Made for each other

The Old Monk and the young man,
The Old Spice and the gentleman.
The Lakme colours and the lovely lady,
The teenage queen and her little teddy.


The Lee denim and the hunk,
The booty girl and her lot of junk.
The Beret and the French guy,
The Pagdi and the Sardar bhai.


The white collar and the banker,
The sulking boss and his rancour.
The Famous Five and the little boys,
The young lass and her stately poise.


The coffee and the gang,
The Coke and the bang!
The love and the flowers,
The painter and his Camlin colours.


The sexy woman and the Gucci,
The lonely man and John Petrucci.
The Leo toys and the school kid,
The Wall Street Guy and his Lexus hybrid.


The clerk and his Reynolds pen,
The Chivas Regal and all sensible men.
The Thomas Cook and the honeymoon couple,
Adolescence and a lot of trouble.


The Everest and a few,
All but me and you.

The man who sold spices

Long ago I knew a man,
Who used to sell mace, cumin and cinnamon;
Black glasses he would wear,
May be, had no vision.



He always had a smile-
Made me think a while.
When talking to him,
My ideas seemed so fragile.


I can still visualize,
His tattered bag, his dim profile.
I ll never forget the smell of his spices,
And how he never cared for the prices.


He used a walking stick,
And joked about how when young, he was a prick.
His stories were rich,
But he would never preach.


So good it was
To have him around.
Such a man,
I never again found.

We two stood outside

We two stood outside,
Almost every wednesday night.
We traveled miles and waited hours,
To go inside.


He had a will, I had a drive,
We bragged and begged as if for life,
Till we got inside.


We talked and stalked, 
Often they got irked,
But every time, we made it inside. 


The cars drove in and parked, 
We often felt shattered.
But we knew what is was
Once we made it inside. 


I got smoke, he got nothing,
I loved them, he loved the feeling.
So we dared to get in.


We dished out some bucks,
To forget how life sucks.
We didnt think twice,
Of any virtue or of vice.


We saw them getting in the groove,
But we were still on the move.
We got our pints,
We freed our minds.


Sometimes, we would hit on,
But ended up like morons.
Sometimes when we made a pass,
It was fun, totally kick-ass.


We lived the hours in jest,
We forgot about the rest.
Never did we revive, all that
Which lay outside. 


Every time we got branded,
Also sometimes offended,
But still we thrived
To get inside.
 
Drunk as we would be,
We would come out and see,
The different reality outside.


Somehow we would come back,
To our desolate barrack.
Gorge on the dull tiffin,
And quietly to bed, we would get in.


Every Thursday, 
Would be a proud day,
When we would have something to say,
How inside we made our way.


Thursday, our eyes remained red,
Aching, would be our heads,
Still we stared at the desktop screen,
But what a feeling within.


We lived for the moments,
We dreamt despite the torments,
We knew everything aside,
What fun it was inside.

Myopic without Specs

I often walk in the city roads
Not that often do I think of you.
Not that it doesn't matter any more.


When I cross over to the other side,
Often I do not see the car coming,
Not that I do not hear them honk.


Sometimes,I see them looking at me,
Often I stare,
Not that I always want to.


When I start to stroll, 
I have a heavy head,
When I am done,
Not always I go to bed.
 
I like the birds; the concretes,
where they rest.
I like the grass; the pavement,
where they extend.


When, sometimes I think
while I walk, I snicker,
Not that I am always bitter.


Every other day, I walk 
the same road again,
Every other day, I think
of you in vain.