Cuckoo-ed

There's a koel
outside my window,
And she's cuckoo.

She's merciless,
the Diva.
A veritable Castafiore,
she pitches her song
deep into the night,
Shattering my dreams.
Like her eponymous clock,
every quarter hour
past two.

She might be another insomniac,
lonelier at night.
A nightbird.
An aberration,
Who sings
of love lost
or a heart halved.

But if you ask me,
I'm kind of certain
she's a sadist.
A cuckoo;
Part of the cosmic conspiracy
to never let me sleep.
To drive me cuckoo,
Too.

Boheme, Hauz Khas Village: Late Winter Perfection

February afternoons in Delhi are magical. The sun is out but not with its May-June agenda of incinerating the world. The sky is clear. The chill of the previous months seems to have been wrung out to dry. The perfect Sunday afternoon then, would be at a languid lunch with friends, exactly what was achieved last Sunday at Boheme, Hauz Khas Village.

Reaching Boheme is a minor achievement of sorts. Tucked in a typical Village alley, the restaurant is a steep climb above five flights of stairs, above the legendary Gunpowder, which in turn is above the promisingly named Golcanda Bowl. Pedigree established yet?

Once you've trudged up though, be prepared to be very, very gleeful. The sun hits you in the face and the open terrace is tranformed into a laidback, bohemian, happy space. The number of tables is limited but the owners have introduced the smart move of allowing people to order drinks and hang around. As a result, there are several groups of 20-somethings, displaying the sharpest lines of the season, oversized Tom Fords perched on their sunblocked noses.

The bar counter runs along the length of the front half-wall and offers a spectacular view of the lake. There are the usual hanging lamps and strings of light and pretty pots that up the aesthetic quotient but the sight of the lake glistening green, is something else.

The food is well worth the long wait that seems to be usual on a busy Sunday. We started with a hummus and pita to go with our beers. The hummus was perfectly seasoned and of the exact right consistency.

The pita could have done with some light toasting. For our main course we ordered a Fettucini in Alfredo sauce that turned up deficient in salt.

The Chicken Maison was a huge portion, accompanied by a lightly herbed pat of rice and a cruchy side of vegetables. The chicken itself was moist and succulent, the cheese soft but not runny.

Food, definitely a winner.

The downside at Boheme is their service. The place is grossly understaffed. They forget orders, forget the number of portions, take forever to get the food on the table. If it wasn't for the company and that delusion of sitting at a lazy Goan shack, we'd be complaining.

So, in a nutshell:
Food:7.5
Ambience: 8
Service: 6

At the Lake

I

Thirty five greens,
A full forest palette,
Reflected in water.
Shadows creep quietly
Over its surface,
Carefully steering clear
Of deadwood arms
Eerily sticking out
Of the deep.


II

A twosome,
Geese or swans,
I can't tell.
Drunk on February sunshine,
Or revelling in their stark
Whiteness,
Glide rapidly away,
Dipping and bobbing
To their own song,
Of love?

III

A narrow slab of wood
Transforms
Into an intimate table
For four
On a sun-flashed terrace.
Absorbs beer-bottle rings,
Flecks of ash,
Spilt pasta sauce,
An erring blob of hummus.
Ties together threads
Of stories shared.
Becomes a prop
For heads thrown back
In unfettered,
Uncomplicated,
Laughter.

All,
Under a steady blue sky,
Over a living, green, lake.

Accidentally

I saw a butterfly
Dancing on broken bits of glass.
A shimmering yellow
Flitting through reflected light,
She cut such a pretty picture.
The glass lay untouched,
Scattered like cheap beads
From a child's box of baubles.
Somewhere in the middle of a busy flyover.

Metronymic, of sorts.

Sardines packed in six cars
Three hundred commoners, we.
Jostling, almost jousting,
Protecting an elbow, a knee.
Sqeezing in in-between spaces,
Contortionists for a day.
Balancing in vestibules,
On our stinky, weary, way.
A headphone creates illusory space
Or serves as a prop
When we wish to eavesdrop.
Friends are judged,
Stories are spun,
Gossip dispensed,
Especially in Coach Number One.
We fit all possible types:
The geek, the muse, the college prude;
The hair-swishing bimbette, the sporty dude.
A hipster sways, a lech stares;
In one corner, a harried mum glares
At a privacy-deprived randy pair.
We peek, we prod, we poke, we pry
We're the Delhi Metro,
You, you hapless commuter, and I.