Dear noisy neighbour drumming next door.
Why punch your drum with such madness and might?
Every morning you get me yawning.
Could your thumps be cheering or mourning?
Do your bongs summon sultry Bollywood songs?
Do they douse out Big Ben’s brash ding dongs?
Do your drumbeats ignite Punjab’s heat?
Do they drown down others’ chronic chatter?
Do you miss orisons ringing in temples?
Do you desire dancing to drums in Carnivals?
Could they clatter like chains grand elephants wear?
While here, chains constrain, and clamp them tight.
Do they rumble your room like Baba’s loud laughs?
Do they accelerate to replicate a snakes’ hiss?
Do they mimic monsoon storms roaring endlessly?
Do they feel like fireworks bursting each Diwali?
Could you crave puris pounding in hot oil?
Or the popping poppadoms’ Nani fries for you?
While here, oven beeps signal soggy samosas.
They don’t crackle like her Punjab samosas.
Do you miss Baba’s aloo tikka, fresh from his tandoor?
It’s crisp singe, zingy lime and tangy chaat masala?
But these English chefs serve you pallid potato spuds.
Their sauces never sizzle, and sing to your tastebuds.
Perhaps your potent punches and pounds,
evoke papri chat’s crunches and sounds.
Oh, your rhythms rouse and drum up a desire,
for spicy pani puri and sharp papri chat.
Let’s sip a lime soda and a mango lassi.
Let’s share your Punjab payasam, and my Andhra arisa,
I’ll strum my sitar with your drum’s bangs.
We’ll play away our bitter pangs.
Please tell me how bells tinkle from young brides’ trousseaus.
I’ll tell you when a buffalo bit my Tata’s crops.
We will not just survive but also truly thrive,
if we reveal our fancies, fears, and our childhood lives.
I can resonate with your unfair fate.
I miss Andhra’s sounds, smells, and sights,
but perhaps after our music and munches,
your fists can endure less bruises and crunches.
Our inner battles should not rattle our hearts.
Though English, Shakespeare sold me strong advice.
He said, if music be the language of love play on.
I say, “if food be the fuel of our friendship, eat up”.
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