Friends, I am really sad to hear of the bomb blasts that have once again rocked Mumbai, the city of my birth - the city where my grand-parents, mama and family lived.  Though very unfortunate, I thought a little black humour might lighten up the spirit.  I would like to clarify that I have no intentions of hurting anyone's feelings or making a mockery of an unfortunate event and do hope that it will be taken in the right spirit.

There was a city named Bombay
And was known that way for many a day
To Mumbai they changed its name
Though the city was pretty much the same
They felt it was better the Marathi way

Sadly terrorists bombed it
The Mumbaites were badly hit
But they went on with life
No matter how much strife
I salute the Marathi manoos' spirit


I only have a question today

Shall I put it down here if I may?

Given the nature of the happenings

And so many bombings

Why not revert to "Bomb Bay"?

Why Old Men Can't Paint

An old man decided to paint a portrait
Inviting a beauty to model and sit straight
She sat there smiling cheeks pink with blush
He did't know what to do with palette and brush
'Cause things happen to old men a little too late!

Honeymooner's reply

This is an extension [or response] by Satchitananda, a co-author of this blog, to my limerick 'Second Honeymoon.' It is originally posted as a 'comment' but it is so good that I have copied and pasted it here.

Ani jhalya gappa goshti suru
Jorjorat va halu halu
They cursed that horrible khadoos
Said "amchya bhangadeet nako padoos"
And to each other said "Aata aapan ithoon paloo".

Good one Vivek.


Thanks Satchi.

Of Old Women and their Foibles

There was an old woman who loved "scrabble"
It was better than hearing herself babble
So she signed up for a game
No two games were the same
She enjoyed in new words to dabble.

There was a woman who was older
That she was a mother-in-law made her a lot bolder
She threw her weight around
And everyone round her finger she wound
But her daughter-in-law gave her a cold shoulder

There was a woman so proud
She lived with her head in a cloud
She ate jam and honey
And had so much of money
That of satin and gold they made her a shroud