Skip to main content

hair-combing outsourcing industry

Other day I am hearing
that one neighbour-lady
is going to beauty parlour
to get hair oiled and combed.
No, no, no facial or manicure,
just hair-combing.
She paid hundred rupees for it.
I am thinking to myself only,
new new things are getting outsourced.

I am imagining how much big
hair-combing outsourcing industry
will ever become?
I am calculating based on
numbers from Wikipedia only.
30% people are poor,
I think they are going to
comb their own hair.

300 million are middle class
and upper class. Some 50%
of those must be kanjoos and not
going to go for outsourcing
but be cruel to their wives
and make them comb their own hair.

That is leaving 150 million people
who maybe outsourcing hair-combing.
More than population of
Russia or Japan.
Everyday they are spending
hundred rupees only for
oiling and combing.
Two days it is staying.

So every month thousand
five hundred per person
for oiling and combing
hair. Into 150 million.
Must be lots of money.

Arre, thank you, madamji.
You are making new frontiers
for our economy to grow.


Aug 26, 2009


Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Nellie, 1983

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

To the piece of orange peel in my bag on the trip to Janjira,

You were the only one to stay by my side when all others Had left me to travel that final stretch homeward alone And while I had to throw you away after two days Because of the stench that made me put the bag in the wash And earn mother's censure onto which she piled older grievances You did help relive some happy memories of the sea breeze And the boatmen's chatter and the old bronze cannons’ roar And cope with those whose IQ is less than yours And taught me that I was mortal in that ride across the creek And that like you I too shall one day be stripped of my essence And confined to the dustbin of humanity I miss you, orange peel Published in Lakdi Ka Pul - II The Poetry Bridge 2017 — an international anthology by Twin City Poetry Club