Delhi Talkies

Every time, I come back to Delhi, it is a nostalgic trip- whether it is the slight hint of mist on Delhi roads or the sight of the familiar animals- cows, dogs, squirrels etc. However, every time a Bollywood movie has been shot in Delhi, it has become a stubborn obsession to have at least one shot of either India Gate, Red Fort, Raj Path or Qutub Minar. For Bollywood, Delhi is restricted to just these four, with an occasional ‘Indian Habitat Centre’ in ‘Rang De Basanti’.

But what a typical ‘Delhite’ will tell you is that almost half of Delhi has never even seen Qutub Minar, or even Red Fort for that matter. They might have passed through Raj Path or had a family picnic at India Gate, but most importantly, Delhi for them means going for the occasional shopping trip to Sarojini Nagar Market, bargaining with a group of friends at Janpath to bring the price down to Rs 150, taking your relatives from Kolkatta, wearing their monkey-caps and mufflers to Akshardham Temple, fighting with the golgappawala that he has given you only six as opposed to seven. Delhi means covering all the basic emotions in a typical day- fighting with the Auto drivers because they insist on taking double the amount that comes on the meter, being scared about your newly cracked bones as the DTC speeds over breakers and bumpers, a pleasant smile as he dog stares at you as you eat Momos in Janpath, or catching the latest television gossip, on the bus, between the neighborhood aunties.

Those who live in Delhi, invariably end up falling in love with it. They may curse the government for not trying enough, they may shout at the rickshaws, cars in a bad traffic jam and they will say that Delhi has more things to crib about than to rejoice about. Yet you cannot help but love this Mughal city. I would know. That’s exactly what happened to me.

First Glance

The first impression, that I had of Paris was from Harrison Ford’s “ Sabrina”. Anyone who has seen either the old or the more recent version of Sabrina would understand what I am talking about; a small café, romantic moonlight accompanied with equally romantic music, cobbled streets and most importantly; “la vie en rose”.
However the first thing I noted upon arriving here, was, people are thin. Not only that,there seems to be an awful shortage of color here. Even on a hot sunny day, people prefer to wear grey, black, brown and white clothes. Wearing my yellow, orange and purple tops I sometimes felt quite a bit odd.
Secondly, the cafes are expensive. The most common dream of every tourist who even thinks of visiting Paris, of reading a book, sitting in a café, drinking warm coffee and hopefully eating some kind of rich chocolate pastry, doesn’t become a reality unless you are related to someone majorly rich in some small way. The furthest I reached was to drink a fifty cent coffee from a vending machine. I did have my Reader’s Digest.
Louvre as a museum is large but if one’s French is inadequate then all fun is lost. Unless some knowledge of the major artists and their works are unknown, the visit is pretty much pointless. “The Mona Lisa” seems like a miniature version of the original because the crowd never thins around the famous work. But even from the distance, her smile captivates any humane person.
However, above all this, Paris is a city bubbling with history, mystery and life. Waking up at three in the morning, you can still hear the sudden breaks of fast cars, or the loud laughter of the drunk. Like Delhi, this city also has the tendency, to never be quiet. The cobbled streets, the tiny cafes all exist but what makes me fall in love with the city are the people- the old couple on the bench, who despite not knowing my language, smile at me as I cross them on my way to the supermarket, the lady who lives downstairs with two tiny dogs, who invariably have to lick my feet, so now every time she sees me, she tries to hold on to her dogs, the hundreds of anonymous people, noticing the fact that I look a little confused let me go ahead of them to the counter in the markets, and lastly, the vegetable vendor downstairs, acknowledging the fact that I am a foreigner, gives the customary “ bonjour” a miss for a simple “ ‘allo”, with a welcoming smile.

Reading Poetry

I read the poem,

Was it words that stirred something inside me?

Or was it the rhythm that set me free?

I read the poem,

Written by the poets of a transitional time,

Providing a voice through verse and rhyme.

I read the poem,

Each word present for a purpose,

A revolution made for us.

I read the poem,

Images created by words,

Of landscape, Tygers and birds

Lahiri’s Limericks!

There was once a dog from Canterbury,

Who was so cute and furry,

Went to the fair,

Bit the mayor,

And had to be to be deported to Surrey

Claire of France,

Just loved to dance,

Did not hear the song

Did all the steps wrong,

And could not wait for her next chance

There was a man from Oxford,

Who had the title of Lord

Played Polo in his lawn,

From dusk till dawn,

And then drove of in his Ford.

There was once a man from Spain,

Who was in a lot of pain,

Went to a few hospitals,

Swallowed a dozen rose petals,

And went totally insane.

Gordon Kelly of Southampton,

Wanted to get drunk and have fun,

Drank a few pints of beer,

Found the stars so near,

That he shot himself with a gun.

A World Of Colour

Thick snow falls,

I have lost my friends,

All hopes are over,

The world here ends.

I carry my baby sister

My dad carries my sleepy brother,

What else could I want? Except,

My beautiful mother.

I cannot forget that face,

My mother lying dead,

All alone in a bomb-wrecked house,

Lying dead in her bed.

Now my feet ache,

I cannot walk anymore,

I would hate to admit it,

But my feet are sore.

Though I am twelve,

I pretend to be five,

My father looks down at me,

And I wonder if he were alive?

The world is silent,

Yet I hear a noise,

My world goes blank,

Yet I am sure I heard a voice

The voice belonged to my mother,

Her body was all red,

She wants to hug my brother,

She can’t, she lays there dead!