Fooding: A Meal in Five Bites

I dont know how will I sound more stupid; by commenting on it or by keeping quiet.

Anywho:

I have a question from whole Aurat Jaati, why dont they get over this self-imposed annorexia and start eating and enjoying food instead of just ``playing`` with it. When is this Kate Moss episode is gonna end?

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women...food....metaphors...hidden agendas...nostalgia...`Like Water For Chocolate`

i`ve seen this before...

it was a nice poem nevertheless

Howdy y`all

Sorry to take to your space Mahim but I would like to make a request to Chowk Staff, if possible, to designate a special section on the site which relates to all Charitable organisations working in Southeast, i.e. Pakistan, India, Bangladesh etc etc. The spot would include such details as their contacts, history, missions, their systems of functions, methods of fund collections, annual outcomes, personal experiences of people who`ve worked for charities, useful ideas, methods of setting up the organisations etc etc and we could all contribute our own little bit to this knowledge.

I`ve heard many people say that Chowk is a bekaar vela place meant for useless chatter and maybe it`s true but I`m not quiet willing to believe that just yet. A single water molecule is nothing but get enough of them and they become `wet.`

All in favour say `yay`.

Umer Murtaza Phoenix.

Mahim:

As someone on this Board would have one say, tomar kobita khoob bhalo achchee...cheshta korbe na, parantu badichaar nostalgia hobe ke maccheret

hobe? [Why the heck am I assuming that you know Bengali? I think nostalgia tastes good:)]

Urstruly:

Hey, the whole `aurat jaati` is not anorexic. Most desis are good cows, holy or wholesome. Just for the record, I love my food, I think it is sexy. And yes, I `play` with it as well. Well?

Farzana

Ms. Versey

Well, what can I say. I beleive in Punjabi saying:

Khullay Khaao, Nangay Nahao, hor jaan shaan banaao.

I used to like skinny TV antennas until a few months ago but now I am reverting back to Renaisaance paintings.

Bon Apetito

(I am not translating Punjabi saying cuz it is not that hard to understand.)

seen something like this before. Sensuous, silken, yet that raw touch or douche, whatever!

But by god Mahim you would be one hell of a women to know.

Brown Bengali? Or Brown Urdu, Brown Hindi?
Are we talking Gulabi?
Anyway some interesting symbolism here.

Ras

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``I wish I could smell

Amma’s sweat in the kitchen``

Beautiful!

``I wish I could smell

Amma’s sweat in the kitchen``

Beautiful!

Mahim:

Here is another take on a very similar yet different experience.

This is in response to Saima’s request to ‘share’ poetry this week. (Guess for the other 51 weeks we can hone our skills by sharpening the contours of head against the tolerance of the dry wall:)

This poet is a dear personal friend. Sadly. she has chosen to desert Chowk because of intolerance and wishes to remain anonymous.

love,

t

PS: A cryptic note for the princess:
Thanks. No change yet. Will write... Promise.

________________________________________________

Sham`s Curry Take-Away

Sham runs a curry shop at the hidden curve of Swallow Street
Shamimbanu Kara Armani with a pallu on her forehead, and flowers in her
hair
No, sensibly clipped-back hair and a jumper and jeans and an apron-ful of
pav bhaji
And compliments for Josephine

I get lunch there, sometimes
When I am being good-humoured
Sometimes, when it hurts too much I just get a sandwich ready-made
Indulge in a mocha, all froth and foam and cream and salt-tears
And bring it to my desk and dream my immigrant fantasies of a world less
lost, more certain
Where fragrances belonged, and mornings had a colour
And happiness always had a single, male name

It`s this scramble for meaning, this need for connectedness that kills me
I hog bandwidth many ways, looking for questions looking for answers
Looking looking always searching
Surely, I must belong?

`Ello, me larky`, a black man in paint-splattered overalls ogles
as I walk out of Swallow Street and into the bustle of a city that could
have been any city
just as foreign, if not more, than the next
`You`re lovely`, and I am grateful for the construction workers here
finding me attractive - justifying this as a love more primal, for things
purer, thus for me.

I blink back the tears, he said something yesterday about my not having
carried the shame in my eyes
Perhaps this wistfulness will be adequate substitute?
Today I was being good-humoured
But somehow the salt-tears still came.

2:40pm
Monday March 12, 2001
London

Since this is a poetry week. This is is my fav.



You have the lovers

by Leonard Cohen

You have the lovers,

they are nameless, their histories only for each other,

and you have the room, the bed and the windows,

Pretend it is a ritual.

Unfurl the bed, bury the lovers, blacken the windows,

let them live in that house for a generation or two.

No one dares disturb them.

Visitors tip toe past the long closed door,

they listen for a sound, for a moan, for a song

nothing is heard, not even breathing.

You know they are not dead,

you can feel the presence of their intense love.

Your children grow up, they leave you,

they have become soldiers and riders.

Your mate dies after a life of service.

Who knows you? Who remembers you?

But in your house a ritual is in progress:

it is not finished: it needs more people.

one day the door is opened to the lovers chamber.

The room has become a dence garden,

full of colors, smells, sounds you have never known .

The bed is smooth as a wafer of sunlight,

in the mistt of the garden it stands alone.

In the bed the lovers, slowly and deliberately and silently,

perform the act of love.

Their eyes are closed,

as tightly as if heavy coins of flesh lay upon them.

Their lips are bruised with new and old bruises.

Her hair and his beard are hopelessly tangled.

When he puts his mouth against her shoulder

she is uncertain whether her shoulder

has given or receieved the kiss.

All the flesh is like a mouth.

He carries his fingers across her waist

and feels his own waist carressed.

She holds him closer and his own ams tighten around her

She kisses the hand beside her mouth

Is it his hand or her hand, it hardly matters,

there are so many more kisses.

You stand beside the bed, weeping with happiness,

you carefully peel away the bodies.

Your eyes are filled with tears, you barely make out the lovers.

as you undress you sing out, and your voice is magnificent

because you believe it is the first human voice

heard in that room.

The garments you let fall grow in to vines.

You climb into bed and recover the flesh.

You close your eyes and allow them to be sewn shut.

You create an embrace and fall into it.

There is only one moment of pain or doubt.

as you wonder how many multitudes are lying beside your body.

but a mouth kisses and a hand soothes the moment away.

AeishA says

:#7 Nameless

:``By God You Would be one hell of a woman to Know``

:BY god ,nameless ,you would be one hell

:of a `whatever`to whatever ...

:What can i say ,untill you come of out

:of the `closet`NAMELESS!!

Deary, its better to be nameless, and as a result one can offord to be a bit restless, and occasionally a bit reckless. You said it - what can you say.

I have said my piece, a piece which many a person..but whatever is whatever, to whatever from whatever.

I *love * this poetry week thing. Since my own efforts are confined to dreadfully pedestrian stuff, I would like to post one of my all time favorite little poem by Spike Milligan, a love poem even. See I can get romantic with the best of them.:-) The punctuation might be off since I am writing this by memory, but Oh well!

`If I could write words like leaves upon the autumn forest floor

What a bonfire my letters would make.

If I could speak with words of water

You would drown when I say, ``I love you.```

LAST NIGHT IN HELL

could it be, oh goodness me!

an actual labeoctomy

i thought i`d die when heaven crashed

and satan wined and dined and hashed

when horns and tails would replace the tux

when ``go to hell!`` wasnt desolation redux

when art and love and poetry

was a vibrators internal circuitry

and hamsters chased away the swine

of sewers deep inside my mind

when all was lost and birth begun

and quizzes were the start of fun