Five More Tickets

I have never played blackjack or roulette, I'm a man of limited charms,

It has been drilled into me since time of birth—the gambling's many harms.

The deck is stacked against you, the house in the long run wins,

Like drugs it's strongly addictive, it's one of the cardinal sins.

 

But there is magic in buying a lottery ticket, the jackpot fantasy serves,

I know my needs inside out—no one better than me the prize deserves.

From the moment I hold the ticket, to the time the numbers are called,

There's never a dull moment, boredom and ennui from my life are recalled.   

 

When I lose this round, there's a momentary dip, but the next ticket boosts the soul,

To win the jackpot at least once in life, is my humble, determined goal.

Just yesterday I bought 5 more tickets, to increase my winning odds,

The weekly offerings made, now off to pray and appease the Gods.  

 

Writory or another competition, one poem or five others,

Enough of sending messages in a bottle, it's high time I win brothers.

The Poem I Never Wrote

The city you never re-visited, the phone call you never made,

You might've disappeared and bought peace, but a heavy price you paid.

You surrendered your edge and sharpness, to merge with the crowd,

'We have managed to domesticate you', with triumph they cry aloud.  

 

The message you typed and deleted, the poem you didn't share,

You'll regret these on your deathbed, but the world doesn't care.

As long as you fit in neat boxes, all is right with this universe,

Only death can bring you closure, then you can pay homage in verse.

 

The magazine you never applied to, the poet you couldn't become,

The ghost of un-lived life haunts you, till life ends, and then some.

The burden in the form of the Pitru Rin, your child now carries forth,

To exorcise this ghost, let your song flow out, don't die before death henceforth.  

 

The ending that built on my love for you, I've endlessly edited and modified,

That you could come across my unpolished mess, leaves me perennially mortified.

Driven To Be Better

I'm going on my morning walk, listening to a podcast,

My step counts prod me gently, and I start moving fast.

The podcast is on deep work, how attention shouldn't be spread, 

I always listen while walking, in an effort to be well-read.

 

For reading stuff is important, either on screen or on paperback,

It's the only way you can self-improve, and discover what you lack. 

I've read about compounding habits, about how to become whole,

This obsession with becoming better, has left in my pocket a hole.

 

Just yesterday I was reading, on relationships and love,

While my wife was making chapatis, in the kitchen on a stove.

I played all evening with ideas, strategies to deepen the bond,

She tossed and kneaded the dough, waiting for how I'll respond.

 

To implement my new-found learning, I went out with her on an evening walk,

I wanted her to co-listen to a deep love podcast, while all she wanted was just to talk.

Buying Some Meaning

I have the means to live, of meaning I'm not so sure,

Profit has sucked my purpose, there's a vacuum evermore.

Pristine and sanitized, I've become sterile and dead,

Passion has been drained from me, all to win some bread?

 

I need a distraction, to ward off the despair,

Sitting atop a pile of cash, in the abyss I stare.

I suffer in my bones daily, I have a tortured mind,

Can money buy me meaning, in cash or kind?

 

Of course I have become so rich, that all I have is money,

I donate to so many causes, if it weren't pathetic, it would be funny.

I toil in the day like a machine, in the night let donation receipts placate,

Money doesn't make room for meaning, it's a tenant that now won't vacate.

 

I can throw the money out of the window, spend my life creating art,

If you buy me a coffee now and then, finding meaning won't be so hard.

The Breaking of The Mug

The coffee mug breaks, I choose to ignore the hurt and pain,

Turn blind to the wounds and lacerations, let blood ooze and rain.

How could I let the coffee spill? I try to suppress my rage,

The more madly I wipe it clean, the more it fills the page.

 

Ignore or actively suppress, you get more of what you resist,

Meditate on the spilt coffee instead, lest you want it to persist.

Notice and gently accept the stain, observe it fade with time,

Acknowledge your inner stress and strain, and let it fall in line. 

 

The more you deny and struggle, reminisce about the mug,

Suppress your longing for the coffee, the more it will bug.

Accept for a while you'll be thirsty, that this partly you helped manifest,

Then you can mend and repair the broken parts, sip coffee again and rest.

 

The mug is for now broken, you have to this reality accept,

You can only enjoy coffee again, once you've thoroughly wept.

Coffee With Buddha

A coffee mug is given, attachment kicks in,

Parting from it now, seems almost a sin.

Clinging to gains is natural, and so is aversion to loss,

The more mugs you covet, the more life goes for a toss.

 

You take a sip from the mug, your joy knows no bound,

Pleasure is inevitable, don't let it into mania compound.

A slight slip and the mug breaks, this hurt too shall pass,

You can perhaps apply gold, and make it a whole new class.

 

You dazzle your friends with your Kintsugi art, don't let praise get to your head,

 If they blamed you for the accident instead, would you rather be dead?

Over time the repaired mugs on your shelf, seal your fate as an artist of note,

 But that you broke the mugs in the first place, people censure and you careless vote.

 

Don't let the eight worldly winds blow you offtrack, remain centered and calm,

Loosen your grip on the mugs, just let them float with ease balanced on a drunkard's palm.

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.