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The Indigenius' Den by Ankit Kumar is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at www.theindigeniusden.blogspot.com.

Friday, October 20, 2017

Parallels


Act
It felt like electricity - coursing through her being, tantalizing every inch of her - making her whole yet broken. Nerves working overtime, signals shooting off at thrilling speeds - heightened senses, giving in, yet holding back. With an elevated sense of touch, his fingertips felt every meander on her taut skin - familiar yet new. Rhythm had given way long ago to a frenetic pace. Dizzy and delirious, he held on tight as she feverishly drew small, eager, warm and wet circles on him. He finally lost all control as she gushed a long yesss answering an unasked question.

It felt worth it.

House

Puja’s hands were working in overdrive - decluttering the bedroom before Rajeev got back. His last meeting for the day had been cancelled. I’ll be home soon. - He had called. The bedroom needed to look absolutely in order. Curiously - the rest of the house already was - save the wooden stool near the main door. In this expansive opulence, Puja was enjoying the freedom that Rajeev had bargained for. I earn enough for both of us - he had offered. Her married life had been easy but somewhat dull off late. She had her brand new red lingerie on under her inviting dress. It was a special day.

The door bell rang announcing Rajeev’s arrival. Puja got up, hurriedly scanned the room one last time and made for the door. She straightened the stool near the entrance and answered the door.

Night
“How could you, Rajeev, how could you?!” after all this, after so much time. Puja sobbed. She had found maroon stains on the insides of Rajeev’s shirt - lipstick marks irrefutably.

Rajeev stared blankly into space. Puja looked ravishing in her black dress. She was everything he had ever wished for. Yet, somehow the growing distance between them had pushed him over. However, he had always been very discreet. This had been brewing for over a year. He couldn’t tell how this little detail had evaded his careful manner.

“It’s over, Rajeev! I had thought you’d at least plead.” Puja stormed out of the bedroom she had ordered so frantically a few hours back. Rajeev started after her. Their marriage seemed over.

Yet, all this while, the telling snag in Puja’s red thong from the act earlier that day went unnoticed and unquestioned...

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Co-Accidental












Sunday had dawned, sunny and bright. The sleepy neighbourhood welcomed the dashing rays as a brilliant start to the day of trade after the Sabbath. Paolo was already up and about in his slow and measured manner, humming a tune under his breath as he brushed his hair back - black and sleek - the years didn’t show on them! He looked out of his balcony - the Mediterranean shone like a sheet of gold.

Paolo had spent his long life here growing from the grime on the streets to the mezzanines of fame - fame and notoriety. He was a king to many, father to a son, wanted by the police but loved by all.

He had a long list of enemies whom he ticked off a pad as he pleased. No one could have possibly ousted him anyway. Yet he had exercised power and control - managing a firm grip on matters to the day. A recent entrant on that list was a new boy - Hans - a rookie straight out of a bad action movie - jackets and dark glasses. But, Paolo didn’t consider him so. He was covering ground quickly with his fancy tech and gadgets - something Paolo abhorred and never understood - he had his old school methods. Still, a recent and important heist had gone awry - thanks to Hans. This had not gone down well with Paolo’s men.

Paolo never brooded on failures, a trait that had kept him in the game for so long. Sunday mornings meant a walk to the church and the local market. Since this was the second Sunday of the month, it also meant a haircut at Dimitry’s. Dimitry was Paolo’s oldest friend and confidant. He visited him every other Sunday - a habit that had continued for forty long years. In recent times, the salon would be checked for security leaks before each of Paolo’s visits - methods deemed necessary by Paolo’s son for a vulnerable rendezvous spot.

Paolo alighted the stairs from his balcony in slow and measured steps and walked to the church. He had needless, young men escorting him all the way. Per his orders, they maintained a good enough distance. “I am not a dandy and don’t need protecting!” Paolo would roar. His son had made him swore on his long-lost wife to allow it.

The general public was always in respectful awe of him. He had done enough good for almost every family in this small suburb - a quick redressal system like a King’s court. Memories didn’t fade easily here - good or bad. It was usual for Paolo to walk with a smile on his face as people would wave out to him, call his name or tip their hats to him. Especially on his way from church, one or two would sometimes break restraint and approach - mostly looking for a favour. Paolo never sent anyone away empty-handed.

Dimitry had moved up in life but hadn’t let go off his trade. He personally attended to Paolo even today. Like a custom, the salon would be in apt readiness for Paolo’s visit - the shop, which was a favourite spot for daily exchange of latest gossip, cleared of customers, employees and onlookers; the scissors, straight razors cleaned and organized and Dimitry himself in his whitest best!

“You have grown old, Dimitry” Paolo entered his friend’s shop leaving the door ajar. His escorts never wanted the door closed.

“So have you, Paolo.” pat came the reply. The two men laughed in unison.

Dimitry’s quick, practised hands notwithstanding, the visit was always prolonged because of their banter about the latest. Dimitry was a talkative sort who gave Paolo all the gossip he had gathered. It was then up to Paolo’s discretion to process the information. He was a treasured and dependable source.

“Hans seems to be making a quick move,” Dimitry continued, moving from the sides to the crown of the head.
“Bah, he is a young fool.” spattered Paolo. Dimitry didn’t know Paolo to disregard his enemies. Paolo meditated a while. Dimitry remained quiet.

“Anyway, keep a look out. He cleaned out Ludwig last night.” the friend advised and informed. Paolo didn’t know about this. Ludwig was an old timer on the other side of the city.

Dimitry was done with the haircutting and moved to shaving of the outlines on the back and sides. He generally used a razor for this.

“I got a new electronic razor, nifty little thing.” Dimitry offered.

“No new gadgets for me, thank you.” Paolo rejected.

Dimitry didn’t mind Paolo’s dismissiveness. He stropped the straight razor with gusto on the leather belt hanging near the entrance. Suddenly, he heard a faint, buzzing sound. A bee seemed to have strayed into the shop during the most unwelcome time.

“Ugh, get outta here,” he waved the razor frantically to get the bee. But, it wasn’t a bee. It seemed to be a rather big fly.

“What is it?” asked Paolo.

“Just a bloody fly,” complained Dimitry apologetically and moved back to the chair where Paolo was seated.

Paolo bowed while Dimitry shaved the lower back of his head.

“The time has come for me to retire after all.” Dimitry heard a hint of sorrow in Paolo’s voice.

“You have lived a blessed life, my friend, a full life. You can pass the baton on now.” Dimitry had moved to shaving the side behind the right ear.

And then -- it happened all too quickly.

Out of nowhere, the fly or bee shot straight for Paolo’s face and he reacted to get it away, forcefully moving his head back and his left hand out. Dimitry was right behind him with the newly sharpened razor ready in his hand and metal made sudden contact with skin. The force cut the delicate skin on Paolo’s neck probably severing an artery. Bright red blood gushed out as if a garden hose were cut loose and splattered on Dimitry’s splashy whites. Dimitry screeched, not knowing what had happened. The needless men ran in hearing the commotion. Paolo’s body rocked in the chair spewing blood all over the floor and then fell silent.

The plan had worked. Paolo lay disheveled in the chair in his friend’s shop. The drone retreated quickly from the bloody site.

Monday, December 5, 2016

Trapped

Jarring Orange
Amidst shrieks and wailings, Raghav opened his eyes to look up at weird plasticy tentacles. He couldn't understand what it was because he was all of 4 months old. This intervention was supposedly a device by his worried mother to pacify him. It was a dingy room with orange walls which peeled at multiple places. Accentuated by the dim bulb, the orange jarred young Anita’s head. Odds and ends lined open shelves engraved in the walls. “Why doesn’t he stop crying!” she spat.
It really was a mistake.

Melancholic Blue
Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son's door.

A dull yet sturdy thud had interrupted his early morning musings. There was no answer. The blue walls of the swanky drawing room somewhat resonated with his mood. It had been awhile since his son had spoken to him in more than two syllables. While he had given up on any reprieve, he knew he was failing in his responsibilities as a father. He knew nothing about his 25 year old son's friends, work or habits. When had they steered so apart? The mad rush to earn money had managed to do what he had feared all along.
Raghav hadn’t yet opened the door.

Shades of Grey
Anny held Raghav tightly while their bodies throbbed in embrace. She hadn't been touched so ever in her life before. The pain was blinding but blissful; the euphoria only punctuated by the greyness of the ceiling she saw above her. They trailed to the edge of climax; almost animalistic in the throes of passion. "We should have used protection," said she, panting between heavy breaths. Raghav wasn't worried. She was not his first in this bed. He hated condoms.

Shroud
Loud music filled the unkempt room. Dirt on the floor reverberated in rhythm. Tiny specks of cocaine, as white as the walls around, slid from a packet on to the table. It had been a few years since his last time during college. According to his friend, this lot was the most potent he had ever tried. Raghav was eager and shivering from the lack of layers in the cold room. He made 4 streaks with a practiced hand and cleaned off every last grain on the glass top. It hit his head like electric. It felt different. Numbness empowered him and he fell to his death unceremoniously.

Tut-tut-tut. Raghav knocked at his son’s door...

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Hereafter, Forever…

The radiant sun, the grass green,
The flirtatious breeze under the infinite blue,
The chirpy birds, the lake’s sheen,
The evening sky with its rosy hue,
The somber twilight, the wet rain,
The cold night breeze, the white moon,
The countless stars, the aging pain,
The empty terrace, the expectant room…
They wait with me, hold my hand,
Caressing it, try to explain.
Getting up, I take a stand,
“Bring her back,” I complain.

Amidst the hustle and bustle,
A loud report blows supreme;
The Gray Beast draws into the castle,
Its followers — still in sleep and dream.
The sun’s slanting rays
Peer through the billowing smoke.
Steering me from my daze
Is another whistle’s loud croak!
I turn my gaze away from the sun’s rays—
There I see her — looking expectantly on.
Oh! It’s been so many days—
And towards her, I am magically drawn.

Enveloped in magnificence,
Is she in her lavender gown—
The world, as if in cognizance,
Looks on, mute, yet without a frown!
The fling of the arms, the meeting of the eyes,
The unsaid words on either lip—
The gentle showers from the skies
Complete a candid, perfect clip!
Hand in hand, we walk together
Into the velvety sunlight —
In our hearts will remain forever
This consuming delight…

This poem is a sequel to a much older piece: "Separation or Union?". 
Follow this link to read it: http://theindigeniusden.blogspot.in/2008/07/separation-or-union_15.html

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

अच्छा, मैं चलता हूँ...


We are but travelers, much like birds who build temporary nests and move on seeking better... While we move from one station to another, we meet new people and build new bonds. But, each time, we leave little marks of ourselves and little fragments that just cling on, never to let go. These fragments serve as reminders of the days that were.

The following poem tries to capture these thoughts…


खाली है कमरा, खाली ये अल्मारी,
खाली है मन मेरा, खाली ये तन्हाई|
भर गया है ये बक्सा, काफ़ी भारी हो गया है...
यादों का ये बोझ, क्या इससे कभी उभरा हूँ मैं?

कुछ छोटी-मोटी चीज़ें यूँ ही बिखरी पड़ी हैं--
इनको साथ ले जाना मुम्किन नहीं|
बहुत सारी यादें ज़हन में छिपी पड़ी हैं--
सबका ज़िक्र हो पाये: ये मुम्किन नहीं|

सपनों की किरकिरी आँखों को सताती है,
सपनों की ये डोर हमें दूर खीचें ले जाती है|
सपनों के इस सफ़र में...
हम मिले थे इस प्लेटफोर्म पर --
साथ पढ़े, लड़ें, जियें, मुस्कुराएँ --
मेरी अगली गाड़ी का announcement हो गया है,
तुम्हारी भी आती ही होगी...

यादों के इस बोझ से क्या कभी उभरुंगा मैं...?

Friday, February 10, 2012

Point-blank

Lt. Raghav was still trembling; reeling with those images in his mind, reliving the moments when he had stared imminent death in its face; the gory details sharpening with each passing second.

Still and red, lay Ajay beside him: the reason why Raghav was still breathing. Even Raghav’s leg needed immediate attention. But, he was too numb to feel the pain yet.

The ambush was quick and sudden, perpetrated by trained men; men who knew what they were doing, even to trained soldiers. Post Kargil, such events had become quite frequent, situations under which Gurkhas have always been known to thrive.

Distant yet strong, Colonel Tiwari’s words filled Raghav’s ears.

“You young boys are too young and foolish. The horrors of war have fettered many brave men; men rendered incapable of a normal life thereafter. Tell me. What, according to you, is the worst that can happen in the battlefield?”

“I can get killed,” Raghav had answered bravely.

“Haah! That’s where you fellows go wrong! Boy, you would be lucky if you die. Seeing the man next to you take a bullet are the images which will haunt you for the rest of your life…” the colonel had said, staring ahead of him, the lines on his forehead deepening.

Five of them had constituted the Wednesday patrol party. Their task was to check for infiltration at the foothills near the camp. Four men had attacked them. Two were gunned down, one escaped while the informer had been captured alive.

They had returned to camp with Ajay propped on Vishal’s shoulders; the informer dragged, tied strongly with a rope. Ajay had lived up to his reputation in this inconsequential battle, fighting bravely and securing his friends.

An eerily stunned silence engulfed the camp; a camp which was generally abuzz with foolhardy chatter by this time of night. Men walked briskly attending to their jobs. Major Singh had sent out a search party to catch the escaped militant. The informer was being questioned to gather intelligence about other militant groups operating in the region.

Subedar Rana walked into the makeshift tent. He had been with them during the unfortunate incident. His left arm was heavily bandaged. “Sir, Major Saab has asked for you. He is in his tent.”

Raghav looked up. Nodding his head, as he tried to get up, he winced with pain in his right leg. He looked down to find the bottom part of his trouser wet and dark.

Though taken aback, Subedar Rana sprang into action. “Sir, aap rukiye. I’ll bring the doc here.”

The shock subsided to be replaced only by pain; pain like Raghav had never felt before. He gritted his teeth to stop himself from howling out loud. He shut his eyes tight and clutched his leg above the wound.

A very short while later, Raghav heard heavy footsteps approaching him and opened his eyes. The doctor was at the door. Raghav’s eyes trailed from him to Ajay. Ajay’s face was absolutely clean and calm—untouched by the violence of the night. He seemed to be resting, even dreaming…

The doctor walked in briskly. He acknowledged Ajay with a sudden ‘Oh’ and turned his gaze to Raghav in a businesslike manner. Losing no time, he cut out the bottom part of the trouser with a pair of scissors and spoke as he examined the bloody wound, “Two holes – Entry and exit wounds. The bullet ripped through. That’s generally good. Still, you have lost quite a lot of blood. I’ll clean and dress it.”

The doctor helped Raghav remove his shoe. Even a slight movement of the foot sent waves of pain radiating through his body. And, each time, he gritted his teeth to overcome it.

After the doctor was done, Raghav’s right ankle and foot were completely covered in bandages to restrict movement of the joint. The wound had gone numb again; this time due to antibiotics. “That should do it for now. We’ll have to take care against infection though.” The doctor advised Raghav.

With this, the doctor took Raghav’s leave. At the door, he spoke softly to Subedar Rana, “Take the body to the medical wing.”

Raghav reached Major Singh’s tent with much difficulty; gathered himself up and saluted his senior at the door. Major Bhairav Singh was seated in the left corner of the slightly bigger tent; his legs on the table in front. Vishal occupied the chair opposite to him. In the farthest corner, on the floor, was the informer, quite curled up. He held both his legs tightly in front of him and buried his head in between his knees. His trouser was soaked in blood, probably a gunshot wound. Raghav could hear soft sobs. It seemed the informer had just finished crying out loud.

“Come in, Raghav, sit. Tough night for you boys…” Raghav didn’t quite understand whether it was a question or a redundant statement of fact.

“Yes sir. We were attacked suddenly. It was totally unprovoked and we were caught unawares. Though, I don’t understand why four men would give their positions away so near the camp.” Raghav answered in detail with no lament about Ajay’s death—the hardened soldier in him speaking.

“Yes, Vishal had similar questions and the bastard in that corner answered them.” Major Singh stated, emotionlessly, lighting a cigarette. Getting up and moving towards the corner, he continued speaking, “The three militants are part of a larger group which is camping somewhere not far from here. They had come here to map our location and gauge our numbers and ammunition. They were on their way here when they suddenly ran into you. Although, their task wasn’t complete, one dumb-witted fuck among them opened fire on your group. But, it’s fine. It has us forewarned and we have this slug to feast on.” He seemed to relish his last words.

Without warning, Major Singh bent down and extinguished his cigarette on the man’s bare forearm. The informer let out an ear piercing cry. Major Singh shouted loudly over the screams, his eyes menacing. “It was hatred that compelled that bastard to shoot first. Similar is the repulsion I feel towards these fuckers!”

The informer removed the ash off his skin and touched the fresh wound gingerly. Raghav realized that he was a middle aged man—a mere commoner from the nearby village. The left side of his face was cut in a gash and his lower lip was torn. It was bleeding slowly but constantly. For a moment, Raghav felt pity for his condition.

Apparently, Raghav’s moment of weakness was palpable.

Major Singh said to Raghav, “He sold Ajay’s life for a meager five thousand rupees. Such cheap death! Is that a price for our heads?!” Raghav felt threatened, not by the information, but by the Major’s demeanour.

Major Singh turned towards the informer again. He cowered in terror and in a reflex, covered his head with both hands, apparently expecting another blow from the Major.

“What else do you know? Which hole are those rats hiding in? Tell me!” Major Singh demanded.

“Sir, I don’t know anything more. Please let me go. I have told you everything. Please let me go. Please…” the informer pleaded, crying.

“Let you go?” Major Singh laughed loudly. “OK, I’ll let you go.” He pulled the pistol out of his holster and aimed it at the man.

“Sir!” Raghav blurted out. He couldn’t control himself!

Major Singh turned again. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at Raghav. Raghav looked down at his bandaged foot. “Look up, Lieutenant” Major Singh shouted. “How dare you question my ways?!”

Raghav didn’t utter a word. He merely stared straight slightly to the right of the major’s left ear.

Major Singh spoke with a reduction in pitch and decibel. “Vishal, hold the guy’s left hand and legs.” For a split-second, Raghav expected Vishal’s grasp on him but realized that he was moving towards the corner executing the command.

Major Singh placed his pistol on the table and walked slowly towards the informer. He got hold of the man’s free right arm and twisted it to reveal the cigarette-burn. The wound was still open. The informer had already begun screeching fearing the worst. Inhumanely, Major Singh pushed the index finger of his right hand into the cigarette burn slowly. Dark blood started oozing out from the periphery of the wound. The man yelped louder than ever and his limbs flailed about uncontrollably. Vishal did his best to hang on.

Raghav couldn’t take it any longer. The sight made him sick. He felt he would vomit and backed towards the exit slightly.

Raghav’s shadow from the bulb hanging in the middle of the tent gave his movement away. Major Singh called out to Raghav loudly, “Come back here this instant and look into the man’s eyes.”

Raghav stood still, almost dead in his tracks. The Major stood up and whirled around. “You want to say something, tiger?”

“No sir,” Raghav lied.

“Out with it. Reprimand my behavior. Call this torture inhuman.” Major Singh dared Raghav, speaking fast and loud, his words running into each other.

Raghav said nothing. Major Singh spoke, this time overcome with emotion, “I have given the better part of my life to the army. It is because of these behenchods that we lost so many of our men, our brothers during Kargil. Even enemies are better than these two-faced fuckers. Bloody traitors! Selling the country to Pakistanis… It is I who will have to explain why we lost a man today during a mere patrol.” He ground his teeth while saying the last line.

He looked threateningly at the man who seemed to be passing out from the pain. Major Singh moved towards the table, picked up the pistol and gave it to Raghav. Raghav held the gun unwillingly.

“Take aim, tiger.” Major Singh told Raghav. He seemed to be enjoying it. Vishal had moved back to his original position. Raghav looked at Major Singh unbelievably.

“Vishal killed one. Our Ajay got one. It’s time you popped your cherry.” Major Singh laughed and looked at Vishal as if he were expecting him to join in. Raghav still looked at the Major in sheer bewilderment. Raghav was trembling exactly as he was when they had been ambushed.

“Go on, tiger. It’s a sitting duck. It can’t get easier; your first step into blood and gore, into manhood at the army. Point blank range.

The unfortunate man in the corner had still not understood the fate he was about to get subjected to. He was merely looking at his wounds, whimpering in pain and pleading with the almighty.

“Sir, he is unarmed. He can’t defend himself. How can I shoot him in this condition?” Raghav found his tongue at last.

“Unarmed! Principles!” Major Singh laughed, his entire body shaking from amusement. “Vishal, give your gun to the beggar.” The Major mocked Raghav.

“Shoot the damn fuck or I’ll have you court-martialed.” The Major shouted loudly.

Raghav was startled to attention. He took aim of the man’s forehead. He wanted to make it as short and as painless as he could for the man. Raghav’s hands shook as he judged his action and contemplated his position. He suddenly remembered his father’s refusal to sign the forms allowing him to join the Indian Army.

The man saw the pistol aimed at him and realized the sealing of his fate. Almost automatically, breaking all restraint, he leapt for Raghav’s foot.

“Sir, please forgive me. Please forgive me.” He pleaded and cried. “I have two small children. I took the money because they were hungry; because I was hungry. Please forgive me. I’ll go away from here and never come back.” Raghav stepped back, a tear rolled down his right cheek. He looked to the right, away from the encroaching gaze of the Major.

The Major came to Raghav’s rescue. “Bloody motherfucker!” He kicked the man back into position.

“No country for old men.” Major Singh cracked another of his piercing jokes and laughed alone.

“Shoot.” He finally ordered; his voice heavy and determined.

The pleading man, somewhat resigned to fate, looked imploringly into Raghav’s eyes. Raghav looked away from those eyes and aimed at the wrinkled forehead; his arms outstretched into position, his fingers ready at the trigger. Please forgive me, he said under his breath and shot with the precision of a trained soldier.

The gun went off with a loud bang startling the dead of night. Raghav’s arms jerked with the recoil but contained it as they had done so many times in front of other cardboard targets. The man’s forehead registered a clean hole with a single streak of dark blood welcoming death to his troubled frame. The back of his head blasted like a ruptured watermelon and splattered and spewed blood all over the canvas behind him. His body slumped lifelessly against the tent. The glassy stare in his vacant eyes froze at Raghav, almost incriminating him.

“What a clean murder, tiger!” exclaimed Major Singh. “My first one was very messy, missed the head and hit the eye, busting open the head like a piñata!” The Major still joked.

Lt. Raghav said a silent prayer, kept the smoking pistol back on the table and stumbled out of the tent without looking up either at Vishal or the Major or down at those still and open eyes.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

You are an MBA!


So you belled the CAT and ran amuck,
Got your future with a B-school stuck.
Waltz in; you did, to try your dumb luck,
So swollen with pride, your shirt untucked!
Back to books, not really to the grind,
Because you are here only to find:
A way out and into the moolah-world—
The place where dumber asses twirl.

The equations shrunk to unit degrees.
Straight lines in graphs always increase;
It doesn’t matter what the Y-axis is:
Profit or Loss, Product buzz or fizz.
Matrices never more than two by two,
Ah! When did you ever have a clue?!
Dreaming bright stars whether night or day,
You surely have become an MBA.

You have no domain expertise.
Dude! You can’t even tell butter from cheese.
All you know are these 4 Ps:
Please, Please, Oh… Pretty Please…!
Reading lines off PPT slides:
Making presentations to sleepy eyes.
That ill-fitting suit is now your uniform,
Do you even know the meaning of “brainstorm”?

Always searching for a bigger fish,
Never have you innovated even a dish!
Solving case studies is your dying wish:
The internet your wand, flick and swish.
Honeymoon’s over, fortune seems bleak,
Can you stifle that final shriek?
Plans of rosy roses and the sun’s bright ray!?
You tow your future into major disarray.

For many years you ran after pretty lasses,
Turned down each time by glowing faces.
Feeling the pinch, you removed the ugly braces.
Vowing to find a way to win those fast races.
Hence an MBA and an eligible bachelor?
But, while you walk around town in that uniform,
From towers and posts, nubile girls holler:
“Lo! There goes the Fraud Scholar!”

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

At the Close


A freezing cold night would it be
Or a warm, sunny day with light showers?
A rainy, windy dusk in autumn it rather be
Or a dry, torrid unpleasant hour?

The world won’t stop moving forward,
Nor will the ants stop at work.
Neither will the breeze stop flowing,
Nor will the butterfly’s flutter cause a jerk.

It will remain mundane as it always has been
No interesting times further, or prior.
Will there be a few clad in black
When the clock strikes its final hour?

Neither the existence nor the end of one
Will cause even a mild stir.
The tale of ignominy shall continue
From January to December.

Those few glorious moments neatly tucked in
Will evaporate from living memory.
“He was a jolly good fellow
Who spent his life in pointless drudgery”.

An earthy box or a few pieces of wood—
The final nail, the final prayer.
A pompous goodbye or a lively salute
Are nothing but very rare…

Not a choice of the day,
Nor a choice of the hour.
Neither a choice of place
Nor a choice of the manner.

No prerogative of any kind would you get
Except the station that sees you last.
Unless you rely on destiny,
Your job is amply vast.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Love – A zero-sum Game



Attracted to her, like a moth to a flame;
She was a queen; he genuinely was lame.
Never could she remember his name,
Still, he pressed on, to board that fast train.
Most of his efforts went royally to vain,
Then, it was a different kind of pain.
She didn’t harbor much desire, it was plain,
But you see; Love is a zero-sum game.

Being a Romeo was his only claim to fame,
Persistency paid off, she did proclaim.
The fire ignited in spite of the rain,
(He had an umbrella to protect her mane)
The turn of events left many hearts maimed.
Strong was his mirth, she – pretty and vain,
They were caught together in many a frame.
Yes darlin’, Love is a zero-sum game.

Always at service for the pretty dame,
He lost his sleep (he never had a brain)
Tantrums galore but she wasn’t to blame,
Life for her had always been the same –
Whether this fool, or the one in the next lane.
Now he felt a different kind of pain,
One that stemmed from the agony of disdain,
Yes sweets; Love is a zero-sum game.

With a crunch cracked the damned frame,
Apart! Broken! Started the blame-game.
The next in line presented his claim,
Off she went, boarding another plane.
Left was he, soaked in the dirty lane,
Now, many would remember his name—
Added to the list of many pea brains,
Oooh, Love indeed is a zero-sum game.

Monday, May 16, 2011

A to Z of Happyness


Add smiles to faces around you,
Bend rules for the good of all,
Clap aloud at performances,
Dance to tunes even during freefall.

Eclectic is what life can be,
Fun-filled and enchanting,
Guffaws and hearty cheers,
Happyness unrelenting.

Invest in your future no holds barred,
Jump up in glory once in a while.
Kindness will hold you steady,
Longing also can make you smile.

Manage your time for work and fun:
Nastier the boss, bigger the gun;
Open happiness with him still,
Pour out oodles, refill after refill.

Quench the thirst for success,
Race harder each time you fall.
Stand up for mercy and peace,
Together we can, can’t we all?

Utter those magical words frequently,
Venerate the old, help the needy.
Work hard, play harder, steadily.
Xerox delight copiously.

Yesterday is gone, today is a gift,
Zeroes matter, but only after a digit!
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