Bombay Blues

Let me tell you a little story

about a city

shaped like a queen’s

cut throat.


It’s a twisty and curvy,

mellow and moving,

cursing and grooving kinda tale

that hits you

where you feel it most.


It starts,

With a flight,

And a cocktail.


A feeling that the

flight attendant

Is blind.


A lonely sensation

Seeps in.

I’m above ground,

and I’m flyin’.


I can conquer this

whole wide world


Like Alexander,

I was foolish


I was in my prime.


That feeling floated

Through the recycled


It must have choked

an open mouth

here or there.

I hope it lasted after the plane landed.

I hope it lingered against that putrid air.


But it hit me.

Just like

It had a dozen times before.

But I breathed it in,

Called it pride.

I stood amongst my people finally,

Like bin Abdi and al Taghilbi,

I was foolish

but I was in my prime.


Every step I took,

Shehnais rang,

Santoors trickled,

and Tablas dhoomed.

My mind was open

My nose was shut,

My body was ready for any pain.

Any frontier.

Any move.


I had friends.

People that I thought

Knew me.

I thought they knew

how to drive

down these alluring roads.

I met them over a

debt of coffee.

They all drank tea.

I knew I shouldn’t gloat.

I was unique I thought.

They would listen to me.

What did they have to

lose anyway?

I spoke my heart out

and worked even harder.

I searched for problems

that ended with someone getting paid.

I simply stumbled upon

the shit that finally broke me,

grabbed me,

and made me say,

“I care, I feel, I love again.

I know we can never go wrong.

We are subdued, used, and abandoned.

I will save us.

Only I can learn to be that strong.”


I gathered people,

professionals and dreamers.

I could captain them,

lead them

to the path

that was


Like Tamerlane,

I was foolish.

but I felt,

damn right,


must be

in my prime.”


A valiant effort

I made.

Many dark nights

I stayed up watching

all those flimsy lights glow.

Every walk down that necklace,

Every taste of kebab and cutlets,

Made me feel so strongly

that I must be finally home.


I did too much.

Too many desperate acts to describe.

But of one I must ramble.

It was diabolical.

It was a borderline crime.

I met with a man,

Suited up,

wandering in the conquerors land.

For five days I stumbled

till my shoes cut my ankles,

Until I could barely




Then his minion

opened the gate

and led us

right through.

I looked past his disease

and delinquency.

I will rest one day

in a chamber like his,

was the thought

that suddenly came over me.

Like Babur, Himayun, and Ashoka,

I was foolish


God damn it,

I was in my prime.


I unfolded my plans

in front of him.

Unfurled his mind

so “methodically”

I could see it in his stare.

But at moments he

rested his eyes so peacefully

like he wouldn’t move,

wouldn’t help us

even if he cared.

That tone rang like temple bells to me.

I pondered on that attitude night and day.

I wonder if my callousness will get to me.

Turn me into a man like him someday.


On my way back,

I missed a flight or two,

I was too confounded

by that wet, foggy air.

When I returned home,

I drank a shot or two

of Old Monk to

balance me out.

To settle me down

into a character I could comfortably wear.


When I came to my senses

it all just seemed so useless

i was surrounded by lazy bastards

and perverted goons.

They dreamed of brothels,

bottles, and feasts of swine.

They were awaken by glut and vanity,

Their strong prescriptions would always make them snooze.

They knew not

what they had forsaken.

They knew not of luxury and of all things fine.

Like the Khan

they were soft and foolish

but they had to think that

they were in their prime.


I banished them from my oasis,

Sent them back from whence they came.

But then I again found myself lonely.

Rummaging the universe in my mindly cave.

Then a Bengali pulled me out of it.

I know it sounds nice,

But it was actually pretty lame.

Firstly, he was actually a guy.

Secondly, he was lying about his age

When he said he was only forty-eight.

The lies just splintered from there on out.

Piercing like a bengali fish curry

with bone still in.

Always Holi in his mouth.


Honestly, I don’t want to even talk about it.

You will hear it in bits and pieces I throw up

when I’m drunk.

I wish the bombay blues

were just a shitty restaurant.

But they’re not.

They’re real, They’re true.

And they hurt.


One thought on “Bombay Blues

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