Bhayya, one plate pani puri please- He is quick to ready a plate; Puris placed demurely Broken only at the top- (As though an egg is tapped on its top for yolk) Stuffed with appetising fillings: Boiled potatoes, onions, chopped chillies- And then the elixir of hunger: Meeta and tika - jaljeera pani A rush now- that ends with a hiss when spicy masala hits the palate Bhayya gets ready with one after the other; Stirring the urge to be lost in crunchy delight- A faint virtue develops- That of 'Balancing'; The mouth, the puris and my shaky hands; Quite tactfully blended; along with the salt from bhayya's hands, All until he signals- "hogaya!"
Why do you never fail to prick?
No matter how carefully I hold you, you still prick.
But your very beauty is brought out best;
Only when you are felt, fully.
So pretty, lost in the prettiness of your petals, layered one after the other,
I touch you with blithe disregard-
Forgetting your quality of pricking;
And yes, I hiss in pain.
Is it the anger you want to vent out,
Because we don't let you be, and pluck you?
You just do not know, dear 'rose',
You add beauty to us, or even lend it to us in full,
In return, you give us that 'prick';
Just so you are remembered...
They longed to meet
They never had met though;
Until then, they decided to -
Bottle up their emotions;
Store them in tinted glass bottles;
Use them, as though they'd use their perfume-
Rendering fragrance to each passing day...