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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Preparing For Victory

Private victory precedes, the one more public,

You lose the battle within, and then you fall sick.

You lose hope first, then the world turns grim,

As the motivation recedes, winning chances become slim.

If for others in your life, you want to care,

You have to love yourself first, you have to dare,

To be vulnerable to self, to treat oneself with compassion,

If you can love yourself, loving others will be all the fashion.

If you want to be known, for your generous acts,

You need to work on your intentions, you can't be lax.

You need to fight selfish urges, before fighting injustice outside,

You can reveal yourself fully, only once you have nothing to hide.

I've worked on myself for ages, waiting for this moment to shine,

I've won so many times in my head, that I should now win - it's high time. 

Principles of Growth

From a novice beginner, to an experienced pro,

It doesn't happen in a jiffy, there are stages to go.

Expertise at different levels, skills picked up on the way,

New behaviours beckon from future, old ones in the past stay.

The infant first learns to turn, the toddler first to crawl,

Progressing from level to level, it eventually stands tall.

Baby steps in a walker, are replaced with a confident gait,

As it starts to walk and run, to finish marathons it can't wait.

Academic progression too is linear, to join school you have to finish KG,

You won't be bestowed a doctorate, till you are above the level of a PG.

To master a field like piano or chess, you need to walk a thousand mile,

While you are starting and fumble, people look other ways and brush off with a smile.

Why should moral development be any different, I'll keep morphing as I grow,

Our character doesn't emerge fully formed, it grows daily as we till and sow.

Holi festivities

Festival of colours, festival of joy,

Some play it bold, some play it coy.

Drenched in water, or smeared with gulal,

Splash colours all around, especially on neighbour's wall.

Dance in the housing society, under the hose's jet,

Cover your mobile in plastic, so it doesn't get wet.

As the evening draws in, eat gunjiyas and snacks,

If bhaang makes you go haywire, have each other's back.

Burn an effigy of evil, on the prior night,

Patch up with old enemies, make everything right.

Celebrate with colours, or play with sticks,

Or play with flowers, or add grease to the mix.

Festivities are not rowdy, or sacred per se,

They reflect our true colours, and shades of grey.

Being Human

GenAI is all the rage, it can write beautiful code,

Between low code and no code, you can keep switching the mode.

It'll test for you, find bugs and fix, it will even optimize,

What used to be a fiefdom of programmers, it has helped to democratise.

GenAI is all the rage, it can provide a listening ear,

That a chatbot can counsel well, is the news of the year.

It'll paraphrase what you say, summarise, and also suggest some technique,

What used to be their monopoly, now psychologists future is bleak.

GenAI is all the rage, it can pen beutiful lines,

It sounds more authentic and real, I have heard from the grapevines.

The perfect rhythm and meter, the apt turns of phrase,

A million budding poets now, some brilliant, some blase.

Programmer, psychologist, poet, where do we draw the line,

The AI may take our jobs, but the human touch will keep us fine.

Achieving The End Goal

Keep digging at the tunnel, maybe the treasure's just ahead, 

Never entertain the possibility, that it may lead to an end that's dead. 

With each stroke of the hammer, the rock is developing cracks,

The log will have to eventually split, never mind the blunt axe.

 

'To repeat the same actions, and expect a different outcome,

Is the definition of insanity', as you reflect, you realize you are dumb. 

Dig a tunnel in another direction, or just use a sharpened axe,

By changing your actions, a little or lot, you'll fill your coffers, and sacks. 

 

'I'm a loser, I don't deserve treasures', 'getting them is a pain and not worth',

If you are denied treasures for long, such thoughts may readily take birth.

Single loop learning is so passe, examine your beliefs and mindset,  

By changing your thoughts, a little or lot, on the road to riches you'll be set.

 

Stick to your actions, change strategies and tactics, or even change your mind, 

Have you considered that in the first place, you don't need to treasure find.  

A Depressed Brain

Some loss here, some sadness there, some genetic vulnerability, 

Some distortions in thinking, some diminished mood regulating ability,

Some ongoing stress that leads to, an increase in cortisol, 

A deficiency of serotonin and nor-epinephrine, starts taking its toll. 

As the days become months, the brain networks start going awry,

The limbic system comprising of amygdala, kicks-in in its full glory,  

The PFC, both ventral and dorsal, gets subdued and becomes hypo-active,

You become lethargic and fatigued, and to the negative you are more attentive.

As the months become years, the brain structure is at stake,

The shortage of BDNF means, it can't new neurons make.

The hippocampus atrophies, neuro-genesis is held at bay,

Only with medication or therapy, can we reverse the damage, pray!

My brain may be depressed, my constitution weak, I'm down, but not out,

If you had to endure the things I lived, your brain too would have lost the bout.

Cultivating Fallow

Memento Mori, put the day to productive use, 

Take the bull by the horns- don't let it pass, or refuse.  

The hour that elapses, won't come back again, 

You need to write daily, come storm or rain. 

 

Premeditatio Malorum, you'll hit a road block, 

When the field's not fertile, you'll need to take stock.

The day may get wasted, but you'll emerge recharged, 

Rest will give you a momentum, and ahead you would have barged. 

Amor Fati, just appreciate the downtime, 

Bow out gracefully, while you're still in your prime. 

Enjoy the sleep, the rest, remain barren and fallow

Play with words and phrases, or in nostalgia wallow. 

 

Summum Bonum, let the poem ferment,  

While the words do all the talking, look at what the pauses meant.

 

 

A Proposal (1996 version)

If roses are red and violets are blue,
Then till the end of time I'll love you.
But roses are red only in seasons of love,
And so my love may end but my promise will stay true.

They say meeting is joy and parting is pain,
The world is round we'll meet again.
But meeting & parting after a time leave you the same,
And you realize dating & dumping are all in the game.

Surely pearls are precious but diamonds are colossal,
If you love me accept my proposal.
But pearls and diamonds are all dust to the saint,
And your loving me is a fantasy quaint;

So forget the proposal that I'll never make you,
And come quietly on a blind date with Mr. Rendezvous!

Epilogue: Words

Rhyming words and rhythmic beats,
like empty stage with crowded seats.
Magnifying the vacuum in the crowded space
with words struggling hard, but not keeping pace!

These words are so disturbing, disgusting and deep
like a wife trying to find herself besides a rich man's keep.
They no more flow gaily with the ebb of life
but demand they be treated as either a whore or a wife.

But words and more words, can they suffice?
can the stage-actors don a believable guise?
Up on a pedestal they amuse and excite
with the meaning of death lost in the funeral rite.

So off with words and off with prose,
            off with Cinderellas and off with rose,
If you can't say something -at least be frank;
            and on what remains unsaid let your poetry bank!

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

 I

With the Sun's angry radiance tormenting my heart,
        And I pining for the moment when will shine my star-
I died every day amidst hope and fear
that come night and you'll be there -but almost that far!

I watched whole night your youthful plays
        With an intent gaze so that your light may not fade
Knowing that despite light years you were close to my heart
that your twinkling from a distance was just a big facade.

So I proudly, confidently, quite blatantly asked
        'That you forget who you are and come within my reach'
To which you graciously replied that you can die for me
But to steer from your chartered path would be a cosmic breach.

II

I injured, baffled, bewildered and lost
        for once to you did willingly lie
That if you need your heavens to charm the earth
I can use my earth to forget the sky!

And die you must 'cause I can't bear the pain
        of acknowledging the distance between you and me
And am constantly burdened by your presence above me
so I invoke the promise you made to me---

--"If ever you ceased to get light from my eyes
        You won't get dwarfed or dimmed in the night
But to show that your love for me was true
explode like a Nova with all  your might!"


III              

For a fortnight I steadfastly adhered to my pledge
Burying myself in earth- never glancing towards the sky
So imagine my horror when after this momentous ordeal
I looked up to find you smiling -in the torturous sky!

The agony of realizing that to me you did lie-
That even for that moment our Love was not true-
you'll shine for someone else- draw light from elsewhere-
you wont care a bit if that light makes me blue;

Overshadowed the relief -of seeing that you are not dead-
my fortnight is over- you are still shining and new-
you'll hear my pleas now- accept my worship from afar;
But my love had been thwarted  - so hatred grew.

IV

I realize now - you are not a poet like me-
Who conveys instantly, what's in his heart-
your celestial divinity prevents me from knowing
Whether you are intact & strong.. or broken and in part.

Even though on that night something might have snapped
And you might have been consumed in my fiery hate
The light you sent out to shine in this world
Will burn for years and conceal your fate.

So I'll live every night in pain and doubt
not knowing whether I've killed you- and if so at what cost,
With the moon's tender radiance piercing my soul
And I praying for eternity when will be exorcised my ghost.

Kashish

Lucky Guy! He just had an heartbreak;
                            He's now charged and inspired !
Just look at the pictures that his sonnets paint--
                           a heart that is broken and tired.
What precision, what style,
           You can count on this emptiness to make him full !
With so many layers and levels of pain,
               he can choose at will which sad chords to pull.

Poets live for eternity--He's lost his love for life--
                                      at least for a while,
You can count on a dying man - for a fancy prose style.
So let's live and rejoice in the 'kashish'--
                          that he so effortlessly spins,
He may lose his Love..or life...or hope..
                        ..but never mind, the poet wins!

Of course this world is a market
    and the emotions that he's showcasing must be on sale,
We appreciate his craft and will offer all we can--
                         praise, respect and eternal fame.
Long Live the Sadness in his Heart ! Long Live the Agony's Cry !
Let Music flow from Unhealed Wounds, Let not the Echo's Die.

As I cant bring you any happiness-
          only the 'kashish' in my poems to you some joy brings;
So though I'll be dying with every single line that I write---
                           I'll make sure that the poet lives .

Romeo and Juliet

Hey you Juliet! Do you really think,
    that I, the Romeo, will hound you for life;
Buck up my friend, don't turn crimson or pink;
    for isn't it common knowledge that we cant be Man and Wife.
Fuck that Bard -I don't have to live by his art-
    I've discovered a voice of my own- after Scene Five, Fourth Part.
If my Love for you, left us dead, as in the play,
    I'll better be just friends and if I may

I'll send the Bard packing fast to his home,
    Nero wont play fiddle while it is burning Rome.
Of course I said I Love You--in Scene Four, Fifth Act
    But cant you pretend you didn't hear it---exhibit some Luck or Tact!
For I cant now ask forgiveness
    or for this fool another chance
This wont go down with the audience
    they've just seen my crazy dance

So its now up to you--to either move hand-in-glove
    or use those hands and gloves to expose my fart
to either wriggle under the weight of the play's doomed end
    or to be as free as friends...a poem from scratch start.
Of that Poem we'll ensure that it is politically correct
    there are no allusions to LOVE-either bold or indirect!
Fuck the four letter word...lets say F for Friends
        Let the Poem Begin where the Sonnet Ends.

Behold the art of ambiguity
                  the brand new 'Romeo and Juliet'
A Sonnet that can pose as a Poem
                if that's the way you would view it.

Another Second

 Sure u tried to soothe the child,
                                as he goes to bed empty, unfed;
and promised him stars and moons to play
                         and forget his woes in the dreamy bed.
'Some day some fairy will come from far',
                 and his days will be happy and bearable nights,
and his fears are false, and his suffering unreal;
               for when he'll open his eyes---all will be lights!

Sure u did the best u could,
         for he was desperate, despairing, destitute and broke,
and by showing him how much he could look forward to,
                        u solved all his miseries in one stroke.
'There is a world beyond of beauty and bliss,
                      of 'happily-ever-afters' and 'joy forever'
and the hunger that haunts him in this night
              can be cured if he views it as fasting and prayer!

Sure u did what was best for both,
                for u wanted to live and he was ready to die,
and by weaving some tales and raising his hopes,
             you brought cheer to his face with a simple lie.
'Never mind if it hurts, the night will pass',
                       for life is beautiful and god is great,
and if he's deprived today, he'll soon be a king,
                 for there's nothing one can do---all is fate!

I understand that u couldn't have shortened the night,
     or fed him with the 'prasadam' that was sacred and blessed,
But maybe u could have stayed by his bedside for a while
              and as he took the last breath with love caressed.

Another First

Can the goddess be constrained by the priest's choice?
and bless the flower he chooses, has she no voice?
Can for the sake of prayers, music may lose to noise?
and after losing my claims, can I regain my poise?

Can the poem rise above his creator's craft?
and in the form that emerges, has she some part?
Can it lie ignoring truth, for the sake of art?
and I still believe in Love, with this pain in my heart?

Can the withering of that flower, be attributed to time?
when I've lost my love for life, can taking life be a crime?
Can that poem's sigh be due to it's increasing length?
can after seeing your misery and helplessness, I summon the strength?

Can in the season of springs, poems and flowers cry?
Can't we redeem our Love, Can't you let me die ?

Scorpion Eyes

Rich with the beauty of inner soul,
In these eyes I've found all I was looking for
Truth, understanding, devotion and love;
Oh darling I couldn't have wished for anything more.

For eyes may be lovely and eyes may be dark
And eyes may be deadly and kill with a dart
But only if they are capable of not telling lies
Can they come close to thy scorpion eyes.

And eyes may be tender and eyes may be tame
And eyes may be charming and make your heart lame
But only if they are also trusting and frank as thine
Can they be worthy of sonnets of mine.

Our eyes are so much like the other's,
               it's difficult to tell who's who
They are receptive, caring, sensitive and true;
                constantly saying I Love You.

Sometimes You'll Sigh

Sometimes you'll laugh, sometimes you'll smile,
She's doing what she wants and getting best out of life;
Sometimes you'll brood, sometimes you'll cry,
She has left your heart cold with a warm goodbye.

What if your love was true, it doesn't mean a thing,
Can the romance of passion, tender promises bring!
The fault is yours why love with all your heart,

And hope in return that you'll never be apart.

If she's gone, what's wrong -- the world is this way,
The next love you'll find will be perfect anyway!
If she's as hard as a rock, you are a diamond in guise,

And should be hard and cold is your ego's advice.

But sometimes you'll sigh, Sometimes you'll die,
She is out in the world without your love nearby.

Second

 It took me a long time to figure the truth,
That the more I say contra the more I love you.
And can I forgive me for strangling our love

Which nevertheless survived giving me the vital clue.

And the sheer audacity with which I tried
To paint your rosy cheeks with sonnets of blue
Has been rightly deceived by painting a blackened image
That by its stark contrast highlighted your actual hue.

And If it hadn't been for me trying to fool my soul,
Then who would have worried about the seeds that were sown
And now that they have got care and attention plenty
They spring out from every crevice of rock that's me.

Entangling deeper in the web as I tried to escape
I have been forced to see I love you - but alas it's too late!

First

Is it me or my heart that writes
It bleeds, it hurts, it even bites!
Knowing in advance that my love is not true,
But in matters of heart there is not much I can do.

My heart, so vain, thinks it's different from me;
It roams, it flirts, it thinks Love can be!
So in search it found refuge in your heart,
I just pray it returns if even in part.

Do you realize what you have stolen, criminal?
It was young, it was fresh, it was even virginal!
Would you keep it as I did - lovingly?
Or would it be a toy, like yours is to me?

Broken, Bruised, Battered or Blue,
I want it back, I cannot love you.

Alone At The Top

Alone I stand on the sands of time,
With footprints mine destined to shine;
Yet Lonely, Dejected, Defeated and Blue -
Of Victory's friends I had no clue.

In time maybe my Will will win,
On each step loosing a cherished kin;
Estranged and above the world at large
Labeled Outsider in this Life's Farce.

In the past when I fell there were hands to lift
The bitterness of heart made the feet move swift
Leaving behind those who helped me impromptu -
My Friends, My Dreams, A bit of Me too.

An Achiever, A Victor, The Sun rising high
My shadow disappearing; No one to hear my sigh! 

PS: This was written in the days following me getting AIR 98 in JEE '94.  (30 yrs back and is my first sonnet as far as I remember!!)

To The Artists And Philosophers

Do the stories have to be real, are the legends really limp ?
Does Art have to discover its youth in the hands of a pimp !
Should the arousal of artistic sensibility elevate God and defy men ?
Can a murder be justified if its from an artist's pen !

Do the Gods have to be created, is there nothing besides the self ?
Do we need a Philosopher to tell us that life's all about itself !
Should the search for meanings transcend the search for life ?
Can a revelation be worth the cost of breaking an armchair to philosophize !

Indeed Poets and Philosophers are a moved and miserable lot
Trying to fill with passion what they thought was an empty slot.
Looking beyond, looking without, even daring to look within --
Their range is bliss and wisdom, their domain -they forget- is the human kin.
        
All this talk of Art and Philosophy, people don't understand much;
You can keep your divine grace, all they pine for is the human touch.

So Near And Yet So Far

So near and yet so far,
like the burning consumption of a shooting star;
dazzled when checkmated with God's game-plan,
with the passionate striving countervailing the limited span.

So old and yet so new,
like the inward contraction of a tender dew;
shrunk by the fact that it cannot but Nature breach,
with the calm poise justifying the limited reach.

So moved and yet so still,
like the rhythmic flow of an army drill;
engrossed in the act bound by Man's serfdom,
with the agile dignity subsiding the limited freedom.

So ordinary as to think that to the world I can something give,
and yet so strange as to seek reasons- to write, love and live.
 

Touch Me Tender

 Gautam's forte was Love and Pain,
           but this time Buddha smiled again;
When a Tibetan monk in Daharamsala said
           that to use Lord's name for this was bad.
As if Allah could laugh this off !
           or a nailed down Christ just shrug and scoff;
And sometime, someday by luck or chance
            instead of a smile their was a Tandav dance!

"The Hindu deities are made of stone
            they cant possibly dance" so declared the monk
" their left arms carrying flowers don't work --
            isn't it logic enough that those armed should be spared.
For if one exercises the hands in an unequal way
            you have malformed bodies; please no aberrations stray.
If the paralysis is over and you can be moved---
            Let the flowers move ahead of weapons crude;

At least don't malign Buddha,  
            the apostle of peace
Have a bomb for Hindu...
            but not for Humanity please! "
Behold the Poet of Humanity cursed
            in the defense of the unmoved his two penny words
" Trampled, buried under heaps of earth
            he has still survived without moving first!"

That button is no savior
             and neither is he a pretender
The laughing Buddha hysterically pleads
             that if ever you should---touch me tender.

 

PS: written in the immediate aftermath of Indias nuclear testing at pokhran under the leadership of AB Vajpayee.  

Fame In The Dock

 'An unexamined life is not worth living'--
so examine your life in full detail;
and if it lacks the depth and breadth you desire
and is nowhere near that fairy tale

Then pump some flesh of a celebrity fresh
and don't die starving off legends stale----
--Of people we should be---of people we aren't--
--Of people they cant be---of people they are.

Where he is HE, and you are also a bit of him;
and to sail through the night you have to track the star.
'Good Heavens, Don't tell us--We cant believe'
that he's not the poster that decorates our walls!

He sold himself to you one day-stock, barrel and lock;
He was captive before, but now he is free---and the Fame is in the Dock.

If I Die Tonight

Let there be no moonlight, nor morning thereafter,

Or dusk or dawn--if I die tonight.
Let the forests go burning, let the paths go blind,

Let the journey be abandoned --if I die tonight.

Let wars be fought, let blood be sought,

Let suffering be wrought-if I die tonight.
Let the poem go unread, let the tears go dry,

Let the fire subside--if I die tonight.

Let the promise of angels be sustained by myths

Let them believe in me as I never did,
Let them forget themselves, let them look towards the sky,
Let it be high and dry---If I die tonight.

Let Life not change from what it is now

And let them live that life---if I die tonight.

Tell Simmi That I loved Her

 Tell Monu that I'm sorry-
             -that I couldn't keep my promise-
Gift him a bat when he grows up
             and don't tell him about my drudgery.
Tell him his grandpa was a fine man
             who fought till his dying day
Don't let him read my poems
            and say whatever you think I should say
and tell Simmi that I loved her.

Tell Mr. Mukherjee not to get worried--
--that treasure-hunt clue has no meaning--
He always used to crack so fast,
I thought I'd pull a fast one too.
Tell him to forget that quarter-
-didn't I promise that I'll never return.
Tell him that I've won this race too
he's still waiting for his turn
and tell Simmi that I loved her.

Tell my sons not to fight over property
I've already spent most of it;
of the remaining I've divided equally;
amongst grandchildren--I've made a will;
Of my debts let them claim responsibility-
or let the Government take care of it
and tell them about the prime of my life
How I never lacked any means
Tell them about my reckless donations
and tell them that's the way to live-
----and this is the way to die
and tell Simmi that I'll keep loving her.

Tell the world that I died a Poet's death,
although I couldn't live one
Tell them I loved this poverty and pain
in my next life beautiful poems will come.
Tell them I voted for the 'fascist' party
and haven't ever felt guilty about that;
Tell them I wept on the day of the revolution-
tell them this is not the first time I would die
and tell Simmi I loved her throughout.

Tell them I wanted to be a diplomat
that I wished for the Govt. of the World
Tell Subhash that he's the best friend I've got
he took the movement from where I left
--and wait--tell my boss from that stupid company-
that he shouldn't have said what he said.
Tell him that I don't even remember his name-
- -Tell him no one remembers his name--
while I had worked out miracles when I was his age.
Tell him that members of his staff
still write to me and send flowers and gifts
Tell him that I was sorry
but that he was a bigger asshole
and tell Simmi that she must have loved me too.

Tell Simmi I loved her on her wedding day,
and I never hated Sam;
Tell her I loved the man she loved,
Tell her Sam was my best friend.
Tell her I loved till her wedding day
and I really tried to forget
Tell her I deluded myself well and good
and never cared again;
But today I miss her much.

Tell Simmi I wished she was by my bedside
Tell her I had something to say.
Tell her I wasn't as weak as she thought
and always had the courage to propose again.
Tell her I was strong --
---at least on my deathbed-
-and before death brought me peace and freedom---
I did manage to mumble these words,
that I love her no more.

On The Dawn Of The Millennium

Let's live the way we want to live,
and let's change the way we die.
Let music flow from unhealed wounds
and let wounds be fortified.

Let's keep our fingers crossed tonight,
and let's hail the victory.
Let the bonds of love be forged anew
and let every one be free.

Let's raise a toast to Y2K,
and let's bid 99 goodbye.
Let peace be given a chance to fight
and let fights be pacified.

Let's change with the times- for better or for worse
and let's save the world tonight.

The Death Of The Unborn

 Your heart may swell with wonder as you watch
        your baby's first step in all it's glamour,
Ecstatic you may feel as you read in print
        the manuscript that sucked your youthful valor,
And your heart may dance as it discovers
        that it has started talking to some other kernel;
But can it be more joyous than the dawn of the eternal!

You may watch with awe and respect when you insist
        to prostitute your feelings in your works of art,
You may share with wonder the vision offered by the photograph
        that you felt was roll's indiscreet exposure in the past,
And your special goal that ties you with your love
        may appear dignified 'cause for it all soulmates cared;
But can anything equal the grace befitting the promiscuity of the unshared.

The range of masks that you so easily pull
        to camouflage and succeed may make you feel content,
A great work of art may feel safe and secure
        with it's aura of mystery preventing analysis of authorial intent,
And the world of love with which you wrapped yourself
        even now though you are naked prevents you from being forlorn;
But can it be more comforting than the protection offered by the unworn?

The charging of flower from the potential of seed
    may keep you spellbound with dazzling ease,
The glass which has nothing but a vow not to take
    while reflecting your face may forever lock your gaze,
And the splendor of horizon with its promise of tryst
    may by its magic make you never slow down the road;
But is this more fascinating than the beauty of the unbestowed ?

The center of worship around which you oscillate
    may equally feel the force which makes you circle with sate,
The gravity of situation may make you vacillate
    as you are gripped by forces that grow stronger as you run from fate,
And despite the ionic nature of your twin soul mate
    the vibrations may convince you that the bond is covalent and shared;
But what can be more real but the silent quivering of the unfelt !

You may be drawn to use your oratory to bring down on knees
    those who for years have been ruled by the charm of speech,
You may feel the pull of powers that you are able to generate
    by harnessing natural resources with technical expertise,
And you may be tempted to play in Love's seductive arena
    knowing that this emotion you have already tamed;
But what can be more attractive than the riding of the untamed !

As you painstakingly corroborate your aesthetics of life
    by elegant physical laws you may feel divine,
Your brain and vision may make you capture from crane
    how to distinguish the milk from the wine,
And the folds of your brain that hide your anger in dark
    may nurture it for use-- unfurling as you hit ground;
But alas its not half as ingenious as the harness of the unfound !

You may feel stressed as its inflicted on you
    that alone you have to rise above the highest towers,
The rose may feel doomed to be special amongst flowers
    and redden as it struggles to live up to its legendary powers,
And the non-verbal concepts may die under the weight
    of words they chose to wear to verbally break ground;
But what can be more demanding than the uniqueness of the uncrowned ?

The black spot in moon may catch your eyes as you watch
    the vain attempts of moon to hide it by waxing and waning,
The naive attempt by Krishna to blame his thefts on moon
    may reveal that even great men are not forthcoming about their past,
And the burning of Kamdev to ascertain he had risen above sex
    may make you realize that even Shiva needed self-deception to move towards the Goal
But what can be more revealing than the defense of the unblamed ! 

You may remember with affection the lacunae of pain
    from which your eyes' prowess to measure depths grew,
The love of Love that supersedes your love for her
    by its ordained agony may make enrich your view,
And you may cherish the courage that swept through your being
    by the ugliness of fate-wounds that you thereby sealed;
But what can be more dear than the aftermaths of the unhealed !

The stars may save you in your times of need
    only to discover their message you do not heed,
The sun may decide to shine with equipoise
    unaware of the shadows this inequity would breed
And you may cut your heart to pieces as you serve
    in the image of God this unworthy lot;
But can this be more reckless than the charity of the ungot ?

The desire to look tall in your own eyes
    may press upon your nerves in morality's disguise,
The unselfish servitude that is your goal in life
        by its reminders of debt may leave with you no choice,
And the promise of the unexpected as you freely wander
    may with passion make you renounce all you've got;
But what can be more driving than the lure of the unsought ?

The ideals you cared for but couldn't inculcate
    may peep out now and then from useless archives,
You may think you wont forget those tender moments
    when it was revealed on you how much you cared for her vibes,
And the lone memory of God during those nightmarish days
    may surface to welcome hardships whenever they have to be shared;
But what can be more spontaneous than the remembrance of the uncared ?

The brutal face of truth when dispassionately defrocked
    may leave its imprint on your tender soul
The glimpse of Love as you kissed her that night
    by its lingering moistness may try to cajole,
And the jolt of seeing yourself stripped of all covers
    may shake your uneven surfaces clean;
But what can be more lasting than the memories of the unseen ?

The cry of distress may tear through your heart
    deafening your ears to sighs of lower bass,
The paeans of Nature may coax your wandering soul
    giving you an illusion their silence will never pass,
But die they must
    with each new tune that is sung
For what can be truly haunting but the melody of the unsung !

You may think that with love you have tamed her deep
    and you know her texture as you know your hand,
You may feel that the hand that blesses your soul
    is as tender and soothing as in the beginning of trail,
But each time you reach out with memories of old
    your skin will feel cursed
For what can be familiar except the surface of the untouched.

You may see in toto the shape of your dreams
    and know in detail the rough edges with which its armed,
The poems you drew with the brush of words
    may make you recall the silhouette you originally formed,
But each time they feel the gentle push of thought
    they will be distanced as their finesse is deformed
For what can be immediate but the contours of the unformed .

The computers of Sci-fi may trouble your soul
    with powers of replication and intelligence galore,
The foolhardiness of Man in exploiting Nature
    may make you cower with heart that is sore,
And your sharp thoughts that dazzle even your vision
    may make you desperately seek an escaping slot,
But what can be more fearsome than the bravado of the unthought !

A word out of tune from the lips that you love
    may kill all your zeal and your will to shout,
A hymn of praise from the lips that you worship
    may luringly drown you as your feet leave the ground,
And the thunderous impulses as they do their 'tandav'
    may blatantly sever from you the title staid;
But what can be more violent than the blunt edge of the unsaid !

You may be cut down deep as the country was partitioned
    numbed and deafened by freedom struggle's uproar,
You may be moved to tears as on my body you watch
    the burns that were stamped by Mandal furore,
And you may feel my grief as you watch in dismay
    the lone scar of war run across my face disarmed;
But what could have been more pathetic than the curse of coming unharmed ?

The 'kenchuli' that had almost become my part
    shed after years of use might have left its scars,
The towers of success that I lovingly built
    as they fell might have crushed my lucky stars,
And the infant wish that couldn't withstand
    the test of time might prick like a thorn;
But could all this have been more poignant than the death of the unborn ?

Let's Smile A Little

 Let's smile a little, let's cry a little,
and if life so demands let's die a little.
Let's be frank a little, let's play games a little,
and if truth so demands let's lie a little.

Let's trust a little, let's be on our toes a little,
and if innocence so demands let's be sly a little.
Let's be proud a little, let's be servile a little,
and if virtue so demands let's be vile a little.

Let's hurt a little, let's heal a little,
and if friendship so demands let's say bye a little.
Let's tease a little, let's appease a little,
and if love so demands let's seduce a little.

Let's be mild a little, let's go wild a little,
and if maturity so demands let's be child a little.
Let's shatter illusions a little, let's aim for sky a little,
and if pragmatism so demands let's dare to fly a little.

Let's make others smile a little, let's make others cry a little,
and if conscience so demands let's earn guile a little.

The Joy Of My Life

 where is the joy of a sleepless night,
        where is the joy of a dreamy day;
where is the joy of not minding your intellect,
        where is the joy of letting your feelings play !

where is the joy of trimming the shrubs,
        where is the joy of letting the flowers bloom;
where is the joy that's not overtly optimistic,
        where is the joy that's devoid of gloom !

where is the joy of witnessing miracles,
        where is the joy of reality's spell;
where is the joy that keeps your eyes leveled,
        where is the joy that makes your heart swell !

where is the joy of a thousand suns,
        where is the joy of a calm and silent night;
where is the joy of never knowing what's wrong,
        where is the joy of always doing what's right !

where is the joy of an empty mind,
        where is the joy of a love-filled heart;
where is the joy of ordering harvest in the end,
        where is the joy of letting the sowing start !

where is the joy of a poem unsung,
        where is the joy of a song not yet written;
where is the joy of always feeling like a loin,
        where is the joy of behaving like a kitten !

where is the joy of old plans deferred,
        where is the joy of new dreams chased;
where is the joy of being free and in the World,
        where is the joy of being in the Home and caged !

where is the joy of shaping your destiny,
        where is the joy of listening to what the stars tell;
where is the joy of walking The Razor's Edge,
        where is the joy of knowing For Whom Tolls The Bell !

where is the joy of a pleasure cruise,
        where is the joy of a stormy ride;
where is the joy of Ekle Chalo Re,
        where is the joy of submission to The Guide !

where is the joy of drifting in the calm sea,
        where is the joy of standing firm in the tide;
where is the joy that needs no expression,
        where is the joy that is impossible to hide !

where is the joy that is rooted in the earth,
        where is the joy that is not limited by the skies;
where is the joy that values the truth,
        where is the joy that has uses for lies !

where is the joy that likes to smile,
        where is the joy that is eager to cry;
where is the joy that with alacrity greets,
        where is the joy that's ready to say goodbye !

where is the joy that freezes your thoughts,
        where is the joy that makes your vision clear;
where is the joy that makes you renounce the world,
        where is the joy that to you makes everything dear !

where is the joy that makes you write prose,
        where is the joy that as a writer makes you loathe;
where is the joy that plants a seedling,
        where is the joy that envisages a forest's growth !

where is the joy that knows no bounds,
        where is the joy that resides in your heart;
where is the joy that is always the whole,
        where is the joy that manifests in every part !

where is the joy that can boulders lift,
        where is the joy that will neither push nor pull;
where is the joy that when you share is not halved,
        where is the joy that when you own is never full !

where is the joy that enlightens the soul,
        where is the joy that transforms the world;
where is the joy that's embarrassed by eulogies,
        where is the joy that welcomes the abuses hurled !

where is the joy that radiates harmony in the world,
        where is the joy that with an inner beauty glows,
where is the joy that reaches out to humanity,
        where is the joy that to divinity bows !

where is the joy that is devastated by a tremor,                                        
        where is the joy that can mountains grind;
where is the joy that is strong and pointed,
        where is the joy that is considerate and kind !

where is the joy that liberates from human bondage,
        where is the joy that can hermits bind;
where is the joy that can see through appearances,
        where is the joy that like love is blind !

where is the joy that fills your being,
        where is the joy that lightens your heart;
where is the joy of executing a perfect end,
        where is the joy of in the end daring to start !

Prologue : I Still Believe In You

Diminished in size as we grew,
We have been deceivers, both me and you.

Found some brutes in the human zoo
Nevertheless, I still believe in you.

Regardless of pollution, the sky is still blue,
Believe me when I say, I believe in you.

Where is the foot that would fit the shoe?
Disillusioned, I still believe in you.

The poem is phony, but the feeling is true,
Despite myself, I believe in you.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

How does it feel to show to oneself,

A part of you that was left behind- 

- while trying to shield those memories from self-

A madman who was idealistic and kind.

Who drove like slaves, and kept on toes,

Himself and his dear comrades alike;

Who couldn't discern between scorn or love

And for whom both praise and slog was fine.

Till one fine day, when he drove to the brim

And lost himself - and the ones he loved

In a darkness that was bleak and grim

Except for a light that left him moved-

 

For life -and sustained his belief in goodness-

And made love and faith, and cheer his business.

 

PS: Originally written on 11 mar 2008

Bidding Adieu

Bidding Adieu is always hard,

Your weren't just talented, hardworking or smart,

But most importantly, you are a good human being, 

Caring about your colleagues, and their well-being.

With you it's easy to bare your soul, 

Or delegate a task and never worry at all.  

Open up and share one's dreams and hopes,

Work like a close-knit family- of kindred folks.

 

We've walked a long distance on this terrain alongside

Now that you are leaving, the feelings are difficult to hide. 

We'll miss you for sure, but you'll also remain with us,

You've left an indelible impression, with your human touch.

Endings are necessary for new beginnings, 

We hope you'll be back, for the second innings.