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.