The fall of a phone by Minu Jasdanwala

There was a man and a lady.

The lady knew Science and the man knew the words.

Long age distance lay between them like man 

on the earth and the cuckoo bird 

on the Asopalava tree top. 

One day the man called me with broken voice 

from his broken phone. 

‘Sir’, said he. ‘My lady fell my phone.’

‘Young man’, said I. 

‘Worry not. When glory, men and nations have 

brutally fallen by the tender charms,

when you have fallen in and for her,

why pity the fall of the phone ?’

Its dents are lesser than yours.

He hung up on me

and it was never known if he

then smiled or wept.

The sad song of a Teacher by Minu Jasdanwala

 The sad song of a Teacher.

Not long before in your non-existence,

O Corona !

I went to teach the beauty of words

through most of the day

but now I don’t.

Not long ago,

I cycled around,

I ate cheap food 

what I wished

or sat under that old neem tree

where Mansukhlal mended the boots.

But now I don’t.

Not much a time has passed

when I stood at the local Chaiwalah

with a friend or a student 

over a certain thing.

But now I don’t.

My road side barber, Sandip:

a very domestic man 

kept my hair in shape.

Where are you my friend?

Dear Manmoji, 

My bike tires are flat

without you.

Are you blown 

in the winds of change?

Where are those faces 

which are now under 

the screen of my phone?

Where are those voices:

the real ones,

I heard in real times? 

Where are those smiles 

or is it lame to believe

that they once were?

Now my desperate feet

wish to slide in the leather boots again

to walk on the dusty classroom floor.

My hands want to wave and welcome

with their unique language:

that language : unknown to the lips and tongue.

My searching eyes with circles dark

desire to meet

the beauty and gutter of the town. 

My ears once again want to hear 

the sad and the splendid tales 

of those dear to me.

My nose longs to smell

the chalk, the ink

and the aspirations of the youth.