.. and Rodman is my Name-O

Hi… the name’s RODMAN 

Yes that’s my name

It’s not a nickname 

Nor is it a pseudo name

Or even a handle or a moniker 

And I am definitely no superhero 

In fact just an ordinary man 

Damn it isn’t my porn name

Though I think it would make a good one

No, no, not me

 I don’t think I have what it takes

To actually be one or even be in one

But yes that’s my name 

That’s really is my name

It’s the name on my Baptism certificate 

And yes on my municipal birth certificate 

Though it’s horribly misspelt

Like everyone else

But that’s what my name is

That’s what my parents intended to be

And I don’t think it was mistake 

Or one of those crazy celebrities name

Cause I quiet like what they named me

And if you were to ask me

What exactly does it mean

I would stare back blankly

Cause I honestly don’t know too

But then with the poker face I can muster

I would say it means that all men have rods

And that would be my honest deduction 

Of what it could mean

But if you do want to know

Then you can always Google it

Like the whole world do 

And if you do find it

Could you enlighten me too

But till then… and as always 

Rodman is my name-o

Mumbai Local Trains: Bringing people closer together

The Mumbai locals, the lifeline of the city’s transportation system, have been around  for well over a century and a half, and for over a century and half it has single handedly managed to bring people closer together. You’re squeezed against each other, like a can of sardines, packed during peak hours, so much that you don’t know where one person ends and the other begins. It’s like you two becomes one.

Its bodies pressed against each other, crotch meets butt, face meets armpit, oily hair meets elbow (for that matter, any part that should come in contact with it). You become brothers bathed in each other’s sweat, sweat brother, sweaty brothers, who in the end begin to smell the same. And with all that continuous bump and grind, it’s almost an orgy of dry humping, with all that hot and heavy breathing over the neck, only adding to the atmosphere.

You don’t need any cold cream or moisturiser. Just stand next to a well oiled head and you’ll be lucky enough to have it rubbed against you. The caveat being you should not be picky of whether it’s nariyal ka tel, or sarson ka tel, or any tel for that matter. Just go with the flow and you’ll be well oiled.

Hands become intertwined as they reach to hold whatever they find to hold. Legs become intertwined, trying to find a toe space, if a foot space is not possible (which is most of the time). Heads peering over shoulders straining to see what the other is seeing, what the other is reading, making it a group activity of reading, watching. With body parts intertwined, bodies intertwined, weaving into a fabric of the brotherhood of train travellers.

Thus the locals have been successful at bringing people together, that no man or thing can put asunder. In short, what the Mumbai locals brings together let no man put asunder.

The Great Ageing Debate

What is age but a number, is something that we keep telling ourselves when we want to blunt the effect that ageing has on us. The first sign of wrinkles sends us in doldrums, leading to tensions, leading to further wrinkles. The first greys sends us running for that scissors, that pincher, anything that can get that grey out of sight. Then comes the anti-wrinkle creams, hair colours, visits to the parlours for hair colouring, visit to the doctors to get rid of them, and if all doesn’t work, then Botox. 

We want to be forever young, always searching for the secret of eternal youth. And if we were to find it, we wouldn’t just have a sip, we would be gulping it down, so much that we would be in danger of returning to infancy. We are so obsessed with youth that we don’t want to let go of it. We hold on to it as tight as possible, trying to grasp at it when it begins to slip through our fingers, doing all we can to hold on it. Each birthday is welcomed with a dread as if each new year will take us closer to the grave (which in fact it does). Age appropriate greeting is always greeted with earth shattering rage, as if the addresser has committed a grievous crime, a mortal sin, against us. How dare they call us uncle or auntie, do we look one (answer of which is most likely going to be YES... but we don’t want to accept it).

For all our fears and concerns, growing old has its advantage. For starters people will actually give you some sort of respect. You finally can occupy that jaisht nagrik seat that you always are forced to give up when a jaisht actually appears. People aapka umar kay lihaj rakh kay will underestimate you, will let you off the hook, giving you the opportunity to spring a surprise. You get a valid excuse for, forgetting, blame it on those weakening grey cells, for slowing down, after all our joint are no longer lubricant as they used to be. You get bumped up your race category furthering your chances of making it to the podium. You get offered seat and allowed to move to the head of the line. 

So live befeekar, live bindaas. Embrace all your wrinkles and greys, like George Clooney has. And although you may be no Clooney, whose stopping you from adopting his school of thought. So age with grace, even if it means slowing down a bit of pace. Fikaar not and just live and love life a lot.