But Of Course

But Of Course!

‘But of course!’, said the veiled terrorist,

Don’t you mistake me for a nihilist,

I work by the book, and what God does propose,

I listen, follow, blast, and dispose!

This time around, on the cards is something similar,

If you’re amongst the body count, well, all the more spectacular!

‘But of course!’, said the smiling minister,

We too have plans for the sinister.

But this time around, the plan was wrong,

They fooled us all, and we played along.

Next time you’ll see the plan get bigger and better,

We’ll catch them all, hook line and sinker!

‘But of course!’, said the leader, I too am tough,

And I will proclaim with fury; ‘we’ve had enough’,

But this time around, other pressures force,

And obligations arise, and veer me off course,

Just once more, let me sound like jelly,

I’ll be firm next time, just wait and see!

'But of course!' said the policeman,

I’m perennially prepared for action,

They say I’m stern, agile and dashing,

My cherubic convexity notwithstanding.

But when disaster struck, I was off duty,

So it really isn’t my fault, blame him, not me!

'But of course!' said the citizen,

I won’t let any such atrocities happen,

For scandals I expose, and leaders I denounce,

With startling venom their misdeeds I announce,

If an allegation was a penny, and a blame was a pound,

Wouldn’t millionaires in every Indian street be found?

'But of course!', said all of them in chorus,

We’re a good team, we forecast and we focus,

We plan and we execute, and we in virtue we outclass.

So blame the system not us, why are you so biased?

We have more plans to make, and duties to tend,

And the ravages of bygone disasters to mend!

Of all things in this country senseless and inane,

Of all things corrupt, rotten and profane,

Is the word system, and the use of it in vain,

As if it’s an entity, like the weather to transform,

From good to bad on its own, to fail and perform.

The system won’t change, so get ready for the next bomb!

So Like Us

People, things, and in general, circumstances never change. I realized this after watching the horror and drama unfold in my city over the past week. I say this , because I have also realized the following things: (Not a word below is false)

IT IS...

1. So like the terrorists to strike again. Trust them to never let a dull moment go by.

2. So like the metal detectors and other security measures to be completely redundant and useless when they were needed the most.

3. So like our system, to arm the railway police with merely Lathis, as a consequence of which they were among the first to run away when the carnage at CST station began.

4. So like our system again, to have NSGs only in Delhi.

5. So like our system to have the plane to carry them stationed in Chandigarh at that time, and so like that plane to need refueling at that moment, all of which resulted in a delay of 10 hours between the terrorist strike and the NSG operation commencement.

6. So like our politicians to pounce on the tragedy and play a game of oneupmanship. It is so like the BJP to allege now, and so like the Congress to refute.

7. So like our intelligence to have slept over a bulk of information that it had received over the past few months, pointing to exactly this kind of attack.

8. So like RR Patil, Mah Dty CM, to say "Small things like this tend to happen in big cities like ours. They had planned to kill at least 5000, so by those standards, we did pretty well." to the press.

9. So like his office to call and plead with the media not to broadcast that clip.

10. So like our media to ensure that was the first thing they broadcasted in glowing neon "BREAKING NEWS: RR PATIL: says..." font.

11. So like Pakistan to act all surprised and shocked, and sport a "Who Dunnit?" attitude. Yeah right. You bastards.

12. So like Manmohan Singh to sound like an economist even while delivering a speech to the world immediately after the attacks.

13. So like the Congress to take purely reactionary measures now, and sack incompetent fools. Like they had to wait for so long , and for such a failure to gauge the competence levels of their officers.

14. So like the NSG commandos to quietly finish the job and leave with minimum fuss. It is modesty that reveals greatness.

15. So like our system once again, to treat the families of those killed in the Taj/Oberoi with utmost respect, and have senior officers escort them to the morgue. At the same time, the kith and kin of those dead on the CST platform had to wait, or run from pillar to post for close to 48 hours for a chance to see their dead.

16. So like the media to have a field day and bring us live coverage of the gunfight. Like it were a cricket match.

17. So like the abysmal state of the coast guard to be discovered now. Now.

18. So like us to keep saying crap like 'spirit of the city' and 'resilient Mumbai'. Resilient my butt. You and I could be amongst the mangled bodies shown on television next time.

19. So like the media to ape the west in this hour of grief too, by labeling that day as "India's 9/11". It is one thing to call our film industry Bollywood. But to call 26th Nov "India's 9/11"? Grow up guys.

20. So like Raj Thakeray to do a disappearing act now. MNS commandos to the rescue anyone?

21. So like us to realize, in hindsight again, how petty his politics of North Indian v/s Marathi manoos really is.

22. So like them, no doubt to prepare for another strike.

23. So like us to be engrossed in the blame game again.

24. So like life in India to go on as always.

The peddler of words

(A tribute to the great poets of yore)

The Peddler of Words

With wisdom quotidian, and knowledge none too vast;

With brawns pedestrian, and courage always short;

With penury as my bride, and darkness for a friend,

With aloofness as a habit, on no mortal I depend.

With manner hardly kingly, and riches none to give,

With nothing worth of mention, an obscure life I live.

Scoffing fellowmen hold me in poor regard,

Oh lonely dreamer, what are you but an upstart!

But there is something of a divine light,

In what I do by the dead of the night.

A daytime squandered and badly spent,

To acquire by nightfall an angelic bent,

To sit with frenzied papers at my table,

To pen down poem, story and fable;

A head full of ideas, a heart light like spring;

Oh slumbering fools, now the upstart is the king!

Delirious and inspired, I go on to write,

Reveling and marveling into the night!

Laughing at my humor, you rejoice in glee,

And burst into tears at my crafted tragedy,

My heroes they inspire, and my demons they scare,

My villains you hate, and for my orphans you care!

This world of no God’s, but of an upstart’s alone,

I change your life, all from my dark little home.

But I aspire not riches, those are not for me,

For a mere peddler of words is all I want to be!

Metamorphosis

Another poem from 2004. One of my favorites. It depicts good old fashioned possessive love. Probably unfit today, in these times of flirting, sms love and coffee shop romance. But truly one of my most special ones.

Metamorphosis

You, always the incandescent princess,
Oh so glamorous, all very glitzy,
Me, the idiot, forever obsessed,
With you, but truth I can never see,
That you and I, are just not meant to be.
Try as I might, I can never be your kind.

Pick me, throw me, just take me for granted,
For am I not your shadow, your footsteps;
Always there, yet totally ignored?
Soon, we shall part though, as the future beckons,
Surely, into your bright world you shall disappear,
Leaving me to grope somehow, for my destiny.

But all this while, you failed to realize,
A lurking intelligence behind my dull eyes;
A will that strengthens with the darkening of the skies,
A longing, a hunger, to escape from this life;
A desire to be someone better, stronger, and bigger,
A confidence that knows its possible. And it is too.

Some years later, your life I shall enter-
No longer the shadow, no longer the coward,
And charmingly swipe you off your feet,
To carry you into the night skies above.
Long lonely years spent waiting for this moment,
Knowing, though that no price is too high for love.

So I bide my time, for someday you shall be mine,
And I know my someday is never too far away,
So my lady, don't ever think you have seen the last of me,
For I shall return, once my metamorphosis is complete.

The Soldier In me

This is a poem I wrote sometime in 2004. It is raw, but I like it still, for it evinces my admiration and love for the soldiers of our land.

The Soldier In Me

Not too long ago, I was a body with no soul,
A wanderer without purpose, without a goal.
A scorned, unwanted and unhappy life I led,
Sometimes wishing I could just drop dead.
Society branded me a misfit and they laughed-
They laughed at me, and how they laughed!

Now at my country's border I stand,
Tri-colour on my chest and rifle in hand.
And finally in my life, purpose I can see.
Till I collapse and my last breath deserts me,
My motherland I shall guard, for I love her,
Yes, this is the new me, me the soldier.

Sometimes, even now, their laughter I can hear;
"He just wanted to run away", they mockingly leer.
But then, "Do not look back", the soldier in me says;
A soldier has no past, he only looks onward always.
Besides, a noble job I have, that of protecting
A billion brothers, oh what a thing to do for a living!

On some nights, when in a lonely bunker I lie,
A skeptical voice within asks, "What if I die?"
But the soldier in me always rises to reply,
'Worthy is the man who dies for a cause,
And an entire nation shall mourn his loss'.
And in that reply, my salvation I find.

Dostana, Miami, and the great Bollywood lie

So Dostana will release today. People will throng to see John's abs, his butt too I believe, Priyanka's cleavage, and the sights and sounds of Miami, and the associated attractions of firangs in bikinis, songs in foreign locales etc. The movie will run, Karan Johar and his production firm will roll around in more money, people will be happy, and life in India will go on as always.

The entire thought process behind the movie must have been like this:
1. Select location based on which will sell the most.
2. Select actors and actresses based on who's hot and in right now.
3. Frame a story somehow around all this.

There is nothing wrong, or nothing tragicomic about this, except for one thing: This just isn't good cinema. For long, it is an open secret that Bollywood hides shoddy scripts and sloppy acting behind a facade of foreign locations, exquisite dresses, and of course, the skin show. But why do people fall for it again and again?

Why have all of Karan Johar's recent movies (Kal Ho Na Ho, Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna to name a few), been shot in the Unites States? Was the USA central to any of the plots of the above movies? It's not only about him. Jhoom Barabar Jhoom was fimed entirely in the UK. Aap Ka Suroor, in Germany. Did it influence the story line in any way? The answer is a resounding no. Why do bimbos like Katrina Kaif, Sameera Reddy, Celina Jaitley etc. who can't act for nuts keep getting roles in big movies?

There's a general feeling in our country that even bullshit, if packaged well enough, will sell like hot cakes. We blame politicians for being profligate. We blame cricketers on their eccentricities. Why do filmstars and film makers escape, despite wasting crores?

I'm not saying glamor and aesthetics are unnecessary. But when things are put in just to show there is abundance of money, or to hide obvious flaws in the movie, it irks a thinking viewer. The idiots, of course, continue to wallow in these superfluous excesses, like Minisha Lamba's bikini in Kidnap, or Akshay Kumar's sherwanis in Singhh is King (each of which is supposed to have costed more than a lakh of rupees) .

Grow up Bollywood. Don't dish out crap like this. Grow up viewer. Watch Miami to your heart's fill on Travel and Living if you want. Don't shell out 150 rupees for the same.

(readers, your comments are welcome as usual)

Nay, said the flower

Hey. I found this in some book. It's originally a Hindi poem, but when translated, it still sends an arrow of thrill through the heart of the reader.

Nay, said the flower
Cast me, said the flower,
Not on the virgin's bed
Nor in the bridal carriage
Nor in the merry village square.

Nay, said the flower
Cast me but on that lonely path
where the heroes walk
For their nation to die.

Of cricketers and heroes

The Tireless one (Jumbo) has gone. The Indomitable one (Dada)will hang his boots after Nagpur. Soon, the Immaculate one (Rahul) and the Special one (VVS) will crumble too. The Legendary one (Sachin) shall linger on for some more time, but inevitably, he too will have to call it a day. Indian cricket is at a crossroads now, witnessing the biggest exodus in recent times. The most iconic players to ever don the India whites are bidding farewell to the game.

Somehow, I cannot imagine an Indian team without the likes of Kumble, Dravid and Saurav. True, the recent inflow of youngsters had resulted in almost inhuman pressure being put on them, but they handled it with aplomb, and showed their class time and again.

I, like most guys my age, grew up watching and idolizing these players, and the most enduring of my cricket memories will be
1. Kumble bowling with a broken jaw and high fever in Antigua (2002) to get Lara out.
2. Sachin beating the living shit out of McGrath and co. in Sharjah (1998) and single handedly propelling the team to wins.
3. Saurav Ganguly and his offside strokes which were, according to me, poetry in motion. He repeatedly bisected 7 fielders on the offside and brought the best laid plans to pieces.
4. Rahul Dravid choosing to keep wickets to accomodate an extra batsman in the team, and withstanding the enormous toll on his body to become the ICC ranked No.1 ODI batsman in 2004.
5. Laxman bringing the Aussies to their knees in Kolkata (2001) and being christened 'Very Very Special'. To this day, he remains the nemesis of the Australians.
6. Kumble's test century in England (2007) and the way he celebrated when he got it, suddenly looking more like a 12 year old kid than a veteran of 37.
7. Rahul's comment in the media : "Everywhere else, there is God, but on the offside, there is Saurav Ganguly."
8. Kumble's magnanimity and humility when he remarks to the media on being given captaincy "I understand this is a transition phase and I have to do my duty and ensure the captaincy is handed in good hands when I retire shortly."
We as a generation shed tears at their failures, and jumped with joy when they played well, for we knew they were giving their heart and soul for the nation.

I wonder how long it is going to take, or is it ever possible, to respect the pugnacious Yuvraj or the fiesty Gambhir, or the ice cool Dhoni in the same way. They are great players too no doubt, but there was something about the oldies that made us idolize them and want to BE like them (I became a left hand batsman because of Saurav) .

Seniors, we love you, and shall always respect you for your immense contributions to Indian cricket. Please stay involved with the game.

Goodbye Jumbo. Goodbye Dada. And the others too. We are better players and humans for having seen you play.. You guys will always be missed.

(readers, feel free to post your fav memories in the comments section)

Words that permit

Without disguise, my dream I confess,
A journey impending, a lifetime's quest
I'll be back my love, I hear myself say,
You know I won't bear to be away.
Arts to revel in, trades to master,
Secrets, stories and legends to go after.
But none of these she desires for me,
For, is not distance every woman's enemy!


And in the pregnant silence I wait,
An entire journey hanging, subordinate,
To words that permit, yet somehow tie,
A blatant truth perhaps, an effusive lie,
But gushing and straining come the tears,
Adorable woman anger, betraying her fears,
"Come back soon, and always be strong,
Be good to all, and know right from wrong.
I'll wait always, but please don't be long."


Dusk falls, and the sea stretches infinite,
Rocking my ship and conspiring with the night,
A window on the shore, and a silhoutte slight,
Shivering and crying, that memory I hold tight.
What man of me, who leaves his all behind,
Travels far, a better life to find,
Suffering too, on destiny's rocky straits
As much as the one who remains and waits!

Of Ganpati and Sean Paul

So its Visarjan day today. My colony Ganpati moves along at snail's pace. I am a passive bystander at the edge of the road. I see two trucks. The one ahead has a self proclaimed DJ, and atleast four speakers, each at least 8 feet tall. There're around 200 people behind this truck. Predominantly youth, but not without the ocassional beer bellied uncle here, or the fat bottomed aunty there. 

The DJ churns out music loud enough to drive you crazy. And all these 200 people begin dancing. Traffic is obstructed. Cars honking, traffic police screaming at the top of their lungs, and the DJ changing the music on a whim. Some real popular Bollywood numbers. Then comes a different beat. 'Temperature' is the song. Sean Paul's words of wisdom follow, and the crowd does a loud 'Woooooooooo' to show their appreciation for the DJ and his choice.

 Anyway, for all the colony to hear, Sean Paul raps

Five million and forty naughty shorty...
Baby girl...all my girls, all my girls...Sean de Paul say

Well woman the way they time cool I wanna be keepin' you warm
I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm
oh lord, gal I got the right tactics to turn you on, and girl I...
Wanna be the Papa...You can be the Mom....oh oh!

Not less than five feet behind all this, the second truck trundles along. A few disgruntled old men, and little kids too young to know what 'turn you on' means, trail along behind it, and above all of this, Lord Ganesha towers in all his benign and magnanimous  glory. I detect a satiric smile on his face. I can't help but feel amused.  Meanwhile, Sean Paul gives way to Eminem now, and the ardent devotees dance on into the night. 

No freedom

(With a few days to go for Independence day, I gave a thought to the meaning of the word 'free'. I came up with some thoughts related to freedom and the lack of it.)

No freedom. What does this mean?

No freedom means having to obey other people all your life. No freedom means not being able to stand up for what you think is right, and accepting ignominies and invectives hurled at you with nonchalance, resigning yourself to your fate. No freedom means being shown everyday that what you believe in and live for is insignificant and inconsequential. No freedom means getting used to that too.

No freedom means having to think twice before acting, for fear of the consequences. No freedom means inhibiting your desires and goals, for lack of belief to dream about the same. No freedom means fear of the future. No freedom means a passive acceptance of the fact that your destiny does not lie in your hands.

No freedom means being incapable of love, for love is the greatest proponent of freedom.

No freedom means doubting yourself. No freedom means fighting two wars everyday, one against the world, and one against your own self, to prove that you are right. No freedom means not knowing whether you are right or wrong.

No freedom means forcibly restricting your abilities and working capacity because of physical and mental exhaustions.

No freedom means a life lived within four walls, a floor and a ceiling, and thinking that’s all there is to life. No freedom means a life lived merely for survival, without hopes or spirit. No freedom means a life lived amidst chains, wondering about how life would be without them. No freedom means not living at all. No freedom means merely existing.

The Princess and the Shepherd

Sometimes, our own views of princesses and shepherds gets so all encompassing that we lose sight of what is God’s will. This is a poem that shows just that.

And she enters the palace, silver anklets tinkling softly,
In the dead of the night, to her room she tiptoes,
Her mother waits in the dark, heart beating wildly,
‘Oh you little jewel, my heart bleeds for you thus,
Away you go into the dark dangerous night,
On horseback, galloping into the moonlight,
Who is it that draws you so, out of your chamber,
And into the night, who is he who makes you wander?
A prince so fine, or a man with nobility divine?’

‘Mother, his company is what my heart longs,
But neither prince nor noble he may be,
The coarse Harijan class is to what he belongs,
And that makes him not a person worse,
Or shrewder less, or his thoughts less lofty,
He has strength that makes the wrestlers shiver,
Wit and subtlety to make the vazirs quiver
He is a complete man, and mine he will be.

Oh mother! Why do you weep thus!
Is it his lineage of birth, or the bulge of his purse,
That makes him fit for a princess? Is it not his soul
And his completeness, that makes him a man whole?’
‘Oh naïve little one, what do you know, of royalty,
Of poetry, nobility, and a king’s famed ancestry,
That you seek to blemish it, with a mere shepherd
Fit only to clean the stables at our palace!’

And her bangles she breaks, weeps and curses
Her hot tears fill the night, and thus it passes.

It is morning. The jungle awakens to glory
The shepherd stands one legged, flute in hand,
And as melody divine fills the heavens, you can see
How bird, animal, and all the creatures of the land,
Surround him in devotion, as do the villagers slowly,
And as the queen spends a sleepless night, may be
The princess still thinks of him, as now he is only memory,
But the shepherd Krishna revels outside, and all is Godly.

Of Mechatronics and first showers

Mechatronics is not even a word on this word processor. It is underlined red, a word not recognized in the English language. The closest match suggested, as I see, is macaroni. The stupidity of the whole thing is funny.

June 5th 2008. Outside, blustering winds and rumbling thunder, along with the enchanting prospect of imminent rain, have turned the landscape into a scene straight out of poetry. Ah. First showers.

Children come prancing down the stairs, to do a little jig, looking expectantly at the skies from time to time, children being children in all their uninhibited childishness.

Red gulmohar flowers dot the road in front of my building, and a lot more are plucked off from the tree by the notorious winds, and carried off in crazy swirls that defy geometry, and teach us more about the shapes of the world than any manmade art ever can.

And finally it starts raining. A gentle drizzle at first, then it slowly picks up until the patter on the window shed is all I can hear when I stand looking outside. Some water blows onto my face as well, wetting my spectacles. Surprised, I back off. The sweet smell of wet earth evokes strange emotions, and distant memories, which I really need not describe, for what every man feels and recollects during such special moments of proximity to nature shall be unique to him, and himself alone.

A quiet calm envelops the heart, and softly, ignites little desires left unheeded. A longing to see my grandparents once again, a longing to go down and play football like there’s no tomorrow, and come back drenched to the bone, and enter the house to the smell of piping hot tea. A longing to meet old friends, a longing to spend a little more time with loved ones than time permits, and a longing to be small and innocent again.

But, mechatronics beckons again, and sighing, I sit down to study, as there is an exam tomorrow. Such is life, for all its romance and poetry.

Letter to a terrorist

I write this a day after 6 serial blasts in Jaipur kill more than 50 and wound close to 200. These blasts now leave a burning imprint in the annals of Jaipur’s pristine history, and the rustic peace of the pink city has been forever disturbed.

Mr. Terrorist, I don’t know what schedule mass murderers of men follow, but if it permits you some free time, then I hope to God that you come across this blog one day, and that you read this letter I am addressing to you. Don’t worry, it is not a hate mail. I am merely thanking you.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist. For trying to remind a nation that you exist, time and again. We as a people, are essentially happy these days, 2008 is proving to be a good year for us, and Indians from all over the world, in all walks of life are making their presence felt across the globe. We tend to forget you in such moments, just as a man in moments of bliss would tend to forget an infected wound on his foot. You have been just that to us, and we will acknowledge your presence once again.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist. For inadvertently showing us that you have relegated yourself to attacking the second tier cities of the country. Maybe you are just not the man you used to be, going after the Mumbais and the Delhis of the country. Maybe its not that easy anymore. Maybe you feel fear too. Thank you letting us know that.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist, again for inadvertently proving to be the most cohesive force that binds all Indians together. In this day of reservations, fractious regionalism, and IPL, (come on, don’t tell me you haven’t watched it yet), we sometimes forget that we’re one country, one land and one people. You have united a billion people again, and the heartache that we feel when we see the dead and maimed of Jaipur makes us forget caste, religion and creed, and all our petty bickerings. In that moment, we feel only empathy for a fellow country man, and that unites a country more strongly than anything else. Thank you Mr. Terrorist for uniting us. You have brought us together once again.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist for strengthening us again. Thank you for showing us that there is always room to become stronger. The people of Jaipur won’t ever forget May 13th, just as Mumbai will never forget July 11th, and in this day of tragedy, heart of hearts, they will feel the need to become stronger. And they will.

Thank you Mr. Terrorist for showing us just who the weak are, in this whole bargain. There were bombs hidden in cycles, and they killed women, children and the elderly alike. Mr. Terrorist, on behalf of the whole nation of India, I would like to point out that you are weaker than the most aggrieved survivor of your ghastly deed yesterday.

I do not know if you are a follower of your faith, but if you are, I don't know which God permits this. Also, I do not know if damned men feel pangs of conscience. I am not really sure if the law of 'karma' even applies to a man like you, but just so you know, on behalf of all the people of India, right from the wealthiest millionaire to the most impoverished pauper of the land, we hope you die a thousand deaths for every person you killed yesterday.

You may have snuffed out lives, crushed dreams, and maimed bodies forever. But you have strengthened more souls in the bargain than you would have ever imagined. Well done Mr. Terrorist.

The test match

Pricking heat all over my body. The tshirt clings to my back, as I wipe sweat off my forehead and look ahead. The heat blurs my vision. Eleven guys standing with their eyes on me, more attention from the dressing rooom focussed on my every move. I take guard, pausing momentarily to shake the stiffness out of my arms, and tap my bat down on the muddy concrete strip ever so gently, and look ahead, in apt attention. Twenty minutes to play out, and the test match will be drawn.

Sledging, in its most rudimentary and detestable form, going on in full swing. But the proponents of that too, from all the depths of the slip cordon, pause as the bowler thunders in. Tennis ball whizzes past me. I let it be. No pain, no gain. The ball is taken adroitly by the keeper, and as if on cue, all the close in fielders erupt in verbal volleys of taunts, and snide remarks.

And on the match trundles. Last wicket to get for them. Ten more minutes to go for us. A slow leg spinner bowling. As the minutes have passed, the sledging and banter have gone down, the field has spread, and the pressure has eased off. I play one ball deftly, dodge the other, leave the third undisturbed, and pad off the fourth and fifth ones. Suddenly they have upped the tempo, and the verbal barrages are back. The temptation to whack one over their heads is too much. I beg the sane part of me for permission to do the same.

Last ball of the over. Looping slow ball, slow even by spinners' standards. Screw everything else. In that split second, I make up my mind to go for it. Advancing down the track, I hit it firmly. Oh...but was I a tad too early on the shot? And my worst fears are confirmed, I realize in the eternity between my hitting the shot, and the sound of the hit reaching my ears. The ball travels the distance, but lacks that extra punch to carry it past. And in that instant I know I am doomed. The fielder pouches it. And the fielders go beserk. I kick the gravel in anger, and swear in utter disbelief at my own naivete.

Why did I go for it? I ask myself a million times on the way back to the dressing room. Needless to say, we lost the match.

Moral of the story: Temperament is what greatness is made of.