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.