happiness To his family he couldn’t give?
In the young boy slumbering uncomfortably under the buildings, As the drain stinked the humid air, While he Drowned in his own sweat and tears; And, the sweltering heat, Do you see the A.C water dripping Near his feet?
If not, You, my sweetheart, The happiest dandy rose of all, Are sure tucked in your urban nest.
Reality is a lovely place But we need more fucking happiness; Onboard we travel into this virtual maze Popping daily pills of the internet.
People seem to blanket their life’s mess With filters, white-smiles and their radiance Yet, the backstory seems to be off-place That we’re all hyper-connectedly lonely, merely craving for solace.
I wonder what would have been If our distorted presentation Of the snippets of our glossy-messy life’s amalgamation Struck us with a realisation That we are floating in an ocean of our imagination. Our minds’ make-believe construction. To seek social validation.
Just to believe our life has a meaning
Determined by some clueless behind the screen.
Aao chalein pahaaro pe, digital detoxification pehle karke :,)
Disclaimer: As there are readers from around the globe, some may find it difficult to comprehend some words, here is the list. Goja, Singora and Jalebi are rich Indian sweets loaded with extreme sugary fat. Aloo pitika (mashed potatoes), Bhat and Dali (Dal, pulses) is the regular amount of carbs and protein Assamese folks of India eat. Aiyo is an Assamese word for exclamation to depict pain. Roshogolla is a Bengali sweet made from milk.
The combination of dancing ballet in Bollywood song is as same as eating Cheetos with jam.
And, as you have rightly guessed, Ma is my mother.
Matriculation Examination burdened on tensions
So, lockdown came to save my day
But soon as this started, all plans to nowhere bombarded…
And for all I do know,
Routines and Disciple now rest in peace, in their respective graves.
But Ma was the hilarious lockdown specimen to look at
For she was hooked. To what? As usual, it’s Facebook.
In a pensive, of what to cook, and how to share,
The titillating glazes of all her foods
In all the Aunties’ groups.
Well, the end of the rope was then,
When Ma’s overwhelming doting on me
Made my temperature shoot higher with anger:
In fact, you could make the good ol’ fish and chips,
On my head (yes, for sure), if you are ready with the fryer.
‘Cause miliseconds after nanoseconds, she pests me
“What would you love my sweety?
Shall I make some goja, singora or jalebis?
Aiyo, my heart! It’s fine.
Only that one starving, dying child is melting it inside
‘Is she kidding?’ my eyebrows raise in terror
With uncertainty of the global food security, what is she talking?
I feebly smile,
“Na, ma, it’s fine with the regular aloo pitika, bhaat and daali.”
But don’t get beguiled with the sugar crusted apple-pie or roshogolla love
For when she’s, in turn, annoyed by my handcuffs to mobile
She bellows orders from the sofa,
“Can’t you, you terrible lil bastard,
Like me, see it from afar
The clods of dust, settling and snuggling close on the furniture?
Fetch the cloth and get the work done!”
“Ma, there’s nobody coming,” I grimaced
“You lil brat, don’t make that face,”
Says my ma, “You do know how I payed
For the deceitful luxury of the varnish to stay.”
But as evening dawns (or dusks, you may)
She slouches on the bed, her face rests on her cupped hands
Storming her brain on what to do
To beat the lockdown greys and blues
So, I sing in my bathroom voice
Bollywood oldies and romantic tunes.
Jostling up, she clasps my hand, and to Indian songs,
We then slow dance traditional balls and ballets.
This ain’t even an inch closer to what my Ma and I look like
Varied hues 