Divide and Survive

As a newborn baby, I communicated in only two ways. I cried when in any kind of discomfort and slept blissfully in its absence. As a newborn, I came as close to desirelessness as any person could possibly dream of. Barring my physical needs to satiate my hunger, I had no known desires. Slowly my cognitive senses developed and I began to identify sounds, people, and things around me. My first fascination was with sounds. I was surrounded by all kinds of sweet sounding toys. I would turn, stretch my hands and try to grab the toy whose sound lured me most. I wanted those toys to be in my hands, as they made me feel good. I would cry if the toy I held was taken away. Those were my first visible signs of desire. From then on, my body ceased to be my only source of discomfort. My fast developing mind had started giving me factors, external to my body, through which I was to feel pleasure or pain. My sense of "I-ness" was developing. Anything that wasn't in my hands was not mine. So, I wanted, in 'my' hands, anything that lured me.

As my mind evolved further, I started identifying people. My parents and siblings, owing to their frequency of meeting my eye, were the first ones I recognized. They expanded my emotional boundaries of I-ness. My house and its now familiar surroundings expanded my physical boundaries of I-ness. I still wanted in my hands anything I liked. But if I couldn't handle it for any reason, I wanted it within the familiar boundaries of my home, or in the familiar hands of my family members. I would feel uncomfortable if anything that I thought was mine went beyond this physical and emotional boundary. My first sense of partitioning my world was slowly shaping up and gaining ground. The irony of the whole development was that nobody taught me these things.

As I grew, this sense of I-ness and its related boundaries also grew but only so much to serve my purpose. In the school, the boundaries included only my closest friends. I still wanted the best of grades for myself. I would then expand my I-ness to get the next best grades for my friends. I soon learnt to make this I-ness very flexible and expanded it only if it suited my purpose -- my selfishness. The essential pattern of my existence was slowly developing. At any given moment of my life and under any circumstance, I needed those boundaries to exist and separate me from the rest of the world. The defining factor of this boundary was that I wanted it to be the smallest possible coterie of homogeneity to share my I-ness with and yet just large enough to get my job done.

A dog doesn't let another dog intrude into its boundaries. This is true for almost every animal. Man, having evolved with and from them, is also bound to have such boundaries. Man has evolved enough to proclaim himself a social animal. But those primitive instincts are still deeply rooted in him. Man needs an excuse to shrink these boundaries and a reason to expand them. Caste, religion, patriotism, racism and others are such excuses. Development, well being and protection are the reasons that force man to expand these boundaries. The very fact that patriotism exists means a country exists. The very existence of a country entails a division of land. That essentially is another fallout of separating the world from your collective I-ness. Patriotism is but a hypocritical and celebrated form of selfishness. This essentially makes a traitor a person who prefers a more conventional selfishness to the covert selfishness that is patriotism. Are we then justified in punishing him for treason?

What would happen to our petty excuses for dividing humanity, if entire earth were to be attacked by aliens - a la the Hollywood movie "Independence Day"? Would Al-Qaeda, whose entire existence is a consequence of this exaggerated I-ness, still go on with the terror strikes? Or will it welcome the aliens with open arms? For, after all, aliens are doing its job for free! Wouldn't our petty squabbles on caste, religion, land, patriotism and others lose their prominence when our very existence is threatened? Wouldn't we expand our boundaries to make the whole earth and 'humanity' a part of our collective I-ness and separate the rest of the universe, aliens included, from us? But that essential boundary would still remain. It is this boundary, this division that separates man from God. "The body has fewer inhibitions than mind", said Dr. Victor Frankl in his masterpiece "Man's search for Meaning". The day the mind successfully overcomes these inhibitions and breaks this boundary, man would knock on the doors of divinity.

Road

I'm the road.
Now, I'm the road.
I was once, not the road.
I once dwelled on the road.
I once had life, unlike the road.

A lively kitten, beside the road.
I lived, foraged and played around the road.
A jaywalker that sometimes crossed the road.
My instinct was my 'Oracle' on the road.
It once ditched me, when on the road.
A car ran over me, on the road.
I wasn't a human dying on the road,
so the traffic didn't stop on the road.
A trolley then crushed me on the road.
My eyeball popped and rolled over the road.
Only to be sandwiched, between a tyre and the road.

I soon resembled a torn leather on the road,
as blood stains mixed with the dirt on the road.
Now, I'm one with the road.
Rather, I'm the road.

Man didn't let me live around the road.
He didn't let others scavenge me from the road.
Nature's law of "nothing to waste" -
is itself a waste, when on the road.

Kaanta

My mother bore me,
but parents couldn't afford me.
So they sold me,
to these "good samaritans"
who proffered to take care of me.

Dangling the carrot of city life
over and above the paltry aid,
they beguiled my poor parents,
and bought a dirt-cheap maid.

Now, I must be seven or eight.
In this city bustling with people,
I 'work' as a live-in-maid
and foster this toddler so cute and supple.

Guests come and guests go,
wonder if they even notice me.
When they dine together,
I sit out in the balcony.

Unaware of the ways of the world,
the kid thinks I belong to the family.
In the bliss of mirth or tears of sorrow,
she simply toddles over to me.

Slowly, the garb of innocence will wane,
as societal wisdom the kid will gain.
Then I won't belong to her family,
joy or pain, she won't hug me.

Her mother is her good weather friend;
she keeps the kid when neat and nice.
I get to keep her rest of the time,
whether she is busy or otherwise.

I've this house, but I need a home.
I get food, but I need some love.
I've a life, but I don't live - I exist.
I yearn for that one hug,
the touch smeared in affection,
a lap to put my head on,
a shoulder to cry on,
a face that lights up on my glimpse,
hands that beckon me, not just in my dreams.

In the ever gnawing loneliness,
grew my precocious seriousness.
The burden of this responsibility,
crushed my budding childishness.

I must be seven or eight.
I work as a 'live-in-maid'.
My name they say is Kaanta,
Waiting to be rescued by my Santa.

The Black Magic

As the carousel rolls and the projector throws the beam of light, the dead, bland, blank, abstract and emotionless screen comes to life and through the chiaroscuro of the projected rays, it emotes, taking the audience with it, in an otherwise dark, often faceless, hall. The usher guiding the latecomers, with the only other official source of light, through the aisle becomes a nightmare for those sticklers of time, who restlessly oscillate to see through the silhouettes as if their very life depends on seeing every inch of the screen. The ease with which the inanimate screen catapults the consciousness of hundreds of people, which normally revolves around their individual selves, to itself, is nothing short of a miracle. For the duration of the movie, the individuals cease to exist and the screen becomes the centre of their collective conscious universe. It almost enslaves them. They smile, sigh, sob, shiver with fear; all in unison -- so uncanny of individuals when they form a crowd -- and yet we fail to notice that single most radical change a movie screen entails in the crowd behaviour. The degree and smoothness of such a magical shift in the centre of consciousness of the audience is proportional to quality of the movie. Black, the recently released Hindi movie, is an undisputed apotheosis of such quality.

What would it be like to be congenitally- visually and audibly challenged? Being surrounded by vast oceans of blankness; a blankness consisting of eternal and ubiquitous 'blackness'. And a perennial deafening silence accompanying that blackness. You're left to perceive and identify the things around through their shapes; a practice not vastly different from what the majority follows, but the means to that end is touch and not vision. The very thought tingles our skin to discomfort. And where does this handicap leave the individual in the omnipresent nothingness? Would the people, who move and talk, be any different from the inanimate furniture when you just can't see or hear them? How would it feel to be happy and yet not be able to wrap it in the package of words or feel sad and be hysterical about it? How would it be to not know that there are more colours in the world than 'Black'? How would it be to not know that sound can also be heard and not just felt with the hands? Our life, in contrast, looks like an unending honeymoon. For so long, our film industry has fed us with the strong, smart, successful, larger than life, Adonis and Aphrodite image of lead actors that we forget there are people, for whom success isn't about saving the world or about winning the love of a nymph but about taking their first step towards a dignified living and being recognized as equals despite their preordained shortcomings. Michelle McNally, played by Rani Mukherji in Black, is one such character. Her deafening shriek of ecstacy, on realizing that her mentor Mr. Debraj Sahay is back, sets the tone of the movie and portends what is in store for the audience. Rani, through this movie, has put herself in the league of Nargiz of 'Mother India' fame. The mesmerizing performance is sure to make her the toast of Bollywood. Rani, you're the Queen.

The Academy awards committee that claims to be the foremost representative of the global cinema has actually never done justice to its own claim by restricting the global cinema under the "Best Foreign Language Film" category. Mahatma Gandhi never won the Nobel Peace Prize. Leo Tolstoy never won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Yet, one wonders if the mortal prizes like Nobel could've done justice to their immortal contribution by merely recognizing them. Amitabh Bachchan has also never won an Oscar. Need I say more? Or shall I say, with a movie like Black under his belt and having acted in it the way he has, he probably stands the best chance, he ever had, of leaving the distinguished company of those immortals? As he rightly conceded, his performance in Black effortlessly relegates his past and future performances to mediocrity. Not that he is to be blamed for that. Thanks to the parochial Bollywood film-makers, who cannot think beyond the much clichéd romance and the nauseating melodrama, Amitabh Bachchan, the colossus that straddles Bollywood, seldom got roles that could make him stretch his own limits. Until that practice is ameliorated, he will be wasted in utterly forgettable roles.

The very thought of Ayesha Kapoor, who plays the young Rani, scares you to death. Assuming that actors mature with age, I fear Bollywood might not have enough roles to even scratch the surface of her potential when she finally ripens. Her performance is the result of a child's energy channelized in the right direction by the director. I also wonder if there are enough directors good enough to tap her incipient potential.

There are moments that make you laugh. In 'Black', such moments come as often as oases do in a desert. But when they come, their innocence, simplicity, naturality and spontaneity give you a relief comparable only to the relief you derive out of oases. It forms a lump in your chest; a lump so full of emotions that you almost choke with suffocation and yet so empty that you fail to react in words. With his vision, Sanjay Leela Bhansali has created a song-less wonder, in an industry where songs, beyond anything else, are the USP. Inspired by "The Miracle Worker", "Black", with its power packed performances, riding on mesmerizing, almost magical play of light, gives any sincere watcher, a punch of conscience. It hits you hard, where it hurts most. In our daily selfish existence, it makes you wonder whether there could ever be people, except the "Indian house-wife mothers", who dedicate their whole lives to others' cause so selflessly. It makes us wonder, when was the last time we sweated for others? When was the last time we dedicated a day for others; for someone, who couldn't in any way, have returned the favours? It gives you a void of conscience, and then fills it with a thankful realization that you are blessed; blessed that you can see with your eyes and listen with your ears. As for the feelings, well, the heart can never be a vestigial organ.

Impervious to Love?

After reading this, you're going to ask me one question. My answer to that is "no".
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I always thought I was a strong person. Not in the physical sense of the word; but from the perspective of heart. Although an emotional person, I never quite understood what actually caused a boy to fall in love with a girl. Yes. True. I think I never really fell in love. Apart from the mild crushes and the childish infatuations, I never really felt the pangs of love for any girl. I always believed I was impervious to love. My conservative Gujarati upbringing, along with my sensitivity towards my parents' feelings and expectations, never really allowed me to water the plant of feelings for girls who did not belong to the Gujarati-Brahmin bracket. And having stayed outside Gujarat for most of my youthful years, I didn't quite meet those girls, with whom, I could've permitted myself to indulge. I almost prided myself on the fact that I can't fall for a girl. That was until recently, when she, out of nowhere, came into my life.

She works for a client company at Bangalore. We started chatting over some work. Some high-priority work forced us to call each other once in a while. She came across as a friendly girl - a Tamilian, basically from Calicut, brought up in Mumbai. It couldn't have been a more cosmopolitan upbringing. It was a delight to hear a Tamilian dishing out Mumbai's colloquialisms of "haan kya" and "nahi re". Before we knew it, we were constantly chatting to each other. We both would wait impatiently for our chat windows to produce that 'click' sound and then blink, signaling a message for us to open and read, so we could reply... and then wait... for the next reply...and so on... it went on... tirelessly. And before we knew it, we felt depressed and suffocated if no such sound came or if the screen didn't blink for some time. Much before we knew it, we knew a lot about each other. Much before we knew it, we were getting addicted. Within a week of our first chat, she spilt the beans by saying she was getting addicted to me.

I had not as yet thought about this. I was still under the impression that we were nothing but good friends. Years and years of self-imposed restrictions never really allowed me to look at the whole thing beyond the purview of friendship. And yet, I found I was being drawn to her; drawn, like I had never been to any girl before. Knowing her in the week that went by had been the most exhilarating and unexpectedly pleasant experience of my life. We had started talking to each other at night. But, it was not just talking. It was each other's presence at the other end of the phone that mattered. We both just wanted to be on phone, with the surety that we're both speaking a lot; and yet, nothing from the mouth. Her very presence on the phone was reassuring enough; reason enough for me not to hang up. It was as if, hanging up of the phone was suddenly the most difficult thing to do in the world; as if the one to hang up first would end up at the gallows. And still, I was hopelessly preventing myself from believing that I'd fallen for a girl who was a brahmin, but not a Gujarati. I was still trying to give myself an assurance that there was an escape; there was still a way to avoid all the hassles I was going to plunge myself into. And yet, there was a desire to be wanted, to be loved by someone other than your parents and family, by someone really unknown, for whom you could be the world.

During the course of our last late-night conversation, I failed to tell her unequivocally that I had fallen for her. May be I hadn't decided. May be I wasn't sure of its outcome. May be I was overcautious. May be I wasn't ready for a commitment just yet. But I made her say the same thing scores of times. And she did repeat it, without expectations. Each of her statement tingled my skin to discomfort, gave me a kick that could match the addictive trance of cocaine. And yet, I didn't realize how selfish I was in making her profess the affirmation repeatedly. With each statement, I was plunging her into a deep valley, from which I myself would not be able to rescue her. I then told her a whole lot of things about my tastes, talents and female friends. She then realized she was different; different from the kind of girl I was looking for. She realized I would reject her on seeing her; if that day ever came. She developed a fallacy that I was a class apart and deserved a much better girl than her. So, she decided to break it all on her own. She gracefully accepted the fact that it was not necessary for me to fall for her just because she had fallen for me.

She came to my life like a whirlwind. In a matter of a week, she made me realize I was not impervious to love, and these feelings could enter my fortress irrespective of caste, religion and other barriers I had built for myself. She pulverized the castle of my pride to dust with her gentle voice and friendly demeanor. She taught me that the character of a person is not found when the relationships are made, but when broken. It is the grace with which she accepted our differences and loss of the first love of her life that made her a much better person than I was. My being a much more talented person made her feel she was a raw deal for me. How do I tell her that finding your love is not about finding the best person in the world? It is about finding the best fit.

The ways of the world sometimes puzzle me. Everyone keeps scouting for talented people for company. And yet, one's talent can hardly be of any use to others except for public display of the pride of such a possession. It is only one's 'goodness' that could be of any use to others when it matters most. We've scores of yardsticks to measure the success of a person. But the strength of the person lies in how gracefully he accepts the failures. And we've failed to produce yardsticks for that. The discrepancy in the talent between us became the reason for our breakup. And yet, I doubt if my talent makes me any better a person than her. Does my talent really make me good enough to make her undeserving of me?

And yet, I'm jealous of her. She had the courage to accept it all and get to the depth of love without bothering about the consequences. She was debonair enough to go right under the waterfall of love. I stood at the shore and sprinkled my feet with water. I was the loser on both counts. I lost my pride and am bereft of her love as well.

The Paradox of Nobility

One morning in my portico,
as I sat on my swing,
enjoying the breeze,
hearing the birds sing.

Up on a wall crevice I found,
a spider had cast its web.
An ant struggled to escape from it;
of urgent succour, it was in need.

As the old-wily spider crept to its prey,
the ant struggled harder, seeing its end.
A bout of nobility struck my head;
I broke the web and saved the ant.

Relieved, the ant walked off.
I went back happily to my swing.
The hungry spider, bereft of its prey,
too old to re-spin, ended up dying.

The 'web' of nature is so intricate,
here one's death is other's life.
My smug nobility lay rebuffed;
for in saving the ant, I took spider's life.

I always carry a first aid kit
to help anyone in need.
Ever ready to salve others' injury;
be it a small bruise, or a mild bleed.

One day in a bus
a co-passenger was injured.
Out came my kit to soothe;
he was relieved and I was pleased.

But a sudden shock, a moment later,
came to me in a flash of light.
Am I to take the credit for helping him
or to take the blame for his plight?

The seed of desire carries with it
the hidden tree of its fulfillment.
The fellow's injury was not a cause here,
my desire for nobility lead to his predicament.

In the existing reality,
a doctor is a noble man.
But in a healthy society,
he is a nonentity.

The nobility of curing is
but an after-effect of disorder.
It would meet its obsolescence
in neverland and its inherent order.

In a utopian world, nobility is extinct.
In the death of utopia, nobility is born.
It needs suffering to survive,
and ironically, calamities to thrive.

I will. Would you?

This poem was featured on godubai.com
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The curves of your back,
the contours of your neck,
the divine grace of your walk,
the mellifluous nectar in your talk.

The tacit lingo of your alcoholic eyes,
only my love-lorn heart could surmise.
I live a blissful eternity
in the blink of those eyes.

I, and this tranquil solitude.
Your thoughts and the moon-lit crescent.
I want time to stand still today
and prevent the sun's morning ascent.

In your blissful presence
my limbs go numb.
My tongue ceases to move
and you think I'm too dumb?

If hearts could sing,
my serenade would win by miles.
You'd then fathom my unspoken love,
when inundated with my hearty smiles.

Not just in the comfort of my quilt,
a castle for you, my love! I'll someday build.
I'll make you feel like a princess,
I'll shower you with my love, so boundless,
I'll make you wonder at my art,
when I'll make you a stranger in your own heart.
I'll be the reason you wake up every morn,
I'll be the reason you dream every night,
I'll be the reason you think every thought,
I'll be the reason you take every breath.

Would you?
Would you not love me just enough
to make me write my requiem
with a stylus,
dipped in bliss?

From Genesis to Denouement

Genesis in the foetal trance.
Bathing in the bliss of abundance.
Draped in the vulnerability of innocence.
In the present, the complete presence.
Unknowing, and yet the 'knower' of life's real essence.


Living through the vagaries of existence.
Surviving the aimless subsistence.
Fretting at the unwarranted concomittance.
Drowned in the vanity of flatulence.
Parochial brain doubting divine providence.
Tightwad man blocking nature's munificence.
Kinship - increasing from him, his own distance.
Scared of change - loving the inertial resistance.
Knowing, and yet, ignorant of life's real essence.


Staring at the impending obsolescence.
Looking at life in a penitent stance.
Retrospection in every glance.
Will I ever have another chance?
Knocking on the heavenly entrance.
Denouement in the astral trance.

If Only: The Perspective

Its a new thing I've tried and I'm not sure if I can call this a poem. But until my creativity helps me coin a name for this, I'll call it a poem. This poem is about events and a perspective look at those events from different, especially opposite, angles.

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If only I get God's grace
from this benevolent act,
I'll be a millionnaire.An aspiring millionnaire giving alms to a beggar.
If only he gives me a Rupee,
I'll have enough money for a morning tea.The beggar.

If only I cut him in the right places,
I'll succeed.A surgeon in an operation theatre.
If only he cuts me in the right places,
I'll survive.The patient in the operation theatre.

If only they select me,
I'll stop existing
and start living.An orphan girl in an adoption queue.
If only we select her,
we'll have a live-in maid for free.The adopting couple.

If only you knew that you have what we lack,
you could've been happier.An adult observing kids at play.
If only you knew that you have what we lack,
you would cease to be kids.Another observer.

When did I last

When did I last see the moon
and appreciate its crescent?
When did I last watch the morning sun
and admire its ascent?

When did I last observe the stars
and guess the shapes they form?
When did I last watch the kids
and notice the innocent acts they perform?

When did I last let things happen
at their pace and not hurry?
When did I last let events carve
their own path and not worry?

When did I last keep dishelved hair
and yet fly without feathers?
When did I last be happy with what
I am and not bother about others?

When did I last live not just to fill my belly
but also to feed my heart and soul?
When did I last not bother to know the outer world;
but to discover my inner self?

When did I last believe
that my well-being is the grace of God
and my suffering is the will of God?

The Path

With this poem, I attempt to draw out the path that, sooner or later,
is going to be our calling. We experience a part of this path in our daily life. The remaining part is what will make the difference.

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Life. Rhythm.
Consciousness. Subconsciousness.
Day. Night.
Sleep. Wakefulness.
Love. Heartbreak.
Profit. Loss.
Success. Failure.
Mirth. Sorrow.
Crowd. Solitude.
Outward. Inward.
Exhibition. Introspection.
Seeking answers to questions.
Who am I?
What am I?
What is my purpose?
Meditation.
Kundalini.
Play of Consciousness.
Samadhi: Demystification of death.
Superconsciousness
Duality
Death of duality
The Holy Trinity
Timelessness.
Spacelessness.
Omniscience. Omnipresence. Omnipotence.
Aum - The Cosmic vibration.
Pulsating Silence.
Void
The Unbeing, Unmanifest.
Pure consciousness.
Supreme Being; God.

Actress

With my ordinary looks, so commonplace,
a face guys hardly ever chase,
I feel so lonely, sullen and depressed;
an ordinary looking girl at best.
How I wish I was a beautiful actress,
ruling the hearts of many a guys.
Piercing their hearts with every move,
an anathema to their wives.
The outrageous beauty like nectar divine.
The alcoholic kiss, sweeter than wine.

This beautiful actress' body,
and its overbearing presence
shadow the real me,
conspicuous by absence.
I'm a walking, talking doll
measuring 36-28-36 .
I've a heart behind the body,
a mind within my head.
But they don't love the real me,
but my figure instead.
A double edged sword is my beauty.
In all its glory,
it enslaves the beholder,
and then smothers the holder.
How I wish I looked ordinary.
So the guys who loved me
did so for the person that I'm
and not for the nymph in me.

Gibberish so Desultory

What girls want?

I'm a diehard party animal who attends atleast one party in two years. Almost a year ago when I attended the last party, a good-looking girl accompanied me. While we were enjoying the party together, I noticed she caused quite a few heads to turn. I managed to read the thoughts behind those 'turned' foreheads. They were all  wondering how lucky the girl was. Later, quite a few of my friends enquired about that girl. Needless to say they were all impressed. However, that silly girl was more bothered about the 'more beautiful' hair of another girl at the party. Whatever party it is, boys look at girls with 'varying' degrees of appreciation while girls look at other girls with 'superlative' degree of jealousy. In either case, no one looks at boys unless there is a queer in the crowd. English, in all its grandeur, has also not been very kind to men. Of all the adjectives that exist in English, ninety percent can be used to describe feminine beauty and ninety percent of the rest are derogatory. No wonder  men are hardly the subjects of poetry. Harking back to the party, I wonder what is it about girls that prevents them from seeing the good in themselves that boys so effortlessly see? They always seem to be on a lookout for things they lack rather than discover the things they have. If only they could look at themselves from the eyes of boys, they'd fall in love with themselves.

Fun with Failures

I am known to be an all-rounder. My school teachers acknowledged me as the most complete student who participated in everything under the sun, sans studies. I learnt invaluable lessons in teamwork at school when my team won the first prize in a group drawing competition. I had passed chalks and colours then. I also learnt early lessons in leadership when I became the President of the 'Rotary Club' in the school. Under my able leadership we had so many social service events that we missed the century by a mere hundred. I also participated in a city level athletics competition. In an 800m race, I crossed the finish line seconds before the other participants did. Yet, I wasn’t awarded the first prize. The rest of the participants were crossing the line for the second time. I have been a pretty good swimmer as well. I once came fourth in a swimming competition that had four participants. My penchant for learning new things has kept me in good stead. A friend once suggested that if I wanted to hold any beautiful girl's hands, I should either learn palmistry or learn to lie about it. I didn't know either of the two then. A couple of months later I held the first of the several soft, silky hands I've held so far. I am yet to learn palmistry. I always thought I was a pretty good student as well. I wrote all my exams pretty well; unfortunately, my marks would almost always beg to differ from my opinion. Needless to say, I'm a strong supporter of the spirit of participation over the philosophy of winning the event you participate in.

The Business of Marriage

I'm the most eligible bachelor in my family of five, consisting of, besides me, my parents, my younger sister and a younger brother, who is too young to marry. I'm an unhappy single and hence ready to mingle. I'm looking for a girl for company so we can both be unhappy together. Almost all my friends are of marriageable age now. If looks could kill, a friend of mine would end up at the gallows. I almost died of a heart attack the first time I saw him. He'd easily get the role of a starring ghost in a spooky movie without wearing any make-up. He may have had a bout of somnambulism when God was distributing looks but he has a heart of pure gold. He is by far the most perfect person I've ever come across. And yet, he can't find the girl of his life only because his face doesn't comply with the conventions of physical beauty our society has built for us. Wonder whether it is he who is abnormal or the world he lives in. Whether you like it or not, the truth is physical beauty matters. My circle of friends consists of doctors, engineers, chartered accountants and MBAs amongst many others. My doctor friends wouldn't want to marry anyone other than doctors. When it comes to spouses they think anyone other than doctors is not human. Some of my engineer friends also think on the same lines. They claim that their thought levels wouldn't match with those of an arts graduate. A slightly deeper investigation would reveal as to what primarily separates doctors and engineers from the rest. It's probably their analytical ability and I.Q. Beyond a certain limit, you don't need either for marriages to succeed. Academic qualification of a person is mistaken here for the proof of his character. How many of us have become the good persons that we are because of the education we've received? In our being good, it's not our education but our family values that play a much bigger role. Our family is where our roots lie. Marriage happens between two individuals but it bonds two families. That is why our Indian forefathers laid so much stress on finding better families. Somewhere in the deep recesses of our hearts there is a hidden desire to see the reactions of envy, pride and happiness on the faces of others when we introduce our spouses to them. Unfortunately, it is this overriding desire that guides our choices more than anything else. It is almost as if we're marrying that someone special for others.

From Bollywood to Cleaners

I've never traveled out of India. However, thanks to our Bollywood movies, I've had many vicarious experiences in cosmopoliteness. Come to think of it, so many of the Bollywood movies are conceptualized, planned, and shot outside India that the name Bollywood is as apt as the the label of 'Eternity' for celebrity marriages. They then make a big bang release in India only because the foreigners would've seen the whole melodrama unleashed on their streets and so wouldn't care a hoot to watch it again; more importantly pay for it. Their gain now becomes our loss. Probably the only gain of those movies is the eye candy of salubrious and clean locales. Talking about cleanliness, Bangalore was once known to be the cleanest city of India. My recent visit to Bangalore was an eye-opener of sorts. If what I saw were the cleanest then it would be a euphemism to say that Indian standards of cleanliness are abysmally low. Personally, I'm extremely finicky about cleanliness. For instance, I change my bed sheet after every epoch. The epoch may be anything from the bed sheet getting torn due to shameless overuse to someone fainting on smelling it or from someone complimenting me on my olfactory immunity against foul smell to the bed sheet changing colour; in case of the last eventuality my ingenuity inspires me to use it as a darker new bed sheet until one of the first three epochs materialize. The maid who finally washes the bedsheet is then forced to take a two-day sabbatical due to backache. Cleanliness is divine as long as it is the responsibility of others.

From POMS to US pranks

The Americans have been so prejudiced against the British that they tried their best to turn upside down every ritual originated or followed by the British. They thought that cricket was too boring and lengthy so they developed baseball. They thought soccer lacked the cruelty they wanted so went on to conceive "American Football". The right hand drive, so widely accepted in commonwealth countries, was changed to left hand drives for the same God forsaken reason. They even went on to the extent of reversing the process of "switching on" of the lights. I'm glad some processes have been irreversibly designed by nature.

Critique-ing Swades

Success is a sweet poison. It smoothens the rough road ahead and then as the person prepares for a smooth ride, it dumps him by disguising itself as the unexpected pothole of others’ higher expectations. Even more so, if success is as humungous as that of Lagaan. Lagaan, Ashutosh Gowarikar’s oscar-nominated mega success, not only ensured that Swades began with a full house but also that eight out of ten people came back dissatisfied, thus ensuring a lower turnout in the days that followed. The damp squib that Swades turned out to be at the box office would’ve left Ashutosh Gowarikar feeling like a snake that has bitten its own tail.

Swades, unlike most of the contemporary movies pitted against it, is smeared in honesty. Lets start with the names. The ‘h’ in Swades(h) is conspicuous by its absence, and yet that is precisely how the rural Hindi populace pronounce it. After an eternity, we came across a mainstream movie that didn’t have seductively named lead characters such as “the Raj Malhotras and the Rahul Srivastavs” but chose instead to give them largely unglamorous and yet much more quotidian names.

Kudos to Ashutosh Gowarikar for restraining the unruly horse called Shahrukh. Shahrukh, who needs dramatics to survive and emotional catharsis to thrive, was completely subdued and yet gave arguably his best performance ever. The actor has done an amazing job even without his characteristic K-K-K-K-Kacophonic lilt of overacting. Be it the presentation scene at NASA or his argument with ‘Geeta’ (Gayatri), he has hardly shown the kind of restraint and right emotional expressions to boot in any other movie as he does in Swades. Arguably the best dressed Bollywood actor ever, Shahrukh restrains himself here as well; he dresses like a mortal in Swades and rightly so.

Gayatri Joshi ‘Geeta’ has a refreshing screen presence. Her confidence gives an impression that the role was tailor-made for her. The debutante manages to hold her own against Shahrukh, which is a good start to have. But a tad less make-up on her would’ve done well to augment the authentic theme of the movie.

Rahman’s music makes subtle transitions from the foot tapping and the hummable to the mellifluous. One wonders how easily he flows from folk to pop and back. He just can’t stop inspiring awe.

The songs, although good, are a tad too long. This affects the overall length of the movie; an aspect the director needs to improve upon. Unlike other movie songs though, songs in Swades don’t hold the movie to ransom. They are situational and the story continues to flow through them, which is a welcome relief.

Ashutosh needs accolades for not succumbing to commercial pressure. The movie breathes nobility and sincerity of purpose from start to end. Any individual who is not able to serve the cause he so dearly espouses will share Mohan’s sense of ennui. The dialogs are simple and yet effective. He rightly shelved the unwarranted ‘filmy’ rhetoric, especially the ones on patriotism, which in some movies border on jingoism. Lagaan was about winning over your adversary. Swades is about winning over yourself. The analogy is akin to what Buddha, Christ and more recently Mahatma Gandhi had preached. “If someone slaps you on one cheek, show him your other cheek”. Doing that is a distant dream; we’d rather punch him on both his cheek and bludgeon him to his handicap. Showing your other cheek requires winning over yourself and is not a cowardly act as is so often made out to be. This is precisely where Swades failed. In our failure to win over ourselves, to see beyond our immediate benefit for the holistic good and to dare go beyond the expected and ‘pragmatic’ reactions to events, Swades was doomed.

Swades they say is too preachy. But the movie is far better than the much-abused good-wins-over-evil gibberish, senseless romantic melodrama and the forced-to-laugh comedies that Bollywood dishes out ad nauseum. It shows us a way out of our rut. The least we could do is watch and appreciate the effort. Our failure to do so makes me think we’ve reached the wrong end of societal cul-de-sac and yet seem to enjoy it so much that we even fail to appreciate a sincere effort to take us out of our self-imposed predicament.

Swades is a flop. Not because it was deemed to be so by the box office. Box office is too insignificant a measure to measure the depth of this movie. Swades will remain a flop until it brings out a “Mohan Bhargav” from atleast one of the Indians who earlier chose to blame ‘others’ for or to gloss over the rampant malaise that plagues our society. One “Mohan Bhargav” for any village in India is worth much more than the millions a hit Swades would’ve generated. The day that happens, Swades will meet its success. Box office is a nonentity. It always was.

Is it Swades that has failed us or is it ‘We, the people’, who’ve failed ‘our’ Swades?

I, Me and Myself

I don’t have any memories of my infant days. I also can’t recollect my toddler days. My earliest recollections of myself are my kindergarten days when I used to cry my heart out, a reaction not vastly different from other kids, when my mother used to drop me at the school. My recollection gets progressively better as I move my thoughts from kindergarten to primary and so on.

Today, as I sit introspecting my life in this moment of solitude, I ask myself a question, the answer to which is very subtle; subtle enough to give me a new realization, a new perspective to look at things around. The question is, “What is it that is essentially different about my infant and toddler days that causes my memory to fail from any other stage in my life, the events of which I can recollect fairly easily?”

The answer to this question cannot be given in a statement or two. The answer is a realization that your consciousness should slowly absorb as you read on.

You’re more likely to remember the things and experiences you think are ‘important’ to you. The word ‘Important’, in itself, is deep enough for philosophers to write books on. But for the scope of this write-up suffice it to say that you deem ‘Important’ a thing or an experience that gives you happiness or robs your happiness. Bottomline: Anything that meddles with YOUR happiness is IMPORTANT to YOU.

This realization alters the above question to, “Why are infants and toddlers not able to differentiate between things that are important and those not so important to them?”

To understand this, we need to change our perspective a bit. ‘Important’ is a relative term. What is important to one may be entirely useless to another. So what is the reference point that gives the word ‘Important’ the relativity it enjoys? That reference point is none but your royal highness – “The I-ness”. This 'I-ness' is nothing but your 'ego'. Ego is nothing but your soul identifying itself with your body. What is it that you refer to when you use the words such as ‘I, me, myself and mine”? If it’s not the body that you refer to with these words, then you’re an enlightened soul and may choose to discontinue reading further.

If you’re reading this line, then we both are in the same boat. Welcome aboard.

An infant’s soul doesn’t yet identify itself with the body. So, the infant doesn’t have what we call an ego. All it has is the bliss of a soul that has not yet forgotten its true identity even when it is bound by a physical cage. Hence the body is not yet the center of its consciousness. Put differently, the soul is an infant’s reference point. For us, the so-called grown-ups, the ego is the reference point. This shift in reference points is another reason why we struggle to reach the bliss that an infant so naturally seems to possess.

Take a small experiment to understand this well. You’ll hate me for the crudity of this experiment but also love me for the insight it will bring forth. Slap a kid or a grown up and see what happens. The former cries and the latter hits back. There will be so much negativity around. In either case, if you want normalcy to be restored between them and yourself, you’ll have to apologize or explain the reasons behind your action. In short, you’ll have to heal their hurt ego. Now slap an infant. It’ll cry, as the action will cause pain. But does it harbor any negative thoughts against you? Not quite. Its reference point is the soul. And you can’t hurt a soul. The moment the physical pain subsides, it returns to its bliss and you’re welcome to play with it. No apologies or explanations needed. This aspect of an infant brings it on par with God realized saints and prophets who could think of giving back forgiveness and love even in the midst of hatred, jealousy and treachery towards them.

An infant, with the soul as its reference point, doesn’t take the bodily experiences as ‘IMPORTANT’ and hence doesn’t register them in its consciousness. As the infant grows, the soul faces cosmic amnesia and starts identifying itself with the body. Slowly, the ego becomes its reference point and it starts registering the bodily experiences as they slowly become more and more ‘IMPORTANT’ helping him remember them better.

Another reason to call a child the father of man?

So think for a second what you’re doing when you ask an infant or a toddler what his or her name is. You’re giving the body a name. You’re making a soul identify itself with the body. But you’re not doing anything wrong here. The very fact that the soul needed to take birth proves that there is an earthly purpose it has to fulfill. For this, the soul has to identify itself with the body. You’re merely a channel in helping the soul shift its reference point. We all are channels for a purpose much bigger than our brains, in the current state of evolution, could comprehend.

Enjoy your life. It has a purpose to achieve; no matter how useless it seems.

Unspoken benediction of calamities

26th January 2001. Republic day of India.
A holiday. A friday. A long weekend.A devastating quake struck Gujarat, my home state in India.I was going home to Ahmedabad from Pune.
I reached Ahmedabad 20 mins after the quake.
This poem depicts my views on the quake and
the events in its aftermath. My attempt is to
see something good in this devastation.
The good is quite subtle.

**********************
A holiday.
A bright sunny morrow.
In the kitchen preparing my tea.
A spoonful of sugar as I took,
oh dear! the whole kitchen shook.

As I sat on the porch to read a book,
I fell on my back as the whole porch shook.

We scurried out in the open for our lives;
it was the speed of man versus that of quake.
We soon realized it was a mighty one
as it left thousands dead, in its wake.

Buildings pulverized to dust in seconds,
people crushed under the rubble.
The initial shock gave way to wail
for father, son, aunt and uncle.

When nature and man come face to face,
ironically, his home becomes the most dangerous place.

To save those alive from under the debris,
the youth pulled up their socks.
They began clearing the rubble,
ignoring the threat of aftershocks.

Commoners became heroes fighting against all odds.
To the rescued, the rescuers became the Gods.

Yesterday's perfunctory hug was an emotional necessity today.
A casual touch gave goose bumps today.
Unity in diversity was a redundant thought today
for mankind had just one caste, one religion today.
Life, in its rarity, was invaluable today.
Being alive was a reason to celebrate today.
'Mine' and 'yours' met obsolescence today;
'ours' was the rule of the day today.
Business for once gave way to humanity today.
In the sepulchral silence, an infant's cry had nuances today.
Man humbly realized 'Who is the Boss' - today.

In the ubiquity of calamitous death,
life survives.
In the worst fury of nature,
the spirit of humanity thrives.

As the wailing subsided
and the quake became a hazy memory,
the spirit of business took over
that of humanity.

The aids were picketted by ad hoc owners,
who sold them at a premium to fancied buyers.
Rehabilitation was a titanic task,
as land now belonged to land sharks.

Bemused, I chuckled at the irony
called man.

To show man what matters most,
to make him value the things right,
to bring him closer to humanity,
to keep his heart loving and pure,
shouldn't apocalypses perform
a more frequent encore?

Roads to Heaven

My first attempt at comedy and prose.

************************************************************

Old habits die hard. The aphorism stands true for any city and its 'city-zens' as well (Hope the purists would let me get away with the contortion). Also, older the city, harder it is to kill those habits. Hyderabad, the Nizam's city, which has held its own for the last few centuries is leading the IT revolution in India. The city, which was once ruled by the Nizams, has its roads still ruled by the direct or indirect posterity of the Nizams who are born with a license to fly on the roads.

The sleepy city of Hyderabad did see some rapid progress and light of modernity under the aegis and patronage of Chandrababu Naidu. Good roads and supporting infrastructure were built quite rapidly, but not fast enough to support the sudden rise in population which was the IT fallout. The result is for all to see. Traffic jams, accidents and pollution. Also, the traffic etiquette of the people make them as deserving of these good roads as celebrity marriages are for the contention of eternity.

My office is at a distance of twelve kilometres from home. For this much commuting, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that no two consecutive days pass without an accident materializing in front of my eyes. I'd rather keep aside the aside and hark back to relevance.

Did I say that Hyderabadis do not follow any traffic rules? No way.
Having stayed in Hyderabad for around three years, I dare say that, after all, there are certain rules that Hyderabadis swear by.

First: The distance between your vehicle and the one that immediately preceeds you should not exceed fifteen centimetres.

The autodrivers religiously follow this rule. They're always in a hurry to meet the Gods and take the lucky passenger along. Almost always, they run on a short deadline, a privilege denied even to the Prime Ministers.

Second: Green signal - drive fast. Yellow signal - drive faster.

This is the thumb rule. Even if, all one is going to do is meet an old friend at a paan shop and take a fag. Blame it on the crowd. What can a hapless individual do when everyone before and after him pushes the paddle at the remotest hint of the yellow signal?

Third: Colour blindness to red.

Red signals are very reverently treated as red herrings that are not supposed to be focused on or complied with while driving lest the ensuing driver, who almost invariably assumes you're going to ignore it, would bump into you.

Fourth: Zebra crossings are a mark from whereon you start applying the brakes, provided its been atleast five seconds since the red light was flashed. Otherwise, just vroom. Alternately, if there is a motley bunch leading you at the crossroad and has so far prevented the perpendicular flow of traffic in either directions, you are welcome to give a raise and augment the tail.

And if you think the above rules are a perfect recipy for an early appointment with God, you stand guilty of judging things too soon.

Fifth: Do not follow any rule. :-) ..

Signal right and then take a left.

Or signal left at the middle of the crossroad and turn immediately without a thought for the driver behind who is to run out of all the 'hard earned' luck very soon. You hear two sounds thereafter. A deafening din of the crash and an exasperated cry - 'What the @#$%'.

And the best of all, don't bother to show any signals. Just take a turn whenever you feel like and just hope that the following drivers have oiled and repaired their brakes in the recent past. If not, who cares. Both will go to the nearest garage very cordially. After all, the Nizams never fought on the road.
But if one or both are a posterity of lesser mortals, a fracas ensues. In the eventuality, the one with a larger frame and then the one with a better vocabulary in profanity, in that order, wins the duel. Profanity, in such cases, gives instant relief denied even to prayers.

And then there are the pedestrians who, in the presence of thoroughly incompetent traffic police, take matters in their own hands. They jaywalk by showing hands and stopping the rush of traffic in full throttle. But this may be a fearlessness acquired more out of natural necessities than anything else. He might just reach the wall adjoining the pavement and answer nature's call. He risked the traffic for this because he wouldn't want to pass it under his revered, late Chief Minister's statue. We hyderabadis love our legacies you see. And then there are stretches of roads that stink so obnoxiously due to this, that a daily passerby would gain enough immunity to survive Bhopal Gas Tragedy.

Multiple unsuccessful attempts have been made to free Hyderabad of this chronic recidivism. We need a more concerted effort on the part of the government, media and public to ensure our city is a better and a safer place to live in.
The sooner we realize this, the better.

Cities we build,
Characters we don't.
Joblessness we survive,
Lifelessness we can't.

The Pregnant Walk

I'm learning to walk.
I fall at almost every step.
Every step is cheered and applauded.
I'm too slow for people.
But they wait for me with open, inviting arms.
The wait is a pleasure to them.
I'm a toddler in the making.

I learnt and forgot how to walk.
I almost fall at every step.
Every step evokes a rueful sigh.
I'm too slow for people.
They wait for me with an eye on their watches.
The wait is a burden to them.
I'm an octogenarian in the making.

*** 
This poem was listed as "Highly Commended" read for the month of October 2014 by Destiny Poet UK. http://www.destinypoets.co.uk/?page_id=107#comment-338270

I'm alone now

I'm alone now.
I'm one with my 'Self' now.
I've my thoughts for company now.
There is no red herring now.
I've my mind to conquer now.
I've intuition to channelize now.
I've my creative space to harness now.
I've eternity to grasp now.
I've God to fathom now.
The imminent is immanent in me now.
The horn of cornucopia is to flow through me now.
I'm alone now.

We, the people

Forbearance we trivialize,
passion we idolize,
wars we ratify
and then pique we pacify.

Verity we transmogrify,
anger we mollify,
beauty we sanctify,
faces we beautify,
but thoughts we don't purify.

Vanity we gratify
pelf we glorify,
hypocrisy we dignify,fame we exemplify,
rumours we amplify,
vices we justify,
love we mortify,
humanity we classify
and then unity we diversify.

Innocence we petrify,
achievements we magnify,
rules we defy,
truth we falsify,
success we personify,
complexity we simplify,
faith we mystify,
Gods we deify
and then prophets we crucify.

Polemic

The sun is dying a contented death,
having seen her all day long.
The moon can't wait for the night vigil,
to save her from the earthly throng.

Here she comes from behind the opaque
in her ever so graceful gait.
To take her in my loving arms,
Oh God! I just can't wait.

My first sight on her and I knew,
I know her not from this life.
Astral partners we have been
in joy and in strife.

Her smile and her dimple,
Oh! so deep.
A cursory glance
and my heart skips a beat.

Her eyes meet mine
and weaken my heart's fortress,
she is and always will be,
my enchantress.

In the eternity of the preordained
where we all are just channels,
do we really have a choice?
Or are our choices already taken?
Did Einstein toil for intellect?
Did Freud struggle for thoughts?
What explains avarice of Midas?
So many sins unpardoned;
but for the treachery of Judas.
Why reason Hitler's quest for power?
Why judge my love for her?

Why the eternal love we bind
by the shallow comprehension of human mind?
Why see it from the pivot of mortal axes?
Is it not beyond religion,caste, race or sexes?

Not my fault - in every glimpse of her,
I'm reborn.
Not my fault - in her vanishing act,
I die a million death.
One glimpse of her, and
in the breeze of serenade,
the flag of my heart unfurls.
So where lies the crux?
We both are girls.

Tree on the Highway

My roof is the sky.
The highway passing by,
the decades that just fly
in time's lullaby.

With time, as I grew,
from a seed - the tree concealed, 
to a tree - the seed revealed,
many a sun I bore on my hood,
many a storm I withstood,
many rains lashed me wet,
many autumns undressed me naked.

One such morning, a bunch of kids
came under my shade
and played pranks they'd long cherish
as their escapade.
Some clambered up a branch
and tied it with a string
and then enjoyed themselves
with my fruit and their swing.
How I wish,
I could move around like this.

One such afternoon, a couple in love
came under my shade.
Away from the crowded town
their car had sped.
She uncoifed her tresses
and in the warm breeze let them sway.
The look on his face said it all
as he had a million poems to say.
He looked around to give the spies a miss
and then on her lips, planted a loving kiss.
She blushed, and into his arms coyly cuddled,
as in the lonely shade they canoodled.
How I wish,
I could express my love like this.

One such evening, a few old men
trudged under my shade.
The blade of their life
now had a blunt edge.
As materialism lost its sheen,
they pondered over 'What does life mean?'
Nostalgia rushes their blood flow,
resplendent visage in twilight's glow.
The state of mankind makes them upset.
the pregnant gaze at the distant sunset.
How I wish,
for these oldies, I knew what to wish.

One such night, a few men came
under my lunar shade.
They mumbled sweet nothings and
pulled out an axe and a spade.
Leaves rustled as I shuddered;
they were here to slain and deracinate.
A piercing blow of the axe,
how I wish, 
I could evade.

Alas!! I moved, far from that highway,
but only after my life was taken away.
Now I'm a chair here, a sofa there, a table far away
The tree that was on the highway.
How I wish,
I could've moved alive in one piece.

Now I hear that in my place
runs the widened highway.
For man's unending need
I had to give way.

One more from nature's bequest,
sacrificed for man's mad quest.
Now on the highway
there aren't many trees
for kids to climb on,
for love birds to take cover,
for oldies to pull over.
How I wish, 
there were more trees
to tell stories like these.

When Man kills God

When all that matters is material excess.
When mammon and fame become parameters of success.
When mortal success is the only thing pertinent.
When eternal human values become wholly irrelevant.

When man finds excuses to divide and discriminate
through religion, caste, colour and race.

When the eternal commandment of "Follow My Path,"
is misconstrued as "Follow My Religion."

When greatness of religion is sought in numbers,
proselytizing gives birth to communal embers.
When even charity ceases to be unconditional,
it becomes a tool for religious ambition.

When religious bigotry is rule of the day.
When fundamentalism is having its say.
Misinterpretation of holy text ruins humanity.
Secular voices drown in communal frenzy.

When Christ becomes greater than Allah.
When Krishna becomes better than Rama.
In these comparisons -- man mortalizes God.

When a man kills another in the name of God,
he kills, not man, but his own God.

A Poem on Poetry

In this very moment,
right here and now,
I think about my thoughts
and wonder what, why and how.

I jot down the random musings
as and when they come,
and wonder in amazement
as beautiful poems, they become.

At the first glance, I wonder
who gives me this thought?
Whom to thank for this gift
that could neither be bought nor taught.

But on a closer introspection
which I sometimes do,
something within me stirred
as I heard Him say, "I do".

Now the clouds of doubt cleared, 
and the sunshine of clarity bathed me through.
The bird of my thought was now uncaged
as in unbridled glory my thoughts flew.

In an infant's innate bliss,
in our self imposed stress,
in a toddler learning to talk,
in an old man's trudging walk,
in the beauty of a nymph,
in the ecstasy of a triumph,
in a beggar's expectant eyes,
in man's perennial avarice,
in the silence of the tomb,
in the unborn's kick through the womb
and mother's painful pleasure,
in love, the joy beyond measure,
in the growth of a tree
and in life's mysterious travel,
there is always some poetry
waiting for us to unravel.

If the thought doesn't come to you
like bliss to an infant,
like flight to a bird,
like swim to a fish,
like leaves grow on trees,
it would rather not come.

If you don't value things that don't matter.
If you can't see beyond
the physical scope of a human eye,
poetry is something, 
you'd rather not try.

The Gift

Dawn's horizon still very dark,
the first yawn's of the lark,
a distant dog's intermittent bark,
the first glimpse of sun's arc,
in my heart, kicking a spark.

The first rays of the morning,
the shadows of the awning,
the growing clarity of brightness
slaining obscurity of darkness.

The first drizzle on the shore,
pleasantries of the petrichor,
myriad moods of the rain:
farmer's delight, traveler's pain.
The dewy creepers lying low,
the sublimity of the rainbow.

The vastness of the ubiquitous sky,
punctuated by birds on the fly.
The blossom of the flowers
and their alluring powers.
Pigeons' courting games on the perch.
Silence of the mosque, grandeur of the church.

In the patter of the rain,
in the sigh of the breeze,
in the hiss of the stream,
in the rustle of the leaves,
in the barking of the dog,
in the crowing of the cock,
in the carefree songs of the cuckoo,
God sang for me too.

But in the mortal quest of my name
and the unquenched thirst for pelf and fame
In my daily rush and hurry
and the unseen baggage of worry,
these simple gifts of nature I miss
and deprive myself of the 'so-near-yet-so-far' bliss.

Perennial Search For ...

Once upon a time, 
there were two kids.
One was brilliant and ambitious,
while the other average and hedonist.

One's life was epitome of meritocracy,
other's was a hallmark of mediocrity.

One eased his way to a reputed MNC,
other struggled his way to a local company.

One's progress was exponential,
while other's graph was horizontal.

One started dealing in targets.
As they got steeper and stiffer,
his personal life began to suffer.
His past reputation was ever at stake,
under the burden of expectations
his proud head would sometimes ache.
Fear of failure had driven him so far,
the door to recovery wasn't even ajar.
Other's target was to start at nine
and to end at five,
and to gleefully return
back to the hive.

One was a dream introduction.
For his wife, he was a priceless possession,
a la - an diamond necklace,
to be proudly displayed at parties.
But in home's loneliness
he was as useless as a necklace.
Other was an unenviable introduction.
Food for conceit there wasn't any
in being his wife.
But he was always there for her
through joy or strife.

One didn't realize when
his son became a toddler.
The other egged his son on
to take his first steps.

One's kid had to be shown his dad's snaps
to reinforce his image.
Other was always back before
his son's ephemeral memory gave way.

One's wife'd now had enough of being envied;
she now hankered for a solitary moment with him.
Other's wife'd now had enough of those moments;
she now wanted to be envied.

Kid's grew.
One's kid had enough of swanky toys;
he now wanted his dad to play with.
Other's kid had played enough with his dad;
he now wanted swanky toys to play with.

One's family had the material accoutrements of happiness
but none emotional.
Other's family had it all
but lacked the realization.

One's problem was one dimensional progress
where his family had no place.
Other's problem was underestimating what they had
and overestimating what they didn't.

Why is the distant road always better laid?
Why is the grass always greener on the other side?
Is there a dwelling where the elusive
absolute happiness would just come and stay?
if there be one,
Oh God! show me the way.

Mind Monologues

Am I really independent
if I'm bound by time?
If I desire something, 
will that ever 'really' be mine?
Although a mere mortal,
am I not divine?

When I'm the fire,
will it ever burn me?
When I'm the water,
will it ever drown me?
When I'm the air,
will it ever smother me?
When I'm the earth,
will it ever 'home' me?
When I'm the ether,
will it ever dissolve me?
When I'm the killer, the killed and
the act of killing,
will I ever curse, pity and condemn me?
When I'm the soul,
will I ever die?
When I'm the God,
will I ever try?

College lectures - I never conquered

I came.
I saw.
I heard.
I slept.

My Tale

It's cold. It's biting cold.
People wearing warm clothing
but still shivering.
I don't have any.
I don't need any.

I'm a nuisance to the society.
Foraging is not easy,
I wait at shops and houses
with expectant begging eyes.
On good days, I'm fed;
mostly I'm shoved, kicked or plainly ignored.

I'm infamous for jaywalking.
Nobody taught me how to cross roads.
If I set out to cross them
I'm not sure I'd reach the other side alive.
The other day a bike hit me.
Both of us were badly hurt.
Some good souls took him to a doc.
On me, they hurled expletives and stones.
I'm still limping.
No good souls for me.
The similarity of being alive
doesn't guarantee similar treatment to all.

I like the sexy bitch in the opposite bungalow.
She's a real teaser.
She's always mollycoddled.
I'm mostly heckled.
Don't know what she did right to be in there.
Don't know what I did wrong to be out here.
She's always accompanied by body-guards.
They scare me away.
She likes me too.
Her eyes speak of approval.
She doesn't care for our differences.
But for the guards she'd come running to me.
Man made differences not letting lovers meet.

Freedom is the price she pays for security.
Vagrancy is the price I pay for freedom.
Wonder if she would exchange her security
for my freedom.

This is my tale.
Spoken through the wagging tail.
I'm almighty when spelt backwords.
I'm your friendly street dog.

The Sunset

The drizzle. The petrichor.
The cold breeze. The mild sneeze.
The birds chirping back home.
The hue in the horizon.
The balcony. The panoramic view.
The hot tea. Cooling in no time.
Nature at its tranquil best.
My father's sunset.

The drizzle.
But no sand around for petrichor. Only cement.
Circumambient concrete stiffling the breeze.
Birds' chirps drowned in traffic din.
Horizon, defunct.
The balcony, facing another balcony.
The hot tea. Hot forever.
Nature pulverized.
Man in his mortal quest.
My Son's sunset.