After the funeral, I was sent to heaven.
St. Peter stood at the gates.
“Welcome”, he said, “your sins are forgiven”,
“Go to the Chamber; Jesus waits”.

Jesus summoned me with boisterous mirth,
“How was your short time on Earth?”
“Fairly decent”, said I with a smile,
“Every moment was worthwhile.”

“Starting from the time of my birth,
I did plenty of things on Earth,
I studied hard, acquired a degree,
Got a job and made pots of money.”

Jesus shot me an unhappy stare,
And ordered me to take a chair,
Carefully he opened a slim file,
and scrutinized it for a while.

"You were given the ability to write,
To rhyme, to compose and recite,
You could have been a famous bard,
Like Shelly, Milton & Arthur Ward.
In the quest to earn bread & butter,
You poured your talent down the gutter.
A talented, young Indian Author,
preferred to undergo corporate slaughter.
Should I have written it on stone?
Man doesn't survive on bread alone?
Gifted with wit, spirit and foresight,
You were sent on Earth to write"

Shocked & aghast, I fell to my knees,
"Give me a chance, I beg you please"
"No", he said and refused to relent,
"You have an eternity to regret & repent".

The spooky, eerie feeling grips me,
As I watch Grandpa swinging from a tree.
His body is lifeless, limp and pale,
His hands are fragile and frail.

“Grandpa”, I shriek, “I thought you were dead,
For your funeral mass the first reading I read”.
“Shut up kid”, he says with a frown,
“Do you know how bad it is there down?”

“Down?”  I gasp,”So you made it to hell?”    
“Believe me girl heaven ain’t that swell.”
“Is it hot down there? Do you loathe the heat?”
“Down there kid, I hate the food I eat”.

“Food?”, I exclaim ,”do you still need that?”
“Of course we do you blithering brat”.
“But aren’t ghosts the gliding type all slim and light?”
“Yes kid, but we need energy to scare Earthly folks at night”.    

I gently ask, “What is it you miss most from up here?”
“Is it the TV set, liqueur bottle or fishing gear?”    
“Honestly kid, I miss the food your Grandma would make,
Those sinful crumpets and cookies she’d bake,
those meat pies and curries with assorted spices,
Oh that food would distract me for an hour and half from my Earthly vices.”

“But you never liked her cooking and always criticized this and that”.
“Yes m’dear but I’d still gulp it down and get all chubby and fat,
So pay heed young girl, don’t fuss over your looks and weight,
We men love that initially but later grow to hate,

It’s the food a woman cooks that we remember even when dead,
So ensure you keep your husband always well fed.”

A Borivali slow,
Was on platform four,
Being young and swift,
With least bit of strain,
I boarded the train.
There wasn't place to sit,
So amidst the uproar,
I stood at the door.

An aged lady of seventy-four,
Indulged us in a tale of yore.
Of a frightful night,
When her entire world,
Was ruthlessly hurled,
Into fear and plight,
Into treacherous gore,
A tale so abhor.

with fine detail,
She narrated her tale,
And had us engrossed,
Our minds embossed,
She was a slave,
Who tried to save,
Her body frail,
Which was put for sale.

"A young girl of thirteen I was", she said
"Physically alive but mentally dead.
I was sold like cattle,
My modesty stripped,
soul ripped,
My insides would rattle,
As I would be led,
To a different bed.

In words I cannot convey,
From where I drew strength one day,
During the dastardly act,
I took my chance and attacked.

I fled the scene,
And ran all day,
Tried to escape far away.


Partially clothed or under a veil,
Being a woman makes you  frail,
We are a prey to beastly eyes,
Unheard are our cries.

My story will make your heart sink,
And force you to think,
While you soundly sleep,
There are women who weep.
Somewhere there is a woman
trying to escape,
From the clutches of victimization and ****. "

When complexities increase in number,
brashly jerking me from slumber,
When dilemma stares me in the face,
dragging me into the modern rat race,
I simply ask myself, what would Holmes do?

When there is a downpour of worries all at once,
forcing me to gaffe about and act like a dunce,
When diabolical questions pop up now and then,
making me ponder how and when,
I ask myself,what would Jeeves do?

If only Mr. Holmes were to be my guide,
and the inimitable Jeeves were by my side,
My remotest feelings to them I'd confide,
without having them rebuke or chide,
because Holmes and Jeeves would know what to do.

While Holmes would take the bull by its horns,
Jeeves would provide against obstacles and thorns,
Holmes would know  what to say,
Jeeves would put in a tactful way,
because Holmes and Jeeves would know what to do.  


So, when headaches and woes come in fleets,
I go in my mind to those London streets,
I consult them with a problem or two,
Because Holmes and Jeeves know exactly what to do.

An unintelligible verse,
Is worse than a curse.
A badly worded rhyme,
is a literary crime.

Instead of rhyming ‘bird',
With a word like curd,
Some people are plain absurd,
And will  use lacquered.

Poetry is emotion,
Expressed through lines,
Not word commotion,
Going off like mines.

The rules of grammar,
Have to be in place.
So please don't anger,
The grammarian populace,

By confusing their and there,
And misusing you're and your,
And using any word anywhere,
And thinking your poetry is pure.

Big words make not a poet,
Hyperboles won't add to the meaning,
So when you poeticise please know it,
Short stanzas are more appealing.

At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late.
I have now waited over an hour
And my mood is surely turning sour.

I crane my neck for the glimpse of that bus
Which, when moves makes ruckus.
I am excited by the noise of yonder thunder
Alas it turns out to be a school bus, oh what a blunder.

I'm tired, hungry and even ready for bed
Yet compelled to wait for the bus in red.
If only I had money for a three wheeler
Alas I can't afford it on my income meager.

My patience is put to a severe T-E-S-T
As I stoically wait for the B-E-S-T.
A serpentine queue has now formed
But come the bus its door will be stormed.

My hopes rise upon the sight of something red
Alas it's a bus of another route instead.
The hunger has traveled from stomach to mind
Can someone please a solution to this delay find?

At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late!

When the sun first shows its beaming face,
at the break of a blissful new dawn.
Your birds that exult with elegant grace,
bid farewell to the night that's gone.

Your flowers ornate your vast lands,
of your priceless treasures they boast.
The besotting Kilimanjaro that stands,
dominating your east coast.

You are home to the best precious stones,
the land of gleaming clear waters.
Garnished with skills and strong bones,
you are served by your dutiful daughters.

The soil that expands on your gracious vest,
the equator that cuts your enormous chest,
birds that bear your golden crest,
are a few ideals of your daring zest.

The treasured soil that fills your vast expanse,
the gracious finesse in your every dance.
From Egypt, to South Africa, Nigeria to Kenya,
From the stupefying Sahara to the beatific Victoria.

I love you dear Africa, The land of the wild,
This poem is for you from your little child.