Mangalashtak

Auspicious day dawns, all are excited,

Arrangements are excellent, leaves everyone delighted.

Friendship culminates, into the marriage rite,

A new journey starts, towards a future bright.

Fortune smiles, on the newly wed,

They’re tied together, with the sacred thread.

Together they step, into a brand new life,

As the priest proclaims, them man and wife.

Caution best be exercised, on this journey new,

Strains are inevitable, so let’s gift Fevicol glue.

They’ll help each other grow, grow old by each’s side,

Buffered by love, they’ll take all in their stride.

Shubh, Mangal, Savdhan, all around them solemnly chant,

They remain happily married, is wish of every uncle and aunt.

A One Poem Wonder?

My failures don't define me, if no one publishes my book,

I'll simply post on my blog, and dangle on social media some hook. 

Lack of readers doesn't deter me, from pouring my heart each day,

I treat that as my personal therapy, to keep ennui at bay. 

 

My success won't define me, if my book is on the bestseller shelf,

It won't transform me overnight, I'll still be my old, next-door self. 

I'll take sweet time to write afresh, not drown in the weight of a sequel,

What the fans expect will shape it much -  I'll only write if I contribute equal. 

My mediocrity doesn't define me, I don't care if my poem imperfectly rhymes,

As long as it conveys my emotions, and shows a mirror to the existing times. 

I don't need to write on universal themes, I'm happy capturing the mundane,

There's beauty to be found in the ordinary, no puns or word plays are inane.

My genius shouldn't define me, I'm much more than my masterpiece,

I'm the drafts that came before it, and the variations that will never cease.

Surrounding Oneself

If you want to be a techie, go to Bengaluru or Silicon Valley,

Surround yourself with smart folks, not hide in a Tier II alley.  

The people you interact with daily, will set the tone for the day, 

You are the sum of five people, with whom you spend time, they say. 

 

If you want to be an artist, move to Paris or Milan, 

Mingle with the rustic countrymen, attend festival of Cannes.

As you get accepted in the fold, you'll start acting as one,

Co-create a new school of art- your initiation has begun.

 

If you want to be a philosopher, seek Himalayas, join a university,

Make books your friends for life, then you can reside in any city.  

When you live day and night, surrounded by people who are now dead,

You'll soon become like them, a brilliant thinker, and very well read.  

I just want to be human, where do I go and set camp?

Where hang the kind folks, who are humanity's champ.

Vision, Strategy, Culture

The vision is mesmerizing, to be the best,

Do not be evil, and in God leave the rest.

It inspires the onlookers, inspires rank and file,

Helps create impact, that will last a while. 

The mission is tangible, the how-to daily guide,

Analyze your competition, use strategy to decide.

As you plan your moves, account for prisoner's dilemma,

To win keep adapting, its a proven lemma.

 

The culture is phenomenal, you're a great place to work,

There's acceptance for everyone, even rebels & comrades lurk.  

It's one big and happy family, with fun and lavish offsites,

People swear by your culture deck, that the average Joe cites.  

Culture, strategy, vision; economics eats all three for all three meal,

When markets go in recession, you lay off people, whats the big deal.

My View

Let's zoom out a little, move from the dance floor to the balcony, 

We toil for it on a daily basis, but there's more to life than money. 

I know you love your work, take pride in the day's nitty gritty,

Having a purpose makes the life bearable, makes it easy, peasy, pretty. 

 

Sometimes though it may happen, you lose sight of your goal,

And being on the top without a vision, can surely take its toll.

Come down to earth on those times, find joy in everyday things, 

Get cocooned in the center of the formation, and give rest to your wings.

Shifting your perspective helps, you don't need to always lead,

There's a beauty to be led on the dance floor, its essential, I plead.

That earns you a ticket to the balcony, from where you can pull strings,

And perched aloft your vantage point, use some arrows and slings.    

I've been the victim, and the oppressor, I've been in the bystander shoe,

I can be the judge, jury and executioner, but I prefer my absurd view.

Factitious

High Pressure High Temperature, diamonds that are lab grown,

Are they the real deal though, existential crisis is full blown.

Can I feel in them art and beauty, and value that diminishes never,

On seeing on my engagement ring, would I be thrilled - are they forever?

 

Plastic surgery is the procedure, the product artificial implants,

I need to modify my body, to whatever the customer wants.  

Choosing silicone over saline, to give it a natural feel,

If I die a bit in the process, become a ghost, whats the big deal.

Fed on a corpus of texts, poems that the Bard regurgitates,

They appear by all means creative, so why the poet agitates?

Shouldn't art be appreciated on its merit, not by who gave it birth, 

Do we need Luddites with pen and paper, for what its worth?

 

Artificial may be superior, may be cheaper, it may not have any flaws,

We'll always prefer the natural, if we knew what's real, what factitious was.

My Ashes Down the Gutter

I want to set an example, won't give in to extortion,

Alimony should be reasonable, in moderation and proportion. 

I know the laws are stacked, heavily against a male,

False cases would be lodged, where you don't even get a bail. 

  

Dates after dates, harassment would follow,

Years would pass by, it's difficult to swallow.

Bribes would be demanded, on refusal to comply,

Adverse judgements passed, without hue and cry. 

 

Driven to the brink, I'm losing face,

I'm ashamed, aghast, they're winning this race.

Why don't you kill yourself, they casually taunt,

Abetment condoned by the judge, my days and nights haunt. 

 

Extortion, harassment, abetment, what more to look?

I want to set an example, so my life I took.

My CV of Failures

Did not land a good campus job, couldn't clear the civil services twice,

These don't find a place on my resume, talking about triumphs should suffice.

My dream was to be an ambassador, work for peace, prevent world war, 

I can brush that aside as a fictional goal, so it doesn't count as a failure anymore!

 

There were more garden variety failures, applying to Google and not getting through, 

Or applying to be a TED fellow and realizing, I haven't even been invited to give a TEDx talk, phew. 

I've also tried my hands at entrepreneurship, trying to make a career in psychology again and again, 

And in the initial days failed to fulfill my calling- spreading happiness and alleviating pain. 

I had also failed to find publishers, for my poetry collection in college days, 

With limited books sold, post self publishing, am I failed poet, who decides, who says?  

I've never been consistent on my psychology blog, I post infrequently, its mostly archive,

But with The Fools Quest I am finding rhythm and rhyme, and on a daily basis in poetry dive. 

 

My foremost failure was with a dear friend, who decided for some time not to speak,

Like all my failures, I'll keep surmounting, you need to walk through the troughs, to reach the peak.  

PS: this post is inspired by the CV of Failure concept introduced by Melanie Stefan. I had written a prose version way back in 2016 and have managed to add a few more failures to this poetic one:-)

Being a Muggle

It's not sadness; I'm worried, I'll not reach my goal,

It's not satisfying, the journey, has started taking its toll.   

I'm indifferent, not enthused, if perchance I succeed, 

In the larger scheme of things, how that'll matter indeed. 

It's not joy, pure energy, that's looking for discharge,

I get irritated and angry, the world appears a big farce.

I start tasks a dozen, don't feel the need for much sleep,

The more the goals take over, the more the rot runs deep. 

My mood is sombre, my thoughts run fast, 

I'm obsessed with future, and mired in the past. 

I keep pacing the corridors, am restless and twitchy, 

Try to fill the inner void, by listening in loop to Lionel Richie. 

I straddle occasionally the magical worlds, of mania and depression, 

But I'm mostly a normal next door guy, is my solemn confession. 

Hold On

When hope is lost, and the debt is high,

You're boxed in a corner, and the end seems nigh,

Trapped and helpless, you can't get out, 

To make it end swiftly, you act sans doubt.

The act may be symbolic, a cry for help, 

To dissuade the people, who are after your scalp. 

Scare them enough, they'll hound you no more,

As sympathies pour in, prepare for what's next in store.

At times however, the motive is hard to make out,

Maybe you're tired, apathetic, or on the verge of burnout.

You don't mind living, you don't mind settling the debt,

You're indifferent to the outcome, indulge in Russian Roulette. 

Whether stressed, bored or seeking help, I feel the end of your rope,

Let this day pass gently, tomorrow we'll together, weave new hope.

Fly High

If I had more time, would have written a shorter letter, 

Would have schooled you less, been a parent better.  

Now that you're away, I'm still not prepared, 

To cover my true feelings, my heart I've bared.

You're happy, You're busy, distance makes one fond, 

When you get 10 minutes daily, its easy to bond.

You are at a short distance, that is within hand's reach,

The distance seems imaginary, more like a figure of speech. 

 

Living apart, we've hopefully drawn closer,

With you flying away, I'm finally getting closure. 

Most parents live vicariously, through their child, 

I've lived a prosaic life, so now you're off to the wild. 

 

Don't have unfulfilled dreams, just become a go-getter,

If I had more time, would have written a shorter letter.

Published Poet

Its just vanity publishing, they brushed it aside,

If you can get 10 books sold, it'll be a matter of pride.

Published author, my foot, you just want that added, to your name, 

You'll end up gifting books - that people will read them, is a tall claim.

 

If your poems were any good, they would have been lapped, by agents,

Publishers would line outside your house- pay you in dollars, not cents.

Critics would tear you apart, or applaud you, as per their whim, 

Not ignore as if you didn't exist, leave your poems anonym.  

Posterity would judge fairly, you cite Van Gogh,

Each creation a masterpiece, not pearls that are faux.

It takes an eye of a connoisseur, to behold their charm, 

Are you ready to go down like Vincent, driven to self harm?

You can write me off, all you like, but my poems will speak,

I'll keep sending messages in a bottle - week after week. 

PS: This is the 100th poem I have posted on this blog in this calendar year. Thanks for reading!

Sweet Memories

Memories lift you up, bring a smile to your face,

One thing leads to other, nostalgia finds space.

Positive emotions swell, you reach out to old friends,

They're same old- quirky and informal- your hesitation ends.

Sweet are the hallowed memories, memories of sweet nothings,

Sweet were the old friends, and I, a sweeter version, methinks. 

The more I reminiscence, the more stuff I unearth that's sweet,

I can go on a roller coaster of memories, without missing a beat. 

I am a connoisseur of sweets, some say I am diabetes prone,

Excess of anything is harmful, I'm now feeling all alone.

The more fun I seemed to have in the past, the more I am missing now, 

That my golden years would be my nemesis, who would've thought, holy cow!   

Memories weigh you down, take their toll,

Past looms larger, and the future seems small.

Regenerating In This Life Only

Scorned by her father-in-law, not invited to the ceremony, 

Shiva was indifferent- he cared for neither fame, nor money.  

Sati was however different, her anger turned inward,

She chose to self-immolate, rather than move forward.  

His ardhangani dead, Shiva's indifference was tested, 

He performed a deadly Tandav, and only after divine intervention rested.

Attached to the corpse, furious at the world,

Tragedy averted only, after the sudarshan was hurled.

If you are a woman, and wronged upon,

You can burn internally, and in a jiffy be gone.

If you are a man, and rubbed wrong way,

No one bears your wrath, let's hope and pray. 

 

The myths are seductive, from destructive urges, even Gods weren't immune,

Just hold on, you will become Shankar-Parvati, when the time is opportune.  

Homecoming

20 yrs have elapsed, since I left the org, 

Colleagues have spread wide, from Timbuktu to Luxembourg.  

Memories are still fresh, of my encounter with that first job,

It holds a special place in my heart, that no one has managed to rob.

 

11th hour productions, to Adi's whiteboard, 

Having fun at the workplace, that was clean and overboard. 

Junk was the place where, me and my ilk used to hangout, 

having philosophical discussions, or pulling legs - difficult to make out.

Different Activity Groups, I was the champion of ReachOut,

The groups may have dispersed, but the missions they still carry out.

To me the high-point, was the culture, the ideas exchange, 

I hardly remember the TES work- the signal's clearly beyond my range. 

HSS will be remembered dearly, for the people who were its part, 

Joining the WA group feels like homecoming- this time never to depart.

Breaking Through!

The road gets blocked, the destination's afar,

The journey loses its sheen, I deny on me its power.

The anger within swells, energizes my feet,

I want to jump over the blockade, emerge clean and neat. 

 

Allow me a side alley, I negotiate with all my might,

I am stuck on the roadway, if not ahead, then take me right.

When nothing budges, I become depressed and sour,

I try to crawl my way out, but sans energy can't go far. 

Acceptance dawns, my fate is stranded midway,

There's not much I can do, but hope and pray.

I've gone through all the motions, I'm now at that stage,

Either bludgeon through the mess, or choose to turn a new page.

With grit I can keep going, with hope I find new ways,

That I can't fly but have to be grounded- can't transcend, who says?

Still Going Strong

Salaries delayed, bonus forsaken,

Below par salary, on the path you have taken.

Cash flow concerns, lifestyle modified,  

Frequent crunches, leaves your Bheja fried. 

Work is its own reward, if its bonus you want,

You'll get additional responsibilities, that variable you can flaunt.

A higher position, more power, more work, 

All's for your taking, no stocks, no perk.

 

When the company's fumbling, you take a cut,

When it starts flourishing, don't be greedy, avoid glut.

Money, Money, Money, just look at yourself, 

You know the science of happiness- its not just for your bookshelf.

 

What's a fair compensation, its hard to say,  

I love my work dearly, that keeps disillusionment at bay!

To Report or Not To Report

Don't say it loud, keep it hush hush,

Let the moment pass quickly, under the carpet brush.

If the child utters abuse, pretend you didn't hear, 

Or else attend courts, for the rest of the year.

 

The law that was made, to keep safe the child,

To ensure they are protected, are not predated or profiled.

By mandating a mandatory reporting, disincentivizes the shrink,

They would rather look the other way, and invalidate in a blink.  

That a family member abused, is hard to admit, 

With your counselor playing blind, you are at the end of your wit.

No one wants to get involved, its better to turn deaf,

Max report to an NGO anonymously, be it Childline or UNICEF.

 

The child has opened up after fighting, loads of stigma and shame, 

If POCSO makes my life hell, and I ignore who's to blame.

Dead Poet Society

Poets are the Postal Service, that has long lost its raison d'etre, 

Some consider them as the harbingers, but they are on the wrong trajectory.

In the age of instant messaging and couriers, they simply limp along, 

They need to wake up from this slumber, they are on history's side that is wrong. 

Poets are the new Ponzi scheme, they write for and read each other, 

Each pushing the other in the community, to enlist another brother. 

Outside of the lit bubble, everyone looks down on the clowns,

They need to get rid of the grand delusions, and settle for the hand-me-downs. 

Poets are the Anna Hazare movement, that got hijacked and transformed, 

If you can't sell a poetry book, defect to a different genre, get reformed.  

Either remain true to your voice, or cop out to the market place,

Either way we lose a poet - either you are not read or lose your face. 

Why do I call myself a poet, when my poems don't sell,

I enjoy waking people from the dead, can't you now tell!

Poetry Therapy

Sometimes with my poems, my wounds I lick, 

Other times I nurture ulcers, pain gives me a kick. 

Sometimes I pour venom, that burns the page on which I write, 

Other times I become Neelkanth, making the world's wrongs right.  

They say poetry heals trauma - of world or myself - difficult to say, 

At the rate this balm is being applied, poetry is here with me to forever stay. 

Some use it as a vehicle, to regurgitate emotions and clarify thoughts,

To make some sense of madness, to forcefully fit and connect the dots. 

I write as a form of therapy, to soothe and heal the world, 

To create a caring universe, to weave magic with my word.

My therapy though is shock therapy, to shake you from your sleep,

My words should haunt and taunt you - pierce and puncture you deep.

 

Physician, heal thyself, is the retort you make,

I'll keep hurting with my poems- there's much at stake! 

 

Sailing Again?

You have been sailing for long, and the coast is now near,

You were headed somewhere else - you need to rest my dear.  

Would you still turn around, towards your true North Star,

And start again on a voyage, to the one calling from afar?

The island offers respite, maybe that's your destiny,

One can always twist the facts- go have a celebration mini.

But would you be able to sleep at night, peaceful and serene,

Knowing it wasn't your calling, someplace else you could've been?

Is it too late and risky, to start afresh?

Is abandoning the coast, a decision rash?

Isn't a bird in hand, better than two in the bush?

Can you set sail again, when shove comes to push? 

I've been lost at sea for years, I'm finally ready to anchor and dock,

But how can I make the wrong landing, won't my true destination mock?

The Dark Side

I like those narratives, simple and plain, 

Where on one hand there's hero, on another a villain.  

The hero I worship, can't have shades of gray, 

And I cant deal with the devil, come what may.

 

Who's hero, who's villain, its hard to say,

The hero's on my side, is what matters, If I may.    

The one on the other side, I'll paint in black,

How can the hero be bad, if he has my back?

We have a symbiotic relationship, he feeds on me,

Through him I get reflected- what I want to be.

A white light that dazzles, does nobody any good,

I am happy with the dark spots- they have test of time stood.  

My hero lets me down daily, for he's a mirror image of me, 

I'm stuck in this catch-22, maybe the villain will set me free.

 

This Diwali

This Diwali, light a candle,

Not because, it can darkness handle.

It burns fast, darkness will assert again,

When that happens, light another - simple and plain.

This Diwali, share some sweet,

To end bitterness, think on your feet.

Nothing can be sugary, all year through,

Be a source of sweetness, in the human zoo.

This Diwali, let the fireworks begin,

Not to dazzle neighbours, that would be a sin.

But to let others share, in your joy of living,

Gift the sparkle of laughter, in the spirit of giving.

This Diwali, invite a few friend,

Celebrations may get over, but memories never end.

Change Agent

How can you change opinions, when you take an adversarial stance?

Convincing someone of your truth, is not a battle, but a dance!

Two steps forward to mark progress, one step backwards to make peace, 

If you are obsessed with winning each round, you'll miss the forest for the trees.

 

How can you change opinions, when for you listening feels remote,

You demolish with cold logic, not caring about what they emote.

For you can always win an argument, but lose a loyal friend,  

How you reach a common ground for both, is what matters in the end. 

 

How can you change opinions, when you're cocksure of what you know,

If you can't unlearn and think again, your wisdom will never grow. 

Monkey see, monkey do, when you are open, they open up,  

You need to make space within, you can't pour in a filled cup. 

Why do you want to change opinions, and what do you want to change?

We can change the world- one person at a time, but not ourselves, I find funny and strange.

 

The Blame Game

A student died recently, she was ultimately to blame,

That the system could have played a part, is an excuse that is lame.

She was a PhD candidate, perhaps of Scheduled caste,

In an institute filled with bright lads, she was doomed to fail from start.

 

How can the institute take the blame, don't they have a counseling cell,  

If she was unhappy, she could have left the place, it was not a prison cell. 

For all you know, the institute offered, courses in stoicism, 

How to grit and bear the pain, its not their fault she didn't listen. 

Why did she choose a guide, who would demand utmost of her, 

Then fall sick and lose attendance, in the mid-sem draw a cipher.  

Why was she born in a family, where it was second habit to succeed,

If despite all this she took her life, isn't she to blame indeed. 

Token actions will be taken, token candlelight will be lit,

 If we believe she could have been saved, lets kill the system, if so be it.

 

PS: The piece is inspired by a recent student suicide but is speculative and based on my feelings and knowledge of student suicides in general, and I am not privy to the actual facts of the case. 

 

 

The World Mental Health Day

Many pay just lip service, only a few go all hog,

Its celebrated by everyone, from Danny to their dog. 

Indulging in a token act, has become an established fad,  

That none seem to have a skin in the game, it makes me feel so bad.

So I vow to do some activism, spread awareness and stigma fight, 

Shouting from the rooftops, that I have Bipolar, seems so right.  

They still stay huddled in their ghettos, hidden even from Mossad,

That they suffocate in their closet daily, it makes me feel so sad.  

Awareness is not enough it seems, you have to take it to the masses,

Make it affordable for the common man, not just for the classes.  

Therapy sessions cost a bomb, AI chat-bot too is expensive a tad,

That not all can pay for them to be heard, it makes me feel so mad. 

Everyone wishes this scourge to end, from the veteran to the new grad, 

That I'm digging my heels, day in and day out, it makes me feel so glad.

 

Nothing Classical About This

Cold and distant, the space is indeed vast,

The future doesn't pull it, its indifferent to the past. 

In a background that is dark, sombre and empty,

There are tiny specks of light, burning bright, and aplenty. 

Fuzzy and flowing, they break all bounds,

If you try to pin them, they play hare and hounds.

Once they get entangled, they'll persist till the end, 

Whether on Top or Bottom, their Strange Charm they'll blend.

It's in the classical realm, that things are settled and dull, 

Once you aim for the moon, the ordinary is void and null. 

The mystery reappears, as they artificially collide,  

In the quest for God they ditch, what was tested and tried. 

 

My heart is deeply entangled, your pull wraps it around, 

Relative to the Schrodinger's cat, I'm lucky to have- lost and found.

Reason Vs Emotion

Think again, think afresh,

Don't count emotions, any less. 

For all your reasoning, and intellectual rigmarole, 

If you discount your feelings, you're just digging a hole. 

Weigh all options, analyze what's best,

If something satisfies, your search can rest.

The important choice, is driven by gut, 

Rationalize all you want, its all post-hoc but.

  

Stuck in a loop, thoughts cloud judgement, 

Let out loose, emotions cause misjudgement.

Excess of either, not good for your health,

Let them work out of sight, in a mode that's stealth.  

Emotions may hijack, thoughts may paralyze,

Reason may be the smart move, following intuition is wise.

The C-Suite

CEO's make decisions, are the face of the org,

Take 6 figure salaries, fly in jets to Luxembourg. 

They are leaders par excellence, have charisma and drive,

Like Queen bees they are supported, by workers in the hive. 

COO's run the company, the day to day work,

When will they become #1, the ambition does lurk.

Managers par excellence, they know their people well,

In the desire to get results, they often on their people yell. 

CFO's crunch numbers, they ensure the cash flow,

They know when to raise investments, and in winter to lie low. 

Accountants par excellence, they know how to balance books, 

To save the costs they can be ruthless- don't go by their looks. 

We all aspire at times, to be a part of that, distinguished C-suite,

By the time we climb the ladder, are we so exhausted, to cheat is sweet?

Tu Culpa

That you would snap under pressure, are neither Teak nor Oak,

Is none of our fault - that much everyone should soak.

Adversity builds character, we define what's called normal,  

That you were born a Birch or a Willow, is profoundly abnormal. 

You have neither strength nor resilience, O Tempora O Mores, 

You had ambition to grow and get tall, now why cry hoarse?  

Why cry over spilled milk, Que Sera Sera is the way, 

Let the dead wood drift silently, let's burn pots out of clay.

 

In the furnace of life, let diamonds be wrought,

Let the young ones fuel the fire, before sets the rot. 

Sacrifice of a few is justified, if its to get work done,

Sorting through weak and strong- is a noble purpose for one! 

 

That some of us snap under pressure, is the fault in our trees?

That some can't withstand the toxic winds, but were made for the gentle breeze? 

 

You Win Some, You Lose Some

Driven by a desire, to prove our tenants wrong,  

That they can't crash my career, the preparation was a song.

Topping JEE in the city, getting a 98 AIR,

Was a cherry in the cake, my golden hour.

 

Driven by a desire, to prevent the third world war,

Giving it my all, as the doomsday seemed next door,

I gave 2 attempts, didn't make it to the interview stage,  

Not many know that aspect- I've disowned that phase. 

Driven by a desire, to make psychology my day job,

I gave GRE, left IT companies- but it was all a sorry sob. 

2 failed attempts at Flourish Mentoring, 5 yrs that were fallow, 

Eventually led to PeakMind, I'm now that 'second career' fellow. 

 

Slowly and steadily I've arrived, failures have punctuated that occasional success,  

Now that you know my inner story, please don't let that make you think of me less. 

 

 

Time to Rewrite the Textbooks

Cheap Chinese goods - buying them considered anti-national, 

Many don't maximize utility, not all are what may be called rational.  

Others don't maximize profits, they spawn a social enterprise, 

They are driven by purpose and passion- and their tribe continues to rise. 

 

The concept of rational agents, is a fiction and nothing more,

That we are selfish- and that's optimal- needs to be shown the door. 

In a market that's not free, where information is constrained, 

We need interventions to break monopolies, so that consumer isn't left drained. 

 

Even if information was perfect, and our computing of pros and cons infinite,    

We'll be better served by emotions, as our logical decisions come back to bite.

We didn't choose our partners, to maximize RoI and minimize opportunity cost,

We believe in love and commitment, and not all to economics is lost. 

We are taught in Econ 101, that we should be selfish, rational and calculate cold, 

The reality is we help each other, are emotional and not all are digging for gold.

Immersion

Come again, You departed too soon,

You'll come again, I'm over the moon.

The one who comes, has to eventually go away,

Only a few are remembered, a few hold sway.

As You leave my home, You reside in my heart,

The memories make an imprint, as You gently depart.

They're enough to sustain, for the rest of the year,

That I'll see You again, makes me content my dear. 

 

10 days of connection, what more can I ask? 

11th day is to let go - I am put to task.

Can I come to terms - You'll no longer be there, 

When life turns to grey, is coveting You unfair?

It's easy to philosophize - one who comes has to go,

I'll keep You in my heart, immersed, is all I know!

Better Than Me?

What to play next, I let Spotify decide,

I let algorithms rule, as long as there's manual override.

I can skip a song, choose what to play next, 

But I'm usually on auto play- the algo knows the best.    

Be it operators in lifts, or controls in self driving cars, 

We initially design things, where there's scope for manual overpower.

Slowly and steadily, we need to hand over the reins,

Let the pilots enjoy the scenery, while the machine flies the planes.  

To do manually leads to errors, to outcomes that are lame,

That AI can do something better, but we don't trust- is a shame.

The accidents can reduce, if there were self driving cars, 

No alcohol, no road rage, no fatigue, no breaking of laws.

 

The algo has a better insight, it can make a better decision, 

I'll trade in my autonomy any day, just allow me my manual intervention. 

 

Why They Die

A student dies to suicide, every 40 minutes,

I understand, feel numb, I am at the end of my wits. 

Its a shocking stat, it drives home a sombre point,

That to slay this monster, we need an operation joint.

 

The state where I live - Maharashtra tops the chart,

The city I was born - Kota seems to have no heart, 

Or so the OTT and media, will have us believe,

If Kota was obliterated, will this scourge us leave? 

 

If you are not part of the solution, you are part of the rot, 

Maybe you push your child in careers, they don't like a lot.

The profs' unsaid expectations, the glorification of those who top,

If we are committed to Zero Suicide, all this has to first stop,

No one wants to talk about the culprit, the elephant in the room, 

We put pressure to forge diamonds, when they crumble- to blame whom?

Teacher's Day - A Call To Action

Some set in motion ripples, others leave a lasting impression.

Each touches our lives- for better or worse, in one or the other fashion. 

A teacher is not necessarily someone, you encounter in a classroom.

It's anyone who helps us learn and grow - from cradle to the tomb.

It's the teacher's job to push us, discover our limits, so we can break them,

In K.G. it may be learning alphabets, in college to play with the word's stem. 

Though challenges are an important part, a good teacher is equal parts support.

Scaffolding and shielding us, and in times of storm, becoming the nearest port.   

What happens to that teacher, who is now old and but forgotten, 

A few pupils maintain a bond, though they may not be their begotten.

The evidence though sparse, that what they did really mattered, 

Is enough to keep them going, though now they're worn and tattered. 

 

We seldom appreciate, how good a teacher, on calling will feel, 

Lets pick the phone and make their day- let's not our feelings conceal.

A Modern Guru (Prof Alok Rai)

When I chose to present Lolita, in the Modern Fiction class, 

Most were left aghast, as the topic seemed crass. 

Appreciating my analysis, I remember what you said next,

'If I was a little more braver, that would be my primary text'.

 

Modern Indian Fiction in Translation, the other course I took,

Exposed me to 'The Home and The World', a bible more than a book. 

The Rashomon style of narration, influenced my novella's form,

As the butterfly flapped its wings, I could find my voice, in the storm.

 

My sonnets followed an archaic pattern, but you never looked down,

On my attempts to redefine modernity, you did not frown.

You encouraged me to read poems, from other modern poets too,

To see whats going on in the mehfil, and not be left without a clue. 

I might not be a poet, just because of you, your influence might have been fleeing,

But you have achieved a more stellar feat- you've made me a sensitive, human being. 

 

 

 

The True North

Chasing numbers, running after MAU,

Targets achieved- now take a bow. 

Targets revised, new metric in place,

Incentives defined- now run at faster pace. 

Keep moving fast, numbers your True North,

If he doesn't count in MAU, he's not a user henceforth.  

Our billing is tied, to how many use our app, 

Let's engage as many as possible, there's no limit, no cap.

The mantra we should hum, daily MAU, MAU, MAU,

If we move to a higher slab, we would arrive, and how.

When I'm sleeping, I'm dreaming, how many users we can add,  

I'm getting obsessed with these numbers, is business really so bad?

 

Every business has a soul, why we started in first place, 

Either make the user center, or let's bow out with grace.

 

Modern Eklavya

Short stories written, in a creative writing course, 

Under your sharp eyes became, refined from coarse.  

That you read out excerpts, and appreciated in class, 

Made me feel like I'm 24 carats, not polished brass.  

Getting a seat in your course, was a stroke of luck, 

The assignments forced, my creativity to run amok. 

Though you were a celebrated poet, I never read your verse,

Our styles didn't really resonate- for better or worse. 

My collection's dark theme, was at odds with your ideology,

Not sure if you read till the end, for the epilogue was my apology.

I sent you my novella, expecting a Dakshina from my Guru,  

You were obliged to get me published, just like the sky is blue. 

 

I was audacious in those days, I am audacious still,

I admire you as my teacher, but I'll keep sharpening my quill. 

Teacher's Day Tribute - 1

Programming is a science, all programs should look the same, 

Given a problem statement, what can differ is a variable name.  

So used to say my prof, at the start of the CS 102,

Only to assert at the end -  programming is an art too.  

He taught me how to think logically, write algos and recurse, 

I remember him fondly nowadays, as the one who read my verse.  

Imagine the joy of finding, on the intranet he'd linked to my page,

The legitimacy it bestowed suddenly - all the world was my stage. 

 

It wasn't fame I was after, nor validation, or feelings of pity,

Just an ack that there was more to it, than mere rhythmicity. 

That a prof would care to read, and find good enough to link,  

Gave me courage to keep writing, and now I write in a blink. 

How to program with humility, I learned from you at IITD,

The right tribute to you Prof Suban, is if a good poet I can be!

Why I Won't Lay Arms

You can imitate a Monet, but can you create art?

You can initiate a dialogue, but does it have a heart? 

My input can't be gauged, unless its given a context,

My insight is unsurpassed, despite your corpus of text.

 

I may lose my job eventually, you're better at some chores,

When I don't have to earn my bread, that can open some doors. 

I'll keep thinking for myself, you can assist, but nothing more,

I'll keep doing the creative stuff, don't be a hog or a bore.

 

Trillions of docs you've memorized, millions of tokens I pass,

I can feed you all my sonnets, but can you match my class? 

I won't hit below the belt, that you sometimes hallucinate,

That's a common thread that binds us- we can rise above our fate.

 

You can mix and match great ideas, they're good you can't care less, 

You are neither driven by right or wrong, there I have an edge, God bless. 

 

 

 

Missing

I don't miss you nowadays, your memories a distant blur,

I'm a pro at expressing myself, not a bumbling amateur.

Earlier I used to pine for you, you were my eternal muse,

Now I just pick my pen and write, I've no time for that ruse.

 

A lot of water has flown since- I now write a sonnet a day,

On subjects ordinary and varied, some sombre, some gay.

Rarely do I talk about my past, my sonnets aren't about love,

Rarer in them to find a mention, of you or the God above. 

Like God you are a background hum, omnipresent and ignored, 

My poems are about myself- a show of creativity when I get bored.

I don't need you for my passion, I don't need you for my pain,

I don't need you as a reminder, of that friendship gone down the drain. 

Just when I think I'm over you, that I'm finally free at last,

A memory surfaces on Facebook, of a poem from my past. 

A Market For Poems?

Everyone who is sensitive, or appreciates beauty,

Is a potential connoisseur, is bound by duty,

To read, reflect, and mull, let a chord strike his very being,   

That the whole world can be a market- believing is seeing. 

Everyone who can read well, is proficient in English, 

Is part of my target segment, the swamp in which I fish.

Sea may not be my oyster, I can always cry a river,

And pin by slings and arrows, shooting from my quiver.

 

Everyone who likes or loves me, our paths crossed perchance,

Whose mind share I have earned, who's ready to finance.

Buys my books or coffee, is a patron in true sense,

Likes my poems on Facebook, be they obtuse or dense. 

 

What should I optimize for, to grow TAM, SAM or SOM?

I write for you my dear, not to please harry, dick or tom. 

My Reading Evolution

I used to read often, for pleasure and fun, 

Famous Five or Five Find Outers, they all seemed one.

The genre was fixed, pulp fiction about Vijay and Vikas,

I used to hide and read- now I'm at peace with that past.

 

I used to read often, fascinated by metaphors and puns,

On the lookout for literary devices, like Chekov's guns. 

To read in Homer more than, what was originally meant to be,  

The short stories and classics, were a license to philosophize for me. 

I used to read often, to gain psychological expertise,

Be it textbooks or popular ones, I used to finish in a breeze.

The mysteries of the human mind, that surface from deep freeze,

Are psychoanalytical or evolutionary? Did I miss the forest for the trees?

I now read daily, to apply, transform and improve,  

By taking the joy out of reading, what exactly did I prove?

To Call or Not to Call?

Friendships fade, for a million reasons,

Some sour over time, due to changing seasons,

Some abruptly end, with no one knowing why,

Some wither and dissipate, with nothing left to try.  

We never fought, I'm not indebted to you,

Now distant and apart, we were of a kind, we two. 

The motivation lurks, to pick up the phone and call,

I keep rehearsing in my mind, but whole day I stall. 

It's neither your birthday, nor is it the Diwali fest,

If you don't pick up my call, can I brush it in jest?

Or will the awkwardness of having called, and the imaginary humiliation,

Stop this Sudama from calling his friend, who is now at a higher station. 

 

Practice makes it perfect,  today I've called a dozen friends,

That I'll finally speak to you, I'm charged and pumped no ends.

 

Friends till the Ends

Ba Ba black sheep, have you any friends?

Yes sir, yes sir, they're for real, not pretends. 

One to cheer me up, the other to calm me down,

The third to make me laugh, by acting like a clown.

 

Ba Ba black sheep, how deep are your friends?

Yes sir, yes sir, their friendship never ends.

One goes the extra mile, the other calls in morning at 3,

The third can lay his life for me, and I'll do the same, you see.

 

Ba Ba black sheep, have you many friends?

Yes sir, yes sir, they come in hordes and tens.

One from the workplace, the other from where I live,

The third from the college days, that I reminisce and relive.  

Ba Ba black sheep, have you a special friend?

Yes sir, yes sir, that why this sonnet I penned!

 

Stuck

Onward and upwards, climb I must,

Get promoted each year, be it boom or bust.

My self-worth attached, to the title I hold,

Only on reaching the top, will my story be told. 

I've reached a decent stature, my station at work,

Can I move up even further, self doubts lurk.

My level of (in)competence, defines my role, 

Can't move up or down, round peg in square hole. 

If I was brilliant in my role, they would move me up,

If I was not performing well, they'd prepare a backup. 

Mediocrity rewarded, I'm stagnant and secure,

No company will poach me, I'll be loyal, for sure.

You can't promote me up, you can't demote me down,

I keep swimming in circles - pls let me float or drown. 

Social Media Policing

Every word you write, every move you make,

I'll be watching you -  whether sleeping or awake.

For by reading what you write, I can infer what you feel,

And figuring your mood is easy- through your insta reels. 

 

You may find it creepy, when your tweets I follow,

But I gain a lot of insights, when 140 chars I swallow. 

I can find there subtle nuances, that I can't see on your face.

My software keeps analyzing, you are moody on which days.   

I've trained my program, to look for signs of distress,

Detect anxiety and depression, suicidal thoughts or stress. 

What you share so casually, becomes a fodder for me, 

When you know I'm prying, would you still share free? 

SM posts or not, I'll always look out for you,

AI engine or not, I track when you are happy too.

The Separation

Someone has gone afar, why do you cry,

'He's happy', 'you are glad', why do you lie?

If he hadn't moved first, you would've said bye, 

Now that he's gone, why do you miss him, and sigh. 

 

Its OK to feel sad, when a part of you departs,  

He has chosen something else, be it science or arts.

What started as an interest, you fanned by giving hearts,

Now it consumes him full-time, not in fits and starts.

Distance you could make peace with, you become close when not near,

How can you bear the thought, that he doesn't have time for you, my dear. 

The path on which you nudged him, will take him far, is what you fear,

He'll become a blur in space-time, as he gets lost in studies and a career. 

Are the golden days over, is it downhill from now?

Separation completed, you're on your own, and how!

Friends Forever?

Friendship day is approaching, let me reach out to that friend, 

That bond got broken over time, it will take time to mend.

When I think of approaching him, he seems a stranger to me,

Although I know as soon as we talk, like old times it would be.

I don't know how his day looks like, just that he's now a big shot,

I'm busy with whats going on in my life, its been ages since we caught. 

How would I feel if he called me today- Happy and elated, of course!

Why do I think my calling out of blue, he'll frown upon and not endorse. 

Then there's this bigger issue, who should call first,

Should only one keep calling, leading to that outburst.

They say it takes two to tango, I'm sure he too loves to dance,

But whether we'll dance again, we are both leaving to chance. 

We may be strangers now, but we were once, friends in the past,

If we can befriend strangers, we can surely become, friends again fast.

Spontaneity, Anyone?

Focused on a task, more dead than alive,

Lost in spreadsheets, like a bee in a hive, 

Conforming to society, I'm a cog, that's my role,

To make honey for my Queen, is that my goal? 

Immersed in my comb, I'm buzzing with life, 

Just made a beautiful Prezi, making that was a prize.

I venture far and wide, looking for flowers and foes, 

Cross pollinating one, while stinging the other's toes.

 

When I want to control, all becomes mechanical and dead, 

The honeycomb gets fragmented, a means for my bread.

When I open to the world, I appreciate the bee dance,

I want to wander like they do, and give life a chance.

 

If you put me in a box, I''ll give you honey like a bee,

But if you want to see me dancing - just let me be. 

Keep Playing

You can take all the winnings, or you can be left with no part,

When you bet all you've got, you elevate gambling to an art.   

The highs stakes environment, the possibility of a disaster, 

The looming enslavement, or the thrill of emerging a master. 

A strategy that is high risk, aut Caesar aut nihil, 

Its OK to be left high and dry, but just go for the kill.  

The real crime is when you are tempted - to play it safe, keep it low key,

Not exploring what you're made of, not realizing what you can really be.

 

The journeys you take, the destinations you seek,

Should terrify the gods, speak nothing of the meek.   

What happens though, when you've jumped from a plane,

And the parachute didn't open, you're now plastered and in pain.

 

Fly high and dream again, bet on the sky that's left,

A sliver of hope always remains, so let that be your bet. 

Shock Therapy

Sometimes a jolt is needed, to revive a dying man,

Sometimes the bridges are burnt, and you are left, without a backup plan.

Sometimes you learn to swim, only when pushed in a pool, 

Sometimes you need to start afresh, though you may look like a fool.

Sometimes the habit of a chain, makes the calf unaware of its strength,

Sometimes despite maturing, you can't go the extra length.

Sometimes you forget the skies, a price steep enough, for the comfort of a cage,

Sometimes you need to boil and simmer, before transitioning, to a new phase. 

Sometimes you want to jump from planes, with the safety of a chute,

Sometimes you try to change the course, with a force that is brute. 

Sometimes the world conspires, and frees you from your rock,

Sometimes you can't follow your dreams, thinking what will people talk.

I've been tossed and crushed against my will, I'm down but not out,

I've reached the nadir of my life, now the only way is up - no doubt!

Missing a Friend

12 missed calls, from 5 different friends,

No response, or busy tone, we were at wits ends.

The matter was urgent, a Friday night party,

That a regular was missing, was a cause for anxiety.

He's a mouse at his home, his leg we used to pull,

Without him attending, the quorum wasn't full.

We shot on wide angle, all the gathered friends,

And shared over WhatsApp, to cajole and make amends.

The message wasn't received, the blue tick didn't come,

We celebrated in nearby restaurant, while he was perhaps lonesome.

Our outrage was justified, why ignore us all,

Was our celebration secondary, to some official call?

As the party drew to an end, a message was received,

My connection was down, please don't feel aggrieved.

Hunting For An Answer

How are you? Doing great!

I blurt out inanity, in a mindless state. 

How's work? As great as ever!

I struggle for an answer, substantial or clever. 

The work is tepid, I'm lying fallow,

If I don't speak the truth, am I a lying fellow?

Is it OK to dump, my feelings on others,

Are you really keen to know, what I'm doing brothers?

I rarely do something, I wait and watch,

When the game appears, I take the game up a notch.

Striking strong, when the opportunity strikes,

I conserve my energy, for the occasional spikes. 

I should answer happy and feasting, if I play by the books,

But hungry, on the prowl and wasting, is how most of my day looks.

Using the 3 Rs

You get defined by your choices, of what you read,

The libraries you visit, the bookshelves you need. 

You vote with your money, the books you buy,

Shape the man you become, by and by.

You get defined by your choices, of what you write,

Whether its healing or humorous, or hits with a bite. 

You may choose to be inspired, write once in a blue moon,

But to depend on a masterpiece, is to risk oblivion soon.

You get defined by your choices, of the math you do,

Whether you believe in zero-sum games, or make 1+1 more than 2.

You may calculate like a pro, or you may prefer to start from zero, 

If you can balance what is yours, with whats of others, you are a hero.

Reading wRiting aRithmetic, are more than skills or a pastime, 

If you don't let them define you - it would be a heinous crime.

Highly Sensitive

Rashes and allergies, due to an innocuous herb,  

I am not as rock solid as others - you can easily perturb. 

Easily startled by sounds, that to others are imperceptible,

Bruised by a pea deep below, to the prince makes me acceptable.

 

Gloom and doom, because of an innocuous weather,

If its too cold or hot, I turn to stone from feather.  

I count the many shades, of blues and blacks around, 

Can feel the weight of being different, even before I am crowned. 

 

Hurt and pained, because of an innocuous comment,

I can discern the scorn, that is only tangentially meant.   

I get triggered in a hundred ways, or go in a shell like a touch-me-not,

My empathy can heal the kings, like the Grail that is highly sought

My sensitivity is not my Achilles heel, its the unique vantage I have got,

It lets me absorb and process deeply, and rise above the human lot.

Niksen

The day gets washed, like a torrent of rain, 

Incessant striving, that goes down the drain.

When night starts to fall, there is some relief, 

I center like a dew- no matter how brief.

 

Just lying there passively, no fury, no steam, 

No plans to drown the city, or join hands with the stream. 

Taking my sweet time, to form and disappear,   

Being present in the moment, content in the now-and-here.  

That moment of stillness, looks idle and waste, 

As the morning dawns, gets trampled in haste.

A new day demands, we pick our parts again,

And face the world anew, come storm or rain.

There's an art to doing nothing, it needn't create art, 

You don't need a new poem daily- to heal your heart.

Carbon Copy

Don't expect your child, to become your carbon copy,

He may dance to a different beat, be it work or hobby.

You may be a studious nerd, he an athletic hunk, 

You may prefer country music, to his rock and punk.

Don't let the weight of expectations, chip away at his life,

To hope, that he follows in your footprints, is just not right.

Let him explore his passions, let him repeat mistakes, 

Let him give exams, that are prestigious and high stakes.

His constitution is different, you have to give him space,

Let him decide for himself, how he wants to win this race.

Let him stumble and fall, as long as his intentions are right, 

He'll rise up again and again, and will put up a good fight.

 

I'm glad you put some pressure, to ensure a carbon copy, 

In matters of values and morals, one cant afford to be sloppy. 

An Obituary

If a tree was cut in the society, and nobody complained,

Did it really happen, were the residents truly pained?

A permission had been obtained, so they were legally safe, 

- That it was only for trimming, made some of us bicker and chafe. 

 

'Earth's day's memory, is hardly forgotten,

Trees take years to grow- to kill them is rotten!'

Others countered, 'don't you know the simple, tree bonsai concept',

As to why - 'the branches fall in our parking, via them in balconies rodents crept'

It was also brought to our painful attention, that the very flats we live,

Were built after cutting down tress, so why do the builders we forgive.

Heated exchanges happened, in the Society WhatsApp group,

Some of us were labelled armchair activists, in one fell swoop.

To the on-ground people, who 'executed' in the sweltering heat,

Let me abstract, my thoughts - on a paper- while they appreciate the concrete.

Chakra Vyuh

You are good in science or maths, your future is set, congrats, 

Don't waste a minute, join the race, they are already ahead- these rats. 

To crack the JEE or NEET, requires years of study, so go get a grip,

Millions give the exam each year, so you better start, while still in the crib. 

To hell with medical and engineering, lets impart directly the future skills,

Let them learn, the power of Python and R, and go through the coding drills. 

For data analysis and AI/ML, is not what they'll practice in coming 5 years,

Prompt Engineering is something they need, to do while they're still 5 years.

Enough of academic and vocational, don't EQ and SQ rock the corporate world?

Lets hone the emotional muscles then, after all Non Cognitive Skills, is the Magic word!  

To prepare them for the adult life, Life Skills justifiably takes the crown,

An infant of 2 should learn to share, and prioritize smiles over a frown. 

 

To be ready and prepared for future wars, is not a recent or idle pursuit,

Millions of Abhimanyu's die as they start, in the womb tightening, tie round the suit. 

Peer Pressure

Take a puff of cigarette, it looks so cool,

You haven't tasted alcohol, you must be a fool.

Everyone has a girlfriend, esp on Valentine's day,

To fit in with the crowd, you need to take weed if they say.  

As I scroll through the reels, of amazing foods and smiles, 

I have to have an awesome day, not tribulations and trials.

So I post my six packs, that just might be photo-shopped,

It spurs them into action- and off to the gym they hopped. 

 

Behaviors become norms, like when friends ace the test,

I have no options but to gear up, start giving studies my best.

When friends start launching companies, at the drop of a hat,

Its natural to start a venture, though it may turn into a stat. 

From PayPal to Flipkart, pressure shaped the Mafia dons,

To let external factors distort you, has both pros and cons.

 

Abstinence

I don't eat meat, I don't drink wine,

Sans cigarettes or weed, life seems just fine. 

I don't take sugar, I take only rock salt, 

I shun dairy products, I love animals to a fault. 

 

I don't consume Insta, I use only a feature phone,  

I don't use credit cards, never consume what you don't own. 

I follow real life friends, don't let 'who you might know' the algo decide,

I never hit the like button, tailoring the feed, to me, doesn't feel right. 

I search in private browser, don't click on sponsored links, 

I abstain from scrolling endlessly, and beat the algos methinks. 

I'm willing to pay premium, to hear in my order my song,

But to abandon myself to the algo, on so many levels seems wrong.

 

Many people go to great lengths, to feel a sense of power and control, 

But to me its gaining my autonomy back, to be defined by my choices is my goal.

Hindsight Bias

Someone asked me in an interview, a perplexing question,

If you were to travel 10 yrs in future, and on all steps you won,

What's the future self you are living, how at a party you'll introduce,

I could only think of as a poet- someone who'll daily produce.

 

Then they asked me to think, after 10 yrs a poet I'm not,

I belong to the dead poets society, have been left to rot, 

They invited me to think, why as a poet I never took off,

And list reasons why I failed, why on my poems people scoff.

 

I laboriously reasoned, why as a poet I couldn't be renowned,

Maybe I didn't write for the galleries, maybe the gatekeepers frowned,  

Maybe the security of a job, kept me amateur at this craft,

Maybe I realized there is no money, maybe I was not that daft.

 

When I look back in hindsight, I know why I'm no poet still,

I may find a scapegoat, but it wasn't about how to pay the bill.