I believe that we’re all familiar
With the situation I’ll be describing
Not too sure however about
The remedy I’ll be prescribing
Not sure in fact if remedy there is any
When sitting begets us only
Aches n pains in our sweet fanny!
Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sit down’ training
Is going to make this inactive bum
Go tara rum pum pum pum pum!
Remember when in school three periods
Continuous, of English, Sanskrit and Math
Concentrating, trying to answer question
To avoid the watchful teacher’s wrath
Eyes watering, trying to subdue overwhelming yawns
Surreptitiously shifting from one to another cheek
Dying to be outside in the lush, verdant lawns!
Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sit-down’ training
Is going to make this static bum
Go bum chic bum, chik bum bum!
Getting married is a joy they say
The bride and the groom are ecstatic
But the hours of ‘seated’ punishment before
You would think you’d turned Jurassic
Perched on those ‘thrones’, with stiff smiles
Then before the fire on the ground,
Says the ass “I think, I’ve got the ruddy piles!”
Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sit down’ training
Is going to make this motionless bum
Go tra la la, tum tum, pum pum!
The worst situation is in office I say
Growing roots on your chair before the comp
The days are a far and distant dream when
Your pals ‘n you would go for a romp
Yawn away darlin’, but there’s one thing for sure
Your backside’s growin’ extremely BIG,
It aint sexy and cute and pert no more!
Sitting, sitting, bum is paining
And no amount of ‘sitting’ training
Is going to make this inert bum
Go Ha! Ha! Ha! Tum! Tum! TUM!
He held her hand
The Tribune , 5th Jan, 2010
Their romance began the day they got married. She had never set her eyes upon him before that and neither had he had a glimpse of her till then. It was that kind of era. You met your life-partner at your wedding and fell in love thereafter. That he held her hand in the car while they drove off was probably a major scandal of the time.
For the next 62 years they were a couple with vastly different personas but with a chemistry that was gentle and sizzling at the same time. They had six children and managed to raise them all with grace and fortitude, despite modest means, for them to become fine citizens of the world. They had their quarrels too and, sometimes, long periods of not talking to each other, but even as a young boy I knew that my grandparents were a really special couple and that they cared for each other no end.
He was tall and handsome; she was tiny but somewhat portly. He was a stickler for punctuality; she was quite laid back. He was intelligence personified; she was a little slow on the uptake at times. He held a postgraduate degree in English; she had attended only a few primary classes at school. He was blessed with a sense of wit; she would laugh heartily at his jokes. At times he would crack some really hi-fi ones which went over her head, but he would also repeat some old jokes for her benefit at which she would be in splits as if she’d heard them for the first time.
They were quite a team! Six children were apparently packed off to school and college every morning without much fuss. In situations that called for a cool head, it would be my grandmother who maintained her poise even if her husband was infuriated at the turn of events.
On their 60th anniversary, they were looking like shy newly weds, ensconced together on their throne like seats. The whole clan was present to greet them. I had discovered that anniversary cards were available only till the golden jubilee. Not too many people needed them beyond that.
As I watched them hold each other’s hands, I realized once more that their love was not the sort that was to be explicitly displayed, but the genteel, graceful sort of love that existed in the eyes, in the smiles, in the holding of hands.
When he left us for ever a couple of years later, she didn’t cry much. She remained silent for long periods though, and it was an effort to get her to talk. Earlier this month, she passed away too, and now whenever I look up at the sky, I know that he has held her hand once again, never to let it go.
Their romance began the day they got married. She had never set her eyes upon him before that and neither had he had a glimpse of her till then. It was that kind of era. You met your life-partner at your wedding and fell in love thereafter. That he held her hand in the car while they drove off was probably a major scandal of the time.
For the next 62 years they were a couple with vastly different personas but with a chemistry that was gentle and sizzling at the same time. They had six children and managed to raise them all with grace and fortitude, despite modest means, for them to become fine citizens of the world. They had their quarrels too and, sometimes, long periods of not talking to each other, but even as a young boy I knew that my grandparents were a really special couple and that they cared for each other no end.
He was tall and handsome; she was tiny but somewhat portly. He was a stickler for punctuality; she was quite laid back. He was intelligence personified; she was a little slow on the uptake at times. He held a postgraduate degree in English; she had attended only a few primary classes at school. He was blessed with a sense of wit; she would laugh heartily at his jokes. At times he would crack some really hi-fi ones which went over her head, but he would also repeat some old jokes for her benefit at which she would be in splits as if she’d heard them for the first time.
They were quite a team! Six children were apparently packed off to school and college every morning without much fuss. In situations that called for a cool head, it would be my grandmother who maintained her poise even if her husband was infuriated at the turn of events.
On their 60th anniversary, they were looking like shy newly weds, ensconced together on their throne like seats. The whole clan was present to greet them. I had discovered that anniversary cards were available only till the golden jubilee. Not too many people needed them beyond that.
As I watched them hold each other’s hands, I realized once more that their love was not the sort that was to be explicitly displayed, but the genteel, graceful sort of love that existed in the eyes, in the smiles, in the holding of hands.
When he left us for ever a couple of years later, she didn’t cry much. She remained silent for long periods though, and it was an effort to get her to talk. Earlier this month, she passed away too, and now whenever I look up at the sky, I know that he has held her hand once again, never to let it go.
Frogs and Snails and Puppy dog Tails…
“Mom… MOM”
My 16 year old son bangs the door and comes into where I am fixing his milk in the kitchen. He yanks me to him roughly, gives me a careless kiss on my eyebrow and demands something ‘nice’ to eat.
“Cheese toast?
“Nah!”
“Popcorn?”
“No mom, something exciting”
“Chocolate cookies? Rasgulla? Homemade cake?”
“Boring” he said morosely and then a smile lights his face.
“I know! I want MAGGIE!” Then seeing my expression he says, “Don’t worry ma, I’ll make it myself.”
The old rhyme was true. While girls are made of sugar and spice and all that’s nice, boys are made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. My boys manage to constantly shock, disgust and irritate me. The only reason I tolerate them is because no one will adopt them and well, let me admit, they make me laugh…and laugh…and laugh!
“Mom…MOM”
Does the boy think I’m deaf? “Yes boy, here I am two feet away from you.”
“Mom, smell this” And he comes close to me and breathes out with all his might into my face. When I move my head away involuntarily, he says, hurt, “Mom, smell …smell please, then I’ll tell you why.” Fearing the worst (Cigarette? Alcohol?) I take a full whiff of his mouth odour.
“What?” I demand, backing off.
“Is my mouth smelling fresh? I mean a girl won’t be put off because of bad breathe, will she?”
This is worse than cigarettes and alchohol.
“GIRL? Which girl?”
“Oh! No girl mom. Just asking.”
Sure; I believe that. Is it too early to talk about birth control?
“Mom…MOM…I need you urgently. ”
He’s standing before the mirror, with the most tragic expression.
“Mom, where did THESE come from?” he says pointing to a rash of acne.
“From your dirty thought about girls.” I said heartlessly.
“Well, would you prefer that I was gay then?” He retorts while poking at his pimples.
I almost said that that would involve dirty thoughts about boys but desisted.
“Mom…mom… see the new picture that I took”
“Goodness! What in the world is it?”
“It’s the picture of a dead cat that I saw lying in the rubbish bin. One of its eyes was hanging out. I’ll show you the close up”
How wonderfully aesthetically pleasing!
“Mom…Mom. I’ve decided what I want for my b’day gift.
“NO boy, you are not getting either the drum set nor the rabbits”
“Oh mom, trust me. It’s something small and cute and it’s not going to take up any space and its not going to create a mess either.”
Consideration? Could it be that the boy has finally grown up?
OK, so what is it?”
“First say ‘yes’.
“No”
“Mom….”
“OK, what is it?”
“An anti Christ tattoo on my upper arm!”
Lovely! I’m speechless.
“Nope”
“OK, then can I have a snake?”
“A snake tattoo? NO!’
“No mom, a real snake. See, it’ll keep away all the rats and vermin and they are pretty easy to keep. It’ll live in my room. Pleeeese mom…pleeeese…”
These conversations took place within the span of a week. The creatures bathe, brush and shampoo only because some girl may look at them. They talk only loudly, they watch porn and exchange dirty SMSes, and they are totally irreverent and disrespectful about their teachers and parents.
QED: Boys are definitely made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails!
My 16 year old son bangs the door and comes into where I am fixing his milk in the kitchen. He yanks me to him roughly, gives me a careless kiss on my eyebrow and demands something ‘nice’ to eat.
“Cheese toast?
“Nah!”
“Popcorn?”
“No mom, something exciting”
“Chocolate cookies? Rasgulla? Homemade cake?”
“Boring” he said morosely and then a smile lights his face.
“I know! I want MAGGIE!” Then seeing my expression he says, “Don’t worry ma, I’ll make it myself.”
The old rhyme was true. While girls are made of sugar and spice and all that’s nice, boys are made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. My boys manage to constantly shock, disgust and irritate me. The only reason I tolerate them is because no one will adopt them and well, let me admit, they make me laugh…and laugh…and laugh!
“Mom…MOM”
Does the boy think I’m deaf? “Yes boy, here I am two feet away from you.”
“Mom, smell this” And he comes close to me and breathes out with all his might into my face. When I move my head away involuntarily, he says, hurt, “Mom, smell …smell please, then I’ll tell you why.” Fearing the worst (Cigarette? Alcohol?) I take a full whiff of his mouth odour.
“What?” I demand, backing off.
“Is my mouth smelling fresh? I mean a girl won’t be put off because of bad breathe, will she?”
This is worse than cigarettes and alchohol.
“GIRL? Which girl?”
“Oh! No girl mom. Just asking.”
Sure; I believe that. Is it too early to talk about birth control?
“Mom…MOM…I need you urgently. ”
He’s standing before the mirror, with the most tragic expression.
“Mom, where did THESE come from?” he says pointing to a rash of acne.
“From your dirty thought about girls.” I said heartlessly.
“Well, would you prefer that I was gay then?” He retorts while poking at his pimples.
I almost said that that would involve dirty thoughts about boys but desisted.
“Mom…mom… see the new picture that I took”
“Goodness! What in the world is it?”
“It’s the picture of a dead cat that I saw lying in the rubbish bin. One of its eyes was hanging out. I’ll show you the close up”
How wonderfully aesthetically pleasing!
“Mom…Mom. I’ve decided what I want for my b’day gift.
“NO boy, you are not getting either the drum set nor the rabbits”
“Oh mom, trust me. It’s something small and cute and it’s not going to take up any space and its not going to create a mess either.”
Consideration? Could it be that the boy has finally grown up?
OK, so what is it?”
“First say ‘yes’.
“No”
“Mom….”
“OK, what is it?”
“An anti Christ tattoo on my upper arm!”
Lovely! I’m speechless.
“Nope”
“OK, then can I have a snake?”
“A snake tattoo? NO!’
“No mom, a real snake. See, it’ll keep away all the rats and vermin and they are pretty easy to keep. It’ll live in my room. Pleeeese mom…pleeeese…”
These conversations took place within the span of a week. The creatures bathe, brush and shampoo only because some girl may look at them. They talk only loudly, they watch porn and exchange dirty SMSes, and they are totally irreverent and disrespectful about their teachers and parents.
QED: Boys are definitely made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails!
Party Time
Published in Times Of India, 25th Jan, 2010
Whenever my wife and I have to attend a party, there is enough chaos before we leave home for the kids to roll up their eyes and for the maid to pull out her hair. Gifts have to be wrapped and clothes have to be ironed and worn, with seconds to go before the designated time of our departure. When we finally get into the car we’re normally quite late and there has been many an argument along the way which has resulted in that much more tension.
An even more cantankerous situation results, however, when we have a ‘do’ at our home and when we have to put up our best performance as please-all hosts. The scene at our humble abode, just minutes before the guests are to arrive, resembles that of an ‘Sabzi-Mandi’, with all kinds of items ‘decorating’ the venue.
One of us is usually busy with the laptop (me), another is shouting at all and sundry while running around the house (my wife), the kids are on tenterhooks and the TV is blaring. The maid and the borrowed ‘help’ look as if they’ve had enough and are never going to be part of any party again. Indeed, the pressure is really on!
Opinion is divided about the precise moment when I usually coax myself to leave the computer and join the frenetic ‘cleaning up’ operations on such occasions. Whatever be the truth of the matter, the fact is that there is a frenzied period of activity just before the guests arrive that is akin to the last over of a T-20 thriller.
Our best efforts to host the perfect party have the tendency to go awry, however, due to a variety of disruptive influences. Sometimes unwanted visitors arrive minutes before the party is scheduled, for sundry reasons like the newspaper bill. On other occasions, long telephone calls hold up preparations.
The result is that often the kitchen cabinet forgets to lay out all the items that they have toiled to prepare and the best dish keeps hiding in the oven, only to be discovered when the guests have gone!
Another gaffe is to under-estimate the quantity of food required. Some guests evidently find our food so delicious that they polish off bowl after bowl of the stuff. The result is that a few diners are left staring at empty pots on the table!
Even such errors are pardonable, but not what happened last time. A certain gentleman and his wife whom we know distantly turned up for dinner one evening and we kept scratching our heads because they were not on our list! An examination of my cell phone later revealed that I had smsd him the invitation instead of the intended person with the same name!
Whenever my wife and I have to attend a party, there is enough chaos before we leave home for the kids to roll up their eyes and for the maid to pull out her hair. Gifts have to be wrapped and clothes have to be ironed and worn, with seconds to go before the designated time of our departure. When we finally get into the car we’re normally quite late and there has been many an argument along the way which has resulted in that much more tension.
An even more cantankerous situation results, however, when we have a ‘do’ at our home and when we have to put up our best performance as please-all hosts. The scene at our humble abode, just minutes before the guests are to arrive, resembles that of an ‘Sabzi-Mandi’, with all kinds of items ‘decorating’ the venue.
One of us is usually busy with the laptop (me), another is shouting at all and sundry while running around the house (my wife), the kids are on tenterhooks and the TV is blaring. The maid and the borrowed ‘help’ look as if they’ve had enough and are never going to be part of any party again. Indeed, the pressure is really on!
Opinion is divided about the precise moment when I usually coax myself to leave the computer and join the frenetic ‘cleaning up’ operations on such occasions. Whatever be the truth of the matter, the fact is that there is a frenzied period of activity just before the guests arrive that is akin to the last over of a T-20 thriller.
Our best efforts to host the perfect party have the tendency to go awry, however, due to a variety of disruptive influences. Sometimes unwanted visitors arrive minutes before the party is scheduled, for sundry reasons like the newspaper bill. On other occasions, long telephone calls hold up preparations.
The result is that often the kitchen cabinet forgets to lay out all the items that they have toiled to prepare and the best dish keeps hiding in the oven, only to be discovered when the guests have gone!
Another gaffe is to under-estimate the quantity of food required. Some guests evidently find our food so delicious that they polish off bowl after bowl of the stuff. The result is that a few diners are left staring at empty pots on the table!
Even such errors are pardonable, but not what happened last time. A certain gentleman and his wife whom we know distantly turned up for dinner one evening and we kept scratching our heads because they were not on our list! An examination of my cell phone later revealed that I had smsd him the invitation instead of the intended person with the same name!
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The place where writers converge, and how! Contributors to this blog include Roopinder Singh, Aradhika Sharma, Arvind Krishna, Seshadri Sreenivasan, Manraj Grewal, Vivek Atray and Balpreet... Others who are keen to contribute can mail us at writerschowk@gmail.com