The visibly invisible roommate

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a friend who lends its shoulder when you're low
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can cradle you to sleep like a mother's lap
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a tissue paper which soaks up your tears
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
To be a granny who reads out bedtime stories

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be your punching bag when you fight with your folks
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be your audience when you head bang to loud music
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be your rough sheet where you can scribble your math problems on

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can bloom like a flower garden when you romance with your beloved
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be an admirer when you pose for your own photos on your camera phone
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a bar table or your discotheque when you're 3 pegs down with your friends

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a stranger silently listening to you when you're deeply engrossed in your thoughts
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a ring where you have pillow fights with your sibling.

Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a cooler when your body is burning 104
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a time machine which takes you back in time when you dig up your vintage photographs n reminisce abt old times
Sometimes all you really need is a bed
That can be a 'betting table' where you place high stakes on the Indian cricket team, that sees you cuss at them or sulk in disappointment when Sachin gets out.

Sometimes all you really really need is a bed
That can silently take it all without saying a word
That watches you grow up
That knows you inside out
That is friends with your friends
That is home for your soft toys
That never asks for your attention
A quiet roommate whom we all take for granted.

I'm a bathroom singer.. taintaintadaan!

It’s 12 am and I’m locked in a bathroom.
I ain’t yelling for help, but weaving a song. 
Ooo ooo don’t sing with me, yeah.
I’m a babe on play mode, buttoned my heart on my sleeve.
My hair is messed up, my lipstick’s smudged.
I’m on rock and roll mode, yeah.


I don’t have a guitar or a microphone
Yet I’ve set this stage on fire.
In the mosh pit, is my reflection on the mirror
Hooting, swaying and singing along with me.
The flickering tube light brings blitz to the show.
Splash goes the percussionist.


I’m a singer, dreamer, lover, rebel out on a rage.
It’s a song from one of those photographic memories.
An old classic that is dark, groovy and trippy.
Ooo ooo oo, don’t sing with me, yeah.
I know you’re swaying to my song on the other end of the door.
But it’s an exclusive show and it must go on.


Dance, hum, sing, scream, headbang.
Quiet, There’s a knock on the door.
The concert’s over. Go home fellas.
It’s morning and I come back to this empty stage.
I’ve left behind some tunes & I can still hear them


Today is gonna be a new track.
Come over for the gig, sing along.
You don’t need to be a rockstar to be a singer.
All you need to be is a bathroom singer
On  rock and roll play mode.
Ooo oo, rock and roll, rock and roll..

Here’s my Idli dabba

“6 idlis” for lunch on Tuesday after a peaceful long weekend. It definitely doesn’t sound great for a Tam brahm youngster who’s born and brought up in a cosmopolitan city and is stuck in this identity crisis of ‘being non-tam’  with colleagues and friends, yet forced to be one in her community.  It’s high time Tam moms realize that even if they put custard on it, it will not go down our throats. Every third day is a festival. Every fourth day some prayers and offerings have to be done.  

If the crow is not fed before we sit down to eat, our forefathers souls will be disheartened.  I remember one of my aunt’s pointing out to a crow that sat on our parapet wall daily and saying, ‘This is your grandfather. That’s why he sits here daily”. I don’t remember the expression I gave to that and choose not to.  Life is meticulously planned by them. Day starts at 5.30 am for which they will keep a 5.20 alarm. Read ‘alarum’ (that’s how they pronounce it). 

They won’t touch food before having a bath and reciting ‘gayatri mantras, shiva chants, ganpati’s wife’s prayers (they will create an idol even if there is none like that)’.  If you live in a South Indian co-operative housing society, you have to chant these prayers, because only ‘gods’ can help you. There are social gatherings in the typical ganpati temple, where there are ‘ayappa bhajan groups’, ‘sathya sai baba groups’, ‘bhajanotsavam groups’ (I myself don’t know about this group), ‘shiv parvati bhajan groups’ and many more that cannot be found on facebook.  They do not believe in zodiac birthdays, only ‘star birthdays’.  Typically, your grandparents or mother will ask the temple pandit to do some ‘archana’ (again prayers, offerings, aarti ) for you on your star birthday and what you get in return as ‘prasaad’ is a weird camphor smelling small plastic container having this sweet submerged in oil.  

Everyone is your maternal uncle or maternal aunt, since we address them as ‘maama’ and ‘maami’. Someone in their family has to be a banker. IIM or IIT passed, yet an accountant or a general manager. Every festival begins at 4 am. I remember one such festival, where we are supposed to look at only gold and other riches as soon as we get up, nothing else. Not even your own face. So my mother drags me by my arm from the bed and makes me sit in front of the valuables. What sort of a festival is this?  

Every culture definitely has its pros and cons, but not such mentally harassing ones.  If Tam brahms would rule the world, I’m sure monuments like Leaning Tower of Pisa would be called ‘Shiva Tandavam’ and there would be stories about lord shiva performing one of his dances here and hence the tower stoops. Even if you go to Goa for a vacation, they will hunt for a temple. If you talk to these tamilian oldies their breath will smell of filter coffee.  As much as the non-tam brahm folks love it, I find it unbearable. 

The lungi is not just a lungi. It’s also their towel, their hanky, their tissue and hence it’s pale yellow.  All said and done Idlis cannot be consumed for lunch or dinner. It is a breakfast dish and cannot be an omnipresent one. So, there I donate my idli dabba gleefully to my colleagues as I relish the Gujarati dal bhaati. 

Rafi Vs. Rihanna

 It’s a grey and lazy Sunday morning.  The right side of the room plays ‘Khoya Khoya Chand’ in Mohd. Rafi’s ever melodious and nostalgic voice and the left side of the room plays the same Khoya Khoya Chand in an unknown young female voice with trippy beats. Let’s call it the Rafi room and the trippy room.  The Rafi room folks still listen to ‘cassettes’ (yes they still exist) on a 1988 Sansui player which has a separate A side and a B side. The trippy room person listens to it on a laptop and facebooks on another window. The Rafi room folks sing along with Rafi, while the trippy room person surfs for the lyrics. The Rafi room folks discuss the next investment plan over a cup of tea or jot down their expenses, while the trippy roomer is looking at the next big smart phone over a cup of cappuccino. Mommy dearest is lost in transition and tries hard to grasp a few words from the Rihanna number. Gives up and goes back to the right side of the room, her side. An hour later, she switches on Sun TV, where the VO guys or hosts sound like they can jump out of the TV any moment and gobble us up and the actors look they’ve been carved straight out of charcoal.  The trippy roomer meanwhile downloads ‘Cowboys and Aliens’ even before the film hits the movie screens or buffers a movie on youtube. But the trippy roomer does relish mom’s south Indian delicacies because they’re too lazy to cook for themselves. Their lives are sorted because the ‘Rafi-ans’ had once discussed the trippy roomer’s savings over the same Rafi songs even before Rihanna started singing. So, this is an endless debate.  The trippy roomer does get swayed away sometimes by Rafi’s high notes, the submerged and grainy feel of the 60’s music; however still comes back to Tiesto and Rihanna. Man, the Rafi-ans have 10 more such cassettes to go while the Rihanna playlist is almost over. So, the trippy roomer quietly shuts her door with a smile and comes back to her ‘Rehab’ while Rafi continues to sing ‘Ek Rasta, Do Rahi’ (For those who don't know this song, click on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQBZsY7SJP4  or go to the Rafian side of the room ;-))