The Saloon (Madhushala) [21-30]

Continuing my ambitious project to translate Madhushala in English for the benefit of those whose first language is not Hindi. You can read the original poem in Hindi here.  

Madhushala has always fascinated me and this is my way of paying homage to Late Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan.  

The Saloon (Madhushala) [1-10] 

The Saloon (Madhushala) [11-20]  

What follows are the next 10 quatrains [21-30] 

  

Big lineages can wither or go bust, with no one to cry and mourn,

Palaces can degenerate into ruins, where once dancing courtiers were born.

Let kingdoms be overthrown, the fortune of monarchs sleep under the moon,

But the drunkards will not budge an inch, and wide awake will be the saloon. [21]

 

All will turn to ashes; what remains is the cupbearer and the dance of death,

All beauty will be drained of sustenance; only the wine and the poison will have breath.

All places of merriment and gaiety will become places of silence and doom,

Wide awake will be the busy graveyard, and wide awake will be the saloon. [22]  

 

The dashing, tipsy goblet in this world, will but be labelled a fool,

The dandy server a connoisseur of joy, on which the quirky drinker does drool.

Can the world and wine coexist in harmony- I guess, oh, not so soon,

The world deteriorates every day, while like a newly-wed the saloon.[23]

 

If you condemn the saloon without taking a sip, you’re but a drunken fool,

If you take a sip, you’ll be lip-locked and silenced forever like a buffoon.

The victory is of the cup and the wine; both slaves and rebels are fools,

Like Napoleon, to conquer the world, has arrived my saloon [24]

 

The world may go through the harshest winter; it’s always spring in the tavern,

It always burns with the fire of Holika, while the world bleeds in Muharram.

It doesn’t know sorrow and grief; it has descended on earth as heaven’s boon,

While the world recites dirges and elegies, Id is celebrated by the saloon. [25]

 

Once in a year, and only one time, the fire of Holi burns bright,

Once a year you gamble all you have, the diyas light up the night.

O people of the world, I dare you to visit any day the saloon,

In the day Holi, and in the night Diwali, daily celebrates my saloon. [26]

 

Not sure which human came first, pretending to be the nectar seeker,

Who didn’t nurse on the cupbearer's breast-definitely not this speaker,

Drinking life, they remain drunk, whether human or baboon,

That's why they first discovered, on encountering the world, the saloon. [27]

 

Let the delicate vine of grapes flourish, from which is made the wine,

Let the soil enrich and prosper, which is used to make the earthen cup shine,

Let the thirst of alcohol deepen; let it not be satiated so soon,

Let the drinkers thrive and sustain; let it remain open, this saloon [28]

 

Consider myself safe and sound, if the cupbearer feels so,

The difference between good and bad, the rowdy doesn't know.

Don’t ask whether I’m fine, but do ask how is the saloon?

Don’t greet me with a ‘Hail Mary’; if you care, greet as ‘Hail Saloon’. [29]

 

The sun is the merchant of nectar, sea the bearer, water wine,

The clouds are the cup bearer, and the earth a cup so fine.

A torrent of wine flows down, pitter patter in the monsoon,

Let me absorb it like grass and creepers; like the rainy season, be the saloon. [30]

Being Resilient

Facing reality, is grueling work,

You can't close eyes, or behind hope lurk.

My venture is faltering, there are limited clients,

I'm as doomed, as a David amongst giants.

 

I have trained to survive, before the fact,

I'm bleeding profusely, can drop the act.

I need to find meaning, in my suffering, my trial,

That elusive companion, I need for another mile.  

 

I value this field so much, I'll gladly embrace the cross,

Turn my pain into poems, about the misery I don't gloss.

I merged programming and psych, though it was a failed marriage,

Now poetry and psychology, maybe this will be a better bricolage? 

 

I'm tinkering with my life, but I'm also absolutely clear-eyed,

I'll be a winner in the end, though in the process I might've died.

Mindful, Of What?

The sudden drilling in an adjacent flat, the constant hum of the construction noise,

If mindfulness is a panacea, attending to them should help me maintain my poise.

The question looms large should I attend to the din, live in the here and now?

Be present and curious about my neighborhood sounds, be mindful, holy cow! 

 

It's good to be mindful and present, when birds are chirping nearby,

When you're drenched in the silence of nature, and time doesn't seem to fly.

But you're sometimes stuck in a cacophony, that's not entirely your fault,

Do you need to soundproof your room then, and go deep down in your vault?

 

The procession will in time pass away, the sound will eventually stop,

Do I need to attend and wallow in now, or brush them aside with a mop?

Either do not let me notice them, or if noticing let me clean,

How can I keep wallowing in them, thoughts that are ugly and mean?

 

Should I attend to my environment or my body, I'm totally confused,

There's little hope for me to be mindful, as long as with my thoughts I am fused.

The Saloon (Madhushala) [11-20]

Continuing my ambitious project to translate Madhushala in English for the benefit of those whose first language is not Hindi. You can read the original poem in Hindi here.  

Madhushala has always fascinated me and this is my way of paying homage to Late Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan.  

The Saloon (Madhushala) [1-10] 

What follows are the next 10 quatrains [11-20] 

 

The sound of jaltarang manifests, as a glass kisses another glass,

Strings of a veena resonate, when walks the girl belonging to the dancing class.

The beats are provided by the haggling, of the barkeeper who shouts, does not croon,

The melody of the orchestra is sweetened further, by the wine of the saloon. [11]

 

The tender hands holding the ruby cup, are in mehndi color draped,

The bartender is of a golden hue, but by the grape-coloured veil is caped.

Wearing violet turbans, indigo suits, steadfast are the drinking goon,

It puts to shame the rainbow, today my colorful saloon. [12]

 

Before coming to your eager hands, the glass will but tease,

It will torment with its charm, before the wine your lips appease.

The bargirl will say no a million times, won’t come near so soon,

Don’t fret, my dear traveller, it’ll but welcome you, the saloon. [13]

 

The flame of the wine is red, don’t mistake it for the fire of hell,

The bubbles and froth of the wine, are but not the blisters that in one’s heart dwell.

The hangover of this wine is agony, the cupbearer the memory’s tight cocoon,

Only those who thrive in misery and pain, dare enter my saloon. [14]

 

Like the wine of the world, O traveller, mine doesn’t placate or soothe,

My cup burns and seethes with fire; the world’s cup is cold and sans use.

Burning wine in a scorching cup, this poem is the ignited heart’s dune,

The one who doesn’t mind incineration, dare enter my saloon. [15

 

You’ve seen the flowing wine ofttimes; now see the one that rises as a flame,

When it burns as soon as it touches your lips, don’t you dare the cup’s potency blame.

“To drink 2 sips, we’ll immolate gladly, like the chatak pining for the monsoon,’

Such madmen possessed by the wine, to them calls today my saloon. [16]

 

The one whose inner flame has engulfed, all religious scriptures and books,

The one who has broken the shackles, of temples as well as mosques,

The one who has risen above, the church as well as the commune,

Only such a madman can be today, welcomed in my saloon. [17]

 

The one who hasn’t coveted, with eager lips the wine,

With trembling hands hasn’t touched the cup, how can he be fine?

The one who didn’t pull the bargirl near, who to her charm is immune,

He has wasted life and left high and dry, his whole life’s sweet saloon. [18]

 

Let the bargirl be the priest of love, and the wine pure Gangajal,

Let me turn the rosary beads of cups, never have a moment dull,

‘Take some more, drink some more’, this mantra let me chant and croon,

Let me become the statue of Shiva, and the temple this saloon [19]

 

The bells didn’t ring in the temples, the statue remains ungarlanded,

He is sitting in his house, the maulvi, on the mosque a lock he slid.

The billionaires are brought to ruin, the fortress is vanquished and will fall soon,

But let the drunkards be blessed and provided; let it remain open, this saloon. [20]

Being Mindful

As we live on the sidelines, life moves on,

By the time we bring in focus, the moment is gone.

Our gaze fixed on the road ahead, distracted by the rear view,

We could notice the roses too, who fathomed, who knew?

 

To live life in the present, we don't need to slow down,

Only be curious about the moment, and on observing not frown.

Thoughts are but cars on the freeway, some move fast, some slow,

Will you yield to your road rage, or continue to drive in flow?

 

Can you be curious about the passengers, traveling by your side,

And by connecting with them on a deeper level, make this a joyride?

To enjoy a perfect ride, you don't need to empty the streets,

Mindfulness is actually where, curiosity with presence meets.

 

When you live in the present, you're more aware of the context,  

To enjoy a poem or a novel, listen to the pauses between the text. 

Will You Share, Please

Sharing is caring, what will you share?

Will you share the abyss, into which you daily stare?

Or will you share the sun, present a bright facade,

Instead of the hidden devil, project glimpses of God?

 

For there are parts of you, that others fear and dread,

That you are bipolar since youth, and still need to take med, 

That knowledge has to be qualified, with your success at work,

Lest a failure set off, the devils that within lurk.  

 

You can boast of your success, but that will be mostly hollow,

To cover for your illness, does success necessarily have to follow?

What if you took a risk with your career, what if you did not hold a job,

Would you be reduced to your illness, will this stigma ever stop? 

 

Sharing is caring, to break stigma one needs to share,

Will you share your struggles too, is my #WorldMentalHealth day dare.

 

PS: Written on the occasion of The World Mental Health day 2026.  

The Saloon (Madhushala) [1-10]

Today I am starting an ambitious project; to translate Madhushala in English for the benefit of those whose first language is not Hindi. You can read the original poem in Hindi here.  

Madhushala has always fascinated me and this is my way of paying homage to Late Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan.  

What follows are the first 10 quatrains. Do let me know how they work and if you'll like me to translate more?  

Madhushala 

Tender feelings processed, the molasses I convert into wine,

The first offering is reserved for you, the world can then feast fine,

I’ll make you drink the sweetness, from my own cup and spoon,

It welcomes first and foremost you, my darling, my saloon. [1]

 

I’ll churn the world upside down, to quench your thirst, my love,

Dance on one foot to woo your eyes, in your hand the glass shove,

I’ve showered you with life’s sweetness, from earth till the moon,

Today I’ll empty the barrels on you, of the world’s saloon. [2]

 

Darling, you’re but my wine, I am your pining glass,

You fill yourself in me, and claim, to be the drinking class,

I let you spill and slip and spill, you get intoxicated and swoon,

Today we are entangled such, we are each other’s saloon [3]

 

From the grapevine of sensitivity, I’ve plucked imagination’s wine,

Like the courtier, I pour into the poem’s cup; I am the poet divine.

Even if millions drink from this fountain, it’ll never get dry so soon,

All you readers are my drunkard lot, and the book is my saloon [4].

 

Daily I brew from tender feelings, the wine that is but sweet,

I fill my thirsty inner cup, and let the wine my emptiness meet,

Lifting with hands of imagination, I drink myself and croon,

I am but in myself bartender, the drunkard and saloon. [5]

 

The drunkard ventures forth from home, in the search of a bar,

Which way to go the fool is perplexed, the distance looks far.

There are many paths to take you there, but I tell this to any buffoon,

Just stick to one path and it will take, you to the destination saloon. [6]

 

Much of the life is alas spent, in traveling far and wide,

It’s still further down, the traveler says, the real distance they hide.

I don’t have strength to carry on, nor want to turn back too soon,

Leaving me transfixed and flabbergasted, makes fun from far the saloon. [7]

 

Just keep the chant on your lips, about wine and intoxicating rum,

Imagine in your hands the tempting cup, in which the wine will come.

Meditate in your mind on the beautiful nymph, who’ll pour to you soon,

Keep trotting my dear fellow traveler, you’ll find distance bridged to the saloon. [8]

 

When the desire for the wine itself, becomes the drunkenness,

When your imagination gives form, to the bartender who will caress,

When the pining of the lips, is by itself the cup and spoon,

Then let the nymph and wine and cup be damned, you’ve got your saloon [9]

 

Listen intently, for in rhythmic beats, the wine falls in the cup,

Listen and you’ll make out, the bartender walking and trotting her stuff.

It’s not too far now, just take four steps and you’ll reach there soon,

Just listening, people are getting excited, and bursting at seams is my saloon [10]

 

Constant Striving

Constantly searching for jobs, life is a living hell,

When will I get employed again, no one can tell.

I make good use of the time, write a poem a day,

No better heaven for me, if I may dare to so say.

 

I used to work in IT, heaven on earth,

Making meaningful products, of money no dearth.

The mind plays its tricks, first psychology, now poetry,

Felt like burning in hell, desperately pining to be free.

 

I've arrived at several places, the destination still eludes,

Life always keeps evolving, the current state a mere prelude.

I am eternally caught between, heaven and hell,

They are not merely out there, they are in my mind as well.

 

You can keep your heaven and hell, I'm content with my piece of earth,

Let me live a humdrum existence, sans the drama of constantly giving myself birth.

 

PS: This was first published on Medium here.  

Claiming a Full House

Success is desiring, and getting what you want,

It's writing your life story, in a bold and dynamic font. 

The constant striving, keeps you miserable and driven,

You have to actively stake your claim, it can't be just given.

 

Happiness is liking, and wanting what you get,

If it's lemons, you make lemonade, you don't cry or fret.

The constant adjustment, makes you complacent and dull,

With no unfulfilled desires, what's the point of living, you mull. 

 

The more you strive for success, the more empty you feel,

The more you pine for happiness, the more with ennui you deal.

The wise men say, it's best, to be equanimous and a Karm Yogi,

I think I've fulfilled the requirement, only to be called out a bogey.

 

Striving to be equanimous, adjusting to whatever hand I'm dealt,

I still feel hollow in my quest, and bored is all I've recently felt. 

Party Dynamics

Whenever a B'day party becomes due, scheduling it becomes a task,

You have to be careful of the Naaraz Foofas, lest someone you forgot to ask.

To ensure that everyone's voice is heard, we typically run a poll,

- That most people join and increase the bill - is our mutual unsaid goal.

 

Ram has a fast on Saturdays, Shyam on weekday works till late night,

So the Friday evening doesn't work out, nor any weekday festivity seems right.

Sunday brunch is ruled out, it's more drinks than food we covet,

Sunday evenings are challenging, Mohan has a recurring family date.

 

The above are general factors, there are seasonal reasons too,

That Navratra and pitrupaksh are dry days- who fathomed, who knew.

Some like me are always available, we click all options in the poll,

Till the time the party is finalized, our gustatory health takes a toll.   

 

In the end we always converge, although someone or other we miss,

On the rare occasion when all can make it, the party is pure bliss. 

The Door Not Taken

Some doors we choose, some doors choose us,

To leave the old baggage behind, is normally a big plus.

We can start afresh, breathe in our lives a new hope,

The only question remains, how with regret we cope.

 

For each door entered, means we left one behind,

To succeed we became ruthless, maybe stopped being kind.

The doors open both-ways, we can surely our steps retrace,

But the earlier version of ourselves, can we now truly face?

 

Sometimes we stand in the hallway, confused which door to choose,

A crowd eventually pushes us through, and our agency we lose.

It's better to have chosen and lost, than to let doors slam in our face,

We can be grateful for the door chosen, reminisce about what we left with grace.

 

Walking one door, inevitably means, surrendering our right to another,

Let's not glamorize the door not taken, it too has mortgages and bills, brother.

The Upside

In the stock market invest, what you can comfortably lose,

Trade in futures or options, or buy penny stocks, if you choose.

The upside should be enormous, the downside within limit,

You shouldn't have to play again, if even once the reward you hit.

 

When you write a poem daily, you only waste an hour,

It hardly matters if it's not viral, and doesn't travel far.

But imagine you spent a month, refining and polishing a draft,

When it doesn't resonate, the blow is hard, to your ego, to your craft.

 

If you're bootstrapping a startup, never put in that basket all eggs,

When you become the 9 in 10 statistic, can you snap back, the question begs.

Fail early, fail fast, don't burn too much, is the mantra my dear,

The path to a unicorn is via phoenixes, that much is now clear.

  

I like to keep the costs low, you can call me risk averse,

A masterpiece may still emerge, from my daily outpouring of verse.

12.5

Our federation consists of buildings, 13 to be precise,

We split our expenses by 12.5, in an attempt to be just and nice.

The flats in one of the buildings, are half as much as others,

It's only logical to bill them half, that's basic mathematics, brothers.

 

Within a building the logic falls short, the maintenance is flat,

Whether you live in a 2.5 or 3 BHK, you have to pay per the same diktat.

Some owners insist the maintenance bill, should be as per square foot,

Others who live on lower floors, to them lift replacement a point moot.

 

Each building has 3 EC members, which constitute the federation in form,

There are 39 members in total, but people have started clamoring for reform.

If 12.5 are the expenses, the 'half building' should have half reps,

How to divide a person in half, I'm slightly out of my depth.

 

12.5 or 13, I'm proud we live as one,

Supporting each other during trying times, hell may come.

Paradoxes

When it gets dark enough, you can finally see the stars,

One is so much more beautiful, with blemishes and scars.  

Distance makes it apparent, how strong is the underlying bond, 

You are naturally drawn to the moon, if you are confined to a pond. 

 

The old tree provides the shade today, to the saplings who are of limited use,

When you are wading through the poetic wasteland, you finally discover the muse.

Love finds its way with silent feet, when the heart has crouched, is all alone,

Only when you reach the nadir of your being, can you repent and sins atone.  

 

When sun lays down its arms at dusk, the occasion merits a heavenly hue,

The magnificence of nature manifests, when seen through the fragility of a dew.

The fire within burns strongest, when the other remains un-scorched,

Mere word play pierces like a poem, provided the message doesn't get botched. 

 

If you are worth labeling Handle With Care, you better be delicate and fragile,

Let my wounds fester and smoulder instead- for they can make you laugh and smile. 

A Solid Connection

When do you feel a connection, is it when you have spent enough time?

Or is it friendship-at-first-sight, the spark instant and sublime?

Why are our enduring friends, from college or school days? 

By spending time our office pals, should be best friends in that case? 

 

Professional bonds have a different vibe, help you grow and watch your back,

Can help you achieve and advance in life, but the warm fuzziness they lack.

Shared rituals give a new lease of life, I try to speak to my son at ten,

Connection deepens when we both carve time, can share anything man-to-man. 

 

There are friends unspoken, years have flown, yet we can pick from where we left,

Just a casual conversation is all it takes, to recover the intervening years' theft.

The friendship can run on auto-pilot, once we've sufficiently grown close,

It's too sublime a bond to conform, to curve between response and dose. 

 

I haven't spoken with you in ages, and I miss you my dear friend,

I'm sure we'll pour our hearts out, when we meet perchance on the next bend. 

Out Of Tune

I try hard to understand your poetry, you write in free verse,

I've to bend to rhyme and rhythm, my self-inflicted curse.

My composition has to fit in, in 14 lines to be precise,

You can meander, or stop short, be any shape or size.

 

 If I look all around me, what is rewarded or read,

You are playing with the form, rhyme and rhythm be dead.

You juxtapose vivid images, in metaphors mystery bake,

To satiate the modern thirst, traditions and meter break.  

 

By making my poems resonate, I'm committing a crime,

How can a nursery rhyme structure, carry a message sublime?

If we needed a rhyming poem, we would ask ChatGPT,

Your poems reek of the old era, what a shame, what a pity.

 

I've never really paid heed, to what dominates the Mehfil,

I write to touch you my readers, not to win prizes or coffers fill. 

Give Me Some Rain

Going through life, on cruise control,

The 6-lane highway, demands a heavy toll.

You are unconscious, on autopilot, you stop noticing stuff,

Can't stop and smell roses, or you'll be fined sure enough.  

  

Speed and more speed, the destination looms ahead,

If you get distracted by the dew, you'll most likely be dead.

Your vision gets narrowed, only the adjacent cars matter,

When you're comfortably cruising, there's no drive to be better.  

 

Imagine instead, you're stuck in a jam,

Life's at a crossroad, and a door did slam.

You are running low on fuel, your alertness sky high,

Frantically searching for the next exit, can't remain stuck and die.

 

There's no coming to consciousness, sans some misery and pain,

To get roused from the slumber, often requires a strong rain.

Being Pragmatic

Raised with a labor of love, with limited users to boot,

You nursed it with raw tenderness, but no one cares two hoot.

The product is only as good, as the market it captures and grabs,

Till you start generating revenue, the better it is, the more it stabs. 

 

Knowledge amassed, wisdom gleaned, without degrees to showcase,

Sans credentials you can't apply your skills, no one to argue your case.

The resume is only as good, as the JD it seeks to fill,

The only touchstone for learning, whether it can help pay the bill.

 

A slice carved out of your famished heart, not gluttoned by many,

In the daily ritualistic offering, does fast food make sense any?

The poem is only as good, as the prize you can savor and relish,

To win the contest at all costs, may leave you feeling hellish.

 

 I'm stuck in a state of stasis, can't move on, my love,

They say you are only as good, as the fate you can rise above.

A Waste of Time

50 years vanished, a waste of time,

Didn't dent the universe, didn't matter a dime,

Except for the few, who were touched for the better,

How far and long the ripples traveled, does it really matter?  

 

50 years looming, a poetic wasteland,

Writing mediocre poems, in sight no end.

Except for the few, that will pierce your heart,

Make you stop in your tracks, that's the lure of art.  

 

50 years reached, a milestone to celebrate,

Pretend to be happy, and smile at any rate.  

Except for the few, when the mask reveals the self,

You behold the beauty, of sensitivity you can't help.

 

Connection, and living-in-the moment, not to protect them would be a crime,

For the next 50 years I'll happily continue, nurturing them by wasting time.

Give Me Some Sunshine...

The war pinches a little, you couldn't prevent the doom,

A lost friendship stabs deep, hardens you with its gloom.

Some pain you cultivate and curate, others you let go soon,

In the right amount the mud of pain, makes your poetic lotus bloom.

 

There's a dim satisfaction in knowing, you helped prevent a few suicides,

When your friends write a poem on your B'Day, you're bursting with joy on all sides.

For some slivers of joy, you had to work hard, others were thrown in your lap,

If you don't let it get to your head, this wellspring of joy, for your poems you can tap.

 

The loss of a loved one may perturb you a bit, you quickly recover compose,

The equanimity that has over time morphed to apathy, a greater danger to you pose.

Emotions recollected in tranquility, isn't that how poems are supposed to be born,

Each poem has to be discarded post writing, just like clothes old and worn.

 

You wish for me strength and serenity, I wish for me joy and pain,

What's life without a moderate bit, of some sunshine and some rain. 

Will You Please Reconsider?

Your mom said in anger, you're a burden on earth,

You took it to heart, lamenting why you took birth.

Your presence is pure joy, to your dear and loved ones,

Talk of being a burden irrelevant, between mothers and sons.

 

The labyrinth is soul-sucking, you're trapped beyond repair,

You're exhausted by all the running, ready to succumb to despair.

The tunnels are dark and cold, but there's always a way out,

If you wait enough you'll glimpse the sun, as it emerges from the cloud.

 

What use to survive this night, you don't belong to this tribe,

Even in death you stand alone, the voice in the head makes a jibe.

The lack of bonds is imaginary, there's always someone you can call,

And discuss at 4 am in the night, all matters big and small.

 

The future may look dim right now, the battle all but lost,

But to not witness that fickle future, is too steep a cost.

 

PS: Written on the occasion of The World Suicide Prevention Day 2026.  

For You Or For Me?

Bored between meetings, you scroll through the feed,

Among 100 competing stimuli, my poem you read.

Bored throughout the day, I let thoughts fester into verse,

Hunched on my desk, I touch you, for better or worse.

 

My poem catches your eyes, it's a microcosm of your life,

Capturing with high fidelity, your daily dilemmas and strife.

I make it a point to dump daily, it's a habit like the bath or the brush,

And for the very same reasons, that the dust doesn't my soul crush.

 

My poems make you squirm, stops you dead in your tracks,

You can recognize aspects of you, as you peep through the cracks.

I know because I can write with skill, each incident big and small,

As long as I process my feelings daily, I'll never hit the wall.

 

My poems make you ponder, what it's like to be human again,

For me it documents my wonder, that I continue to remain sane.

Retirement Blues

Learn, earn, retire, you are now at life's third stage,

Managing finances, should ideally, occupy you at this age.

But the one thing that you miss, is no structure to your time,

No one dependent on you anymore, and not mattering a dime.

 

Your respect is still solid, cashflow curtailed, but there,

What bothers you is the purposelessness, and no one to care.

The demands of the sedentary job, still kept you moved around,

Left to your own device, you now binge watch, don't hit the ground.

 

Be it retirement, or a sudden job loss, the lack of routine hits hard,

You need to cultivate groups beforehand, can't play the victim card.

Go on a daily walk with friends, on each Saturday attend breakfast,

Volunteer at the local charity, and you'll be back on your feet pretty fast.

 

Retirement may pose a risk of depression, for people other than me,

My daily poem practice ensures, I spend meaningful time with thee.

The Gift

To some you dedicate your poems, to others you can offer only your life,

My poems may not mention her, but she's there in the background- my wife.

For how can poems of love and pain flow, or even those of hope and despair,

Unless you are moored to solid earth, and left to explore themes fair and square.

 

To write an ode to her seems odd, as if praising one's own self,

I've become much like her, and she like me, the fusion we can't help.

As we age with grace, we'll merge even more, or so the research says,

With her as my mirror, I'm always ready, to embrace the golden days.

 

There's magic in the bond we share, but it requires a sleight of hands,

Because we put efforts, over the years, the trick with elegance lands.

I err at times, don't pull my weight, yet you ignore my quirks and flaws,

Like the Savitri you are ever ready to snatch, me from the death's jaws.

 

The poet in me, can hardly die, if your birthday is near the midnight stroke,

I offer just my wishes and presence, for aren't poets supposed to be broke?

The Absurd Practice

Only a few get discovered eventually, most remain invisible and obscure,

That you'll get recognition posthumously, are you confident, are you sure?

The world is not malicious, it simply doesn't for anyone care,

You cannot bridge the chasm, no matter how long you stare. 

 

A deep abyss stretches between, your desire to make sense,

To capture in your poetry,  all matters light and dense,

And the indifference of the universe, that you cannot capture in verse,

You may not matter to the world, but the world perturbs you- for better or worse.  

 

You constructed an elaborate ruse, with poetry at its core,

Which may be systematically dismantled, with random events in store.

You get a lucky breakthrough, land a high paying job,

Poetry practice goes for a toss, your serenity the work robs.

 

When I say the world is indifferent, it's not cruel, it may land a jackpot,

So just let me write poems daily, never mind if they are neither read nor sought.

Poised Precariously

You are what you pretend, so choose your mask wise,

It will fuse with your face, so better embroider it nice.

The veneer of self confidence, makes your face shine and glow,

Doubts may gnaw at your belly, but you can't let the upper parts know.

In the midst of a winter, pretend you have discovered an invincible summer, 

Keep smiling through grief and loss, authenticity- what a bummer.

Your body doesn't really keep track, whether the smile is genuine or fake,

Your mind is already saturated to brim, there's only this much that it can take.

 

In projecting to be emotionally centered, I have imbibed that role,

Seeking help is surely for losers, being anti-fragile my goal.

I purposely practiced for this adversity, in my mind I've figured it all,

If I neither win nor lose this round, I'll just proclaim it as a close call.

 

Pretending to live, life on the edge,

Like Humpty Dumpty, I my sanity pledge.

A Tribute To Shukla ji

I want to write an elegy, but I'll keep it brief,

I'm still absorbing the shock, of the unprocessed grief.  

In the space between paperwork, and the funeral rites,

I'm emptying my feelings, to get some respite.

 

Adored on all occasions, whether big or small,

Would it sound cliche, if I say he was loved by all?

He was the life of society, of our walk group,

He drained the life from all of us, in one fell swoop.

 

My loss is perhaps little, compared to the family's plight,

To spare us all the agony, he quietly departed in the night.

The guiding light that he was, he's now watching from afar,

Giving my poem the usual thumbs up, this time from the stars.   

 

No poem can do justice, to the person we'll miss,

We pray to God he finds peace, and everlasting bliss.

Unsinkable

All the water in the world, can't sink my ship,

Unless I let it in, then it'll be gone in a blip. 

So I toil day and night, to keep intact the hull,

With waves breaching daily, there's not a  moment dull.  

 

Even a hairline fracture, can eventually flood the room, 

Lowering my guard for a moment, will lead to inevitable doom. 

Imagine therefore my horror, to find a severely cracked plank,

I fill it with golden lacquer, and with beauty reach the bank.

 

You can't stop the waves, but like a captain you can ride,

Allow what to seep through, and how to fight the merciless tide.

If you pay heed to the voices, you'll surely drown,

When you build strong walls, you'll smile not frown.

 

You say to survive this world, I need to grow a thick skin,

What use are swords and knives, when I can be burst with a pin. 

If Money Were No Object

If money were no object, I'd be hunched at desk,

Writing poems of love, from dawn till dusk.

But the lure of money, is real and strong,

Selling poetry is OK, writing poems wrong.

 

If status were no object, I'd forever be in school,

Wade and wallow in what I love, with the naivety of a fool.  

But your reputation precedes, the work you do,

So I'm tempted to amass degrees, to shut the likes of you. 

 

If duty were no object, I'd just laze all day,

Run agents to do my work, and with ChatGPT play.

But responsibility is a tech debt, keeps you awake at night,

The program keeps running, till it gets the user intent right.

 

If impact were no object, I'd be stuck at a dead end job,

But I'm letting the entrepreneurial grind, my mind peace rob. 

Why So Prolific?

I craft poems, to keep getting likes, 

Modifying the themes, if I perchance get yikes.

I daily endure, to ensure you come back,

The dip in views, guarantees my comeback.

 

I craft poems, to ward off guilt, 

Around invoking muse at will, my whole life built.

If the muse deserts me, I'll die of shame, 

I pride on writing daily, it's not a hobby or game.

 

I craft poems, because I value the art,

My daily practice ensures, I can play the poet part.

The daily discipline, is now a part of me,

If I'm not a poet, who am I, you see?

 

I craft poems, because I find it fun,

I get deeply engrossed, and time doesn't run.  

Career Quests

Scuffle between offshore and onshore, strife between team and my boss,

A Hero-Saves-The-Day syndrome, that was leading to organizational loss.

I was a new dad at that time, a rookie manager at workplace,

I quietly made a lateral move, to manage life at a slower pace. 

 

Good manager replaced with an average one, that left me under utilized,

I thought I deserved, but didn't get, the promotion that was prized. 

So I ventured forth as a freelance coach, where my skills could be better used,

Aligning my work with my values, where psychology and leadership fused.

 

My new boss only talked sweet- didn't pay me for a whole year,

The ethical lines kept blurring, I felt powerless my dear.

So I decided to start afresh, I was looking for an escape hatch,

A calling that can make me live again, to which I could latch.

 

I've mastered the entrepreneurial journey, I'm ready to take the next step,

It's time to write a new chapter, let me now for poetry school prep.

 

PS: Today's post is inspired by, and tries to map, the 4 career quests identified in Lenny's substack (though not in the same order) here. 

IPO On The Horizon?

Writing poems, without a GTM plan,

Polishing drafts, for an imaginary fan.

Sliding in a bottle, letting it drift away,

But hope is not a strategy, the wise men say.   

 

Writing poems, without a business model,

Ads may grant peanuts, is it worth the coddle?

You can build an audience, can it earn you bread?

How dare you dream and cross, a line that is red. 

 

Writing poems, without a rich bottom line,

You may earn some revenue, but does the cost seem fine?

To lap some crumbs, you have to mortgage your soul,

Address themes to their liking, constantly popular trope dole. 

 

Writing poems, without a FnF round,

No investors to pressurize, so I make every poem count. 

Hi, Hello

Sawubona, I see you, 

I'm present, I'm here, are you here too?

Nigikhona, I am here,

I see you, you brought me into existence my dear.

 

Namaste, I bow to you,

The divinity within you, is verily true.

Namaste, I bow back to divine,

The God within me, sees the God in you fine.  

 

Om Namah, I prostrate before the God,

His darshan blesses me, I'm overjoyed, I'm awed.

Om Namah, the God stares back,

Being perceived by him, now my life won't lack.

 

 Good morning, Good evening, lack the magic when we meet,

 Muttered absentmindedly, can without our whole being we greet? 

Don't Observe Me Yet

Like Schrodinger's cat, I'm both alive and dead,

I haven't decided yet, how to earn my bread.

I can be a poet or a psychologist, if I just make up my mind,

The specter of losing a self, leaves me in a perennial bind.

 

When stakes are so large, I can't embrace in a blip,

I can leave it to God and fate, or instead use a coin flip.

With nothing in my hands, maybe the regret will be small,

My future unencumbered of me, just due to the coin's fall. 

 

Can I live with that image, a creature of circumstance,

What happens to agency, about commitment what's my stance? 

Choosing one over the other, is painful now, and in times to come,

There's no getting around agony, whether I forego or choose some.   

 

I've made my life-and-death decision, I'll remain stuck in two boats,

If you'll allow, I'll pen psych themed poems, both my poison and antidotes. 

The Sign

My mouth is turning down, the eyes have started to swell,

As I think about you darling, not everything is well.

One look at my face, and it's as clear as hell,

I'm suffering in my bones, ready to retreat in my shell.

 

 My mouth is turned down, the eyes are filled with tears,

 I've learnt how to catch your eyes, over the passing years. 

 One look at my face, you'll come running to my aide,

 We attuned at some point, that debt has to be paid.

 

My mouth I turn down, the eyes I make moist,

I may not feel broken, but my sadness I hoist.

Could I be relieved, and happy that you're gone,

But to conform to society norms, feel sad and alone?

 

My mouth I've learnt to control, I've put on a poker face,

My sadness, if there, is for me, for you no external trace.  

The Invariants

Bothra yoga, or Dixit Diet,

Bend to each fad, with all your might.

Not sure how many, will stand time's test,

To me the invariant- daily walk, proper rest.  

 

Eisenhower matrix, or Pomodoro timer,

Amp your productivity, read a new primer.

I rarely follow through; so to tick off deep work,

I stay up late in night, being an owl my quirk. 

 

Box breathing, or JPMR,

Relieve stress, with the tool of the hour.

Daily meditation practice, can help you cope,  

For me writing a poem, my daily dose of dope.  

 

A vacation every 7 months, a date night each week,

Rituals and formulas are fine elsewhere, but in love it's all Greek.

Holding On

Pain wriggles through, it has a habit to be found,

Memories pierce and stab, as you're not around.

They say suffering is optional, it's how the situation you conceive,

That you can morph your pain into poems, and with art everyone deceive.

 

Guilt is an uninvited guest, that has overstayed its due,

Who left whom charred, is known but to few.

They say guilt can make you better, sculpt your future form,

That it can goad you till you transform, and rise above the norm.

 

Loss is a sneaky intruder, that can haunt once it's left your door,

With everything precious snatched, it can leave you lonely ever more.

They say loss leads to meaning, you realize what's worth holding onto,

That no future relation would suffer the fate, that befell you two.

 

It has cost me almost everything, yet I'm staying in the fight,

Giving in to despair would imply, that it was for nothing- and that's not right.

Writing's Side Effects

Writing helps me process, the pain of a withheld goodbye,

Each poem inches closer, but cannot bridge the gap, I sigh.

To catch your eyes is a fantasy, I've risen over that now,

If it's a formal closure I'm after, by myself I'll achieve how?   

Writing helps me reminisce, the joy of that fragile bond,

Each poem helps me manifest, that relation with a magic wand.

I can draw and redraw you as an angel, each time I pour my ink anew,

That a ghost from past can make me smile, who fathomed, who knew?  

 

Writing helps me reflect, with equanimity our joint fate,

Each poem prods me forward, to back down and wait.

In time I've started adjusting, to your absence from my craft,

By etching you in my poems, don't I risk losing you from my heart?

 

Writing helps me dump on my readers, my deepest, smouldering concerns, 

That they get charred in the process, is a cost justified to heal my burns. 

The Shifting Shape of Stories

I had a blessed start, with IIT tag on my head,

The techno-managerial jobs, I did not really dread.

The lure of a different calling, sapped my energy, left me dead,

With effort I climbed out of the hole, making psychology my bread.

 

I met psychology in college, it was love at first sight,

After decades of courtship, tying the knot didn't work out right,

My earlier passion vanished, it became just another job,

Now that I've started my own venture, this might not end in a sob.  

  

Venturing on The Fools Quest, is a Cinderella story, 

Writing poems that went unread, didn't lead to fame or glory.

Till there appeared a fairy, bestowing on my poems a magical power,

Disappearing at the stroke of midnight, but in my heart poems daily flower.

 

It's ended well for me in these stories, but perhaps at a cost and curse,

On my original quest to be a good person, did I slowly go from bad to worse?

Jobs-To-Be-Done

I hired my sadness today, a poem I wanted to write,

In which I could once more showcase, the abyss I daily fight.  

The poem needed a subject, darkness came to my rescue,

Pathos stabbed me in the belly, as if waiting on a cue.

 

I hired my sadness today, to process and feel good,

If I can make sense of my suffering, don't you think I should?

When my words disfigure the page, the ink becomes less black,

So I promptly pour it in poems, though I know the feeling will be back.

 

I hired my sadness today, to dazzle you with my art and skill,

Unmindful that the wound scraped, could shatter me, or even kill.

The poem needs an audience, you love poems of agony and pain,

To catch your eyes I'll happily scratch, and fester the wound again.

 

I go through my days hunting, for moments of sadness and shame,

I perhaps need to sit with them more often, not get lost in the healing game.

On Coming 2nd

John Doe felt lonely, I figured he lived alone,

For the cracks in his society, he has to but atone.   

But when I looked at Ram Kumar, living in a family of four,

He too felt torn apart, with relationships gone sour. 

 

Almost all live together here, with families or friends,

Yet no one notices the foul smell, till the year ends,

The woman living by herself, post death of spouse and child,

Is literally unseen by the people around, is this a matter mild?

 

Each tie rendered asunder, is a soul that's lonely and sad,

It's a skeleton waiting to be discovered, while being inwardly dead.

Feeling alone brings sadness, that may morph to a depressed state,  

If we want to break this vicious loop, keep checking with your mate.  

 

Be the friend they can promptly call, when feeling blue at night,

That loneliness defines our collective identity, somehow doesn't feel right. 

The Friendship Files

Survive school or college together, chances become great,

That you'll become BFFs, proximity seals your fate.   

Even when older you can still attend, to opportunities to socialize,  

That you can't make friends at work or in neighborhood, is a pack of lies.  

 

When you notice someone of your vibe, be vulnerable and intend,  

Take actions to bring them into your fold, be caring and to them tend. 

Make them a part of your daily life, a regular book club or kitty,

And schedule a monthly zoom call, for those not in the same city.

 

Friendships can take many forms, why over family they must take a back seat,

You can switch jobs together or live nearby, it can get messy, it's not neat.

You may not be able to keep in touch, life often throws curveballs,

There's grace in making the first move, and breaking the imaginary walls.

 

I know how to revive and make new friends, I've learnt from the friendship files.

But of the one friend that I've lost for good, the distance stretches miles.

Black or White?

Bright light falls on me, I'm at my very best,

Showcased for others, I laugh and have to jest.

My light gets reflected, it can travel a hundred mile,

The mirror blinds vision, so I haven't looked in a while.

 

Darkness engulfs me, I with my shadow merge,

Hidden from others, baser instincts emerge.

Confronted with the abyss, no one dares to light a match,

The stakes are so high, that none can the black hole catch.

 

Dusk and dawn are liberating, I can finally myself be,

When others are equally hazy, there's no pressure to clearly see.

In the orange and red light, I am but a bundle of shades of gray,

The dewdrops capture delicately, the rainbow that's there to stay. 

 

Paint me in monochrome all you want, I'm neither black nor white,

The more I observe the grays in me, the more colors appear in sight.

Should I, Or Should I Not?

Poems of love, or poems of pain,

She lurks in the shadows, I'm the hero main.

Alexa kindled memories, I quickly changed the song,

Today I've been poked, excuse me if I paint her wrong.   

 

She keeps tugging at my heart, that's her cardinal sin,

She receded from my life, still this battle I couldn't win.

Perhaps she is suffering too, maybe there's grief in her art,

For she has cut me off totally, though we never did part.  

This has made me stronger, is a tale I've spun,

That reckless e-mail, destroyed my friendship for one.

Couldn't settle for less than love, aut Caeser aut nihil,

How to catch your eyes again, is now a battle uphill. 

 

I'm so sorry because of my love letter, you lost a dear friend,

To mend I write sonnets daily, without this time hitting send. 

Creating Luck

The door is not opening, have I knocked enough times? 

Do I need to master the art, of making lemonade from limes?

Let the door remain shut, can't I move to another door?

Unless I keep knocking, how will I know what's in store?

 

Knocking again and again is rude, disturbing many surely a sin,

If the road to riches is by trampling others, would it still count as a win?

Not being acknowledged comes later, I have to make the first move, reach out,  

Catch their ears amidst all the din, even if I have to my lungs shout. 

 

They say if one door closes, another will open soon,

What if the door I'm banging against, takes me to the moon?

Will I be happy with the other door, which lands me instead in a star,

Or should I barge through the door to sun, though my wax wings flying bar?

 

 Knocking many doors may lead to luck, not when you're aiming as high as me,

 Enough of waiting for doors to open, it's time to break, and fly free.

Sentience

The worm is hungry, at the other end an inviting odor,

The terrain in-between noxious, a single neuron inhibits crossing order.

That I can explain on the basis of a neuron, the behavioral response,

Makes me treat it as non-sentient, to be crushed as a sponge.  

 

The fly is courting and mating, there's a dopamine rush,

The dopamine inhibits the circuit, that makes it fly when I crush.

That levels of a neurotransmitter, can explain its readiness to act,

Makes me treat the fly as expendable, put them in the non-conscious set. 

 

The worm and the fly, are pulled between pleasure and pain,

Between a catastrophic loss, and possibilities of gain.

If chemicals and cells, can explain all their feat,

Are they conscious, have agency, can they choose or feel?

 

I think they are sentient, we can give them the benefit of doubt,

They suffer and pine like we do, though they may not cry out loud.

 

PS: This poem was inspired by reading this article today by long-time blogger-days friend Bjorn Brembs.

How Many Tabs Are Optimal?

100 tabs in my browser, I keep flitting from one to the next,

With each notification, I switch context, I'm monkey mind at best.

The Dionysian within me wants to jump, play all day around,

Can't stay in the same place for entire day, routines do not me bound.

 

I work with a single tab open, which leaves me deeply engrossed,

The topic is arcane and specialized, interaction leaves me grossed.

The Apollonian within me needs to hide, behind structure and routine,  

Only the home is a safe and familiar place, to venture out I'm not keen.

 

I can have 50 tabs open, organized in groups of 10,

Enable important notifications, take control of attention again.

I can balance my boundless energy, with calm and thought-through restraint,

Can schedule novelty on my calendar, daily make room to write and paint.

 

Between the monkey and the robot, lies a space for me to act,

I can be intentional about when to focus, and when to let dreams distract.

Eat, Move, Sleep- part 2

Eat the super foods, and you will live to see a hundred years,

But what if I don't recognize you, my brain constantly fears.

I read, do Sudoku frenetically, all to keep dementia at bay,

If only I had danced instead, that would have saved the day.

 

Move and hit the gym daily, to lower Cortisol,

Track like a maniac your steps, always be on a roll.

If you want the blood to flow, and vessels to dilate,

Laugh multiple times a day, with silliness mandate.

 

Sleep like a log for 8 hrs, it buffers against stress,

By conserving your energy, you can fight any duress.

If you are exposed to cold, and want to boost immunity,

Just hug a loved one regularly, let touch be in your kitty.

 

When you sing in a choir, or hear a poem, your hearts come into a sync,

Eat, move, sleep is fine, but live, love, laugh is the real deal- let that sink. 

Tackling Dissonance

I can win at this game of life, code my way to the very top,

Can go back to college, accumulate degrees, and never really stop.

I can publish my book of sonnets, put my money where my heart is,

I can abdicate all worldly aspirations, and just follow my bliss.

 

I must however raise a unicorn, make my Alma Mater proud,

Must become a world authority, not just one in the crowd.

I must write a sonnet daily, take time to hone my craft,

I must self-improve, not be satisfied with the unpolished draft.  

 

I am but a fighter, have picked up AI and stuff,

Am a self-taught psych expert, have read more than enough.

I am a poet par-excellence, who can invoke the muse at will,

I have made peace with the human condition, by heart know the drill.

 

My experience of life, at times doesn't fit, with my beliefs of who I am, must or can be,

At that moment I bridge the gap, by being flexible, and changing my definition of 'me'.