Jugalbandhi: Ramulu and Julu-yettu

She wanted no traces of their meeting,
And, she was an expert at that,
Like the many times they were together,
He stared into the open; helpless, smitten

It wasn't him, but it was him, afterall,
And it was his head on the chopping block,
He knew he had no way out; She was mean,
And had her gadgets drawn out for the kill, gingerly

She had him by his white starched shirt,
Between the first and second button, precisely,
With one swish had him fade to history,
Had him slump to the ground, lifeless

She picked him up nonchalantly, and trashed him,
And examined what was left; pleased, satisfied,
A beautiful silver framed photo of her sitting,
Her head against the end of a white starched curtain

The times they are a-changin'

When the local chronicle replaces the one since 1878,
so much that you wonder where it was all this while,
but still go back for them crosswords,
When irani cafes are in and posh eateries are passe,
so much that you stop asking for what you need,
but have it served by raising a hand, a nod of the head,
When your mother-tongue pips the world's Lingua franca,
so much that you switch to frustrate those non-speakers,
but still inject a few words to rile them purists,
When old habits fall to the ground like winnowed rice paddy,
When new habits emerge like sprouts left overnight,
When old friends hug you like you've just won the derby,
When new friends feel like you've known them for ages,
And in the process you find yourself, again, and yet again,
and see that you are very much at peace, piece by piece,
When you love where you are going,
Just as much as where you came from,
You have to wonder,
You have to think aloud,
You have to ask yourself ,
If this ain't life ... what is ?