This is a light poem I wrote some time ago to bring up the inevitable tension between housemaids and mistresses. While on one hand, you think you are being very generous when you hand a mobile phone to your housemaid, on the other hand, you are not at all mentally prepared to see her indulge in it. These days mobiles come equipped with playlists and you can fill it up will all the songs you like at a minimal cost. Thus if your housemaid is one great music lover, doomed are your days, because you have already lost her to the profound world of Bollywood songs. Calls coming in at night and you hear it because, she has not yet learnt to switch her mobile to the silent mode. The smell of burnt dinner reaches you when you find her happily learning how to text. All that is left of you then, is one seething, cursing, mumbling bitter person under the weight of unwashed dishes, burnt food and layers of dust gathered on every flat surface.

We clasp our hands and pray,
fretful woe not held at bay.
We mumble incantations
of intricate intonations,
and all we want to say,
(to the mute idols
with droopy eyes,
and idle smiles)
is that we are not okay.

This a song dedicated to Ben, a figment of a person who resides in the corner of my head. I feel sorry at the way things are for him but he really is an epitome of a malcontent human being. A serious whiner

Why can’t I just be alright
Why can’t I just break a fall
No I can’t remember it all
how i came to be where i am