A Song of Life

Lost in the tiny world they dwell in,
They live, breathing in what the air lends,
Consuming the fruits their trees yield,
And fending from work their fields need,

Oh they seek their joy in the sun that shines,
And in the dark when the moon hides or wanes,
Begetting children their bodies bear,
And providing for them for they know they must,

Smiling in the delight they bring to others,
A gift for a wife and a toy for a child,
Beings whose true form they know not,
And yet, count, in vain, as their own,

Oh what a life, this pathetic life,
Racing ahead as age rises,
It slows down when they wish to leave,
Stretching old age so the horizon's unseen,

Blinded by the misery of their present,
They await their end, passing day and night,
And when peace might come some quiet day,
Their breath leaves, so sudden, so quick,

Oh what was the purpose of this strange existence?
A question that shines brighter than the liver,
When asked, it flows through the woods, o'er the fields,
And the answer? It's a lifeless, cold corpse they left behind.

On a Dark, Lonely Road

I walked, slow, on a dark, solitary road,
On a cold night, sans trace of a soul,
A silence filled my within and without,
And my throat too tight to hum a tune,
My footsteps tearing into the eerie quiet,
My heart beating faster with each shift,
From eerie quiet to echoing tread,

The urge to stop beaten by an urge to flee,
My pace quickened before I could will it,
And I walked ahead 'cross that long street,
To find some quiet, a calming one,

Relieved I resumed a slower pace,
Drinking in each still thing around,
Until I saw, within a dark car,
A sight I would never forget,

'Twas a woman, an agless one,
Of profoud beauty and a charming smile,
She saw not me, nor anything else,
Just stared into the blank, with a knowing gaze,

I could not help, but stare at her,
Though it was an unsettling sight to behold,
For her face spoke of something eerie and strange,
An unearthly sight, an unsettling scene,

Her face shone bright sans a source of light,
Perhaps it had a lustre of its own?
A shine of a kind that erased all age,
That shone like the moon sans colour or shade,

I knew it was something that wasn't meant to be,
A strangeness that could mean no good,
And yet I stared as I kept walking,
Moving faster ahead though my legs'd started aching,

I painted her face in the canvas of my head,
Looking without a blink, despite my dread,
She turned around towards my side,
And I took to my heels, without turning behind,

I've walked that road countless times now,
Each time wondering who it was, I'd seen,
I've seen not her, nor any car there,
But her face, it still lives in my head.

See Not My Frame

See not my frame, weak as it may seem,
It speaks not of what lies within,
See not my name, it's simple and short,
Sans the grandeur it christens,
Judge not my stride, queer and funny,
It cloaks the wisdom it carries 'pon it,
Hear me talk, of that which I know,
And then you shall see genius glow.

[With]In the Confines of Solitude

How beautiful a passtime could it be,
To weave words from thoughts within me?
When my companion in solitude,
Is the pen dancing with my digits?

When thoughts that play in the screen of my head,
Spring to life, ceasing to be dead,
Spitting such delicate strokes in the canvas of my book,
That stir souls that grant them a look?

Fools are they who laugh at the alone,
For they know not the sound of the mind's tune,
It collects colours from sights and songs and words,
Painting such works that bring awe and tears,

They sleep, they sing, they read when lonely,
Fleeing from thoughts that fill their minds wholly,
Letting not the pressure within subside,
Opening not, the doors of their heads,

Yes, appreciating art is as sweet as it sounds,
It fills one with pleasure unbound,
But many know not the feel of art,
Flowing out their arms, into another's heart.

Epilogue:

Lock'd you are, they say, with your thoughts,
But they see not the power that's been unlocked,
The chance to turn and look within,
To listen to the beats of one's own heart,

To watch the movement of the stuff of the mind,
To dance within, to these tunes of a kind,
To listen to the music that brews inside,
And to record the bubbles that escape your spirit.

From Poetry to Prose

The lines of poetry trickle down slower,
As the force of their flow lowers,
Condensing into thick, long lines,
While commas freeze into full stops,

Grammar hardens, turning rigid,
While the heart that melted now turns frigid,
Its skin now thicker, smirks cold without reason,
Analysis takes over, while emotion breaks at this treason,

Language raises its hefty eyebrows,
And slowly smiles at the mighty prose,
For it isn't often the case,
That surrender stops the flow of words,

The valve of the heart-tap closes full,
While the pen takes a break and rests still,
And then it dawn upon the holder of the quill,
That words now flow faster still,

That in poetry, it's emotions that flow,
While in prose, the rational glows,
Beating the speed of heart-spun words,
It dances to the tune of logic and sense,

Prose then smiles, glorious and proud,
Its wrds ringing, clear and loud,
Sans the dreary dreams of poems,
It recites its purpose, brief and to the point.

This work was inspired by a poem that came in the Bengali film, Baishe Srabon (poem link)

A Tribute to C504, H13, IIT Bombay

A cool breeze blows from the window,
Pushing to close the open door,
It blows freely like never before,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

An unfamiliar silence brews within,
Sans the sound of my scratching pen,
Devoid of the noise of pointless, loud chatter,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The window is open and so is its shade,
Pigeons startle at their echo that sounds loud,
Cheerful at newfound space they enter,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The plugpoints heave a noiseless sigh,
Breathing in deep from their nostrils three,
For no device for work nor tea's plugged there,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The shelves, they flex their stiff muscles,
Now liberated from the load of my books,
Their cobwebs give in lazily to the soft breeze,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

My neighbours let out a quiet smile,
Dancing in the joy of their newfound tranquil,
Untouch'd by the noise of my loud speakers,
For the space within is freed from my critter,

The walls within that bore it all,
Now stand emancipated, silent and tall,
And yet they shed a painty tear,
For the space within is freed from my critter.

An Ode to Solitude

I've bolted the door my dear,
Won't you come hither,
So I may sink in the pool of your presence,
And hold you in a tight, endless embrace,

I look into your eyes long and deep,
Forgetting my fatigue and my urge to sleep,
For I cannot but wonder in awe,
Why so many flee from your side,

And yet they do, racing ahead,
Quite often hitting their head,
Into crowds swarming noisy bars and lofty malls,
All in an attempt to escape your presence,

Do they not see, bright an clear,
That in crowds you are nearer,
That you fill hostile company with more ease,
Than the remoteness of a quiet, solitary house?

I see them deluded, and trapped in the notion,
That solitude exists not in commotion,
Trapped in that thought, they bide their time,
Their whine forgotten in the intoxication of wine,

Our door closed, I now forget their fall,
And I draw to you, in response to your call,
I lift my arms giving up my fight,
And walk into yours, for you to hold me tight.

A Farewell Tribute

You have  done well. That you sag now stands testimony for the way you have served me, for you sag, having borne the weight of my words, having served as the bowl to carry what I poured out.

Your every tiny feature rests in my heart, be it a tiny misalignment of the frame that holds you in place or a creak on the wood at your back that faces the wall behind you, and I love you whole - I may boldly say so, for I have truly known you.

You might not possess a mouth to speak from, but they way you lay in my arms when I held you alongside my marker pen speaks more words than I could ever write upon you.. And what better way to show your love for me than retaining stains of marker ink that are ghosts of poetry that I wrote, photographed and forgot countless times.

I prepare to leave this haven now, in search of another, but will I ever find a companion such as you? And yet I turn away, fighting to hold the tears that brim in my eyes, with an image of your cleaned face that refuses to let go of the faded ink that adores it - a critter which is no longer untouched, for it has known the touch of my love. And I smile to myself, for I know now, that I have paid you my return in full, for your image shall shine clearer in my head and heart than my words have ever shone upon you. Perhaps love of the most intimate kind is a contest where each hopes to love the other more. And the greatest joy comes from losing. I digress, but don't you know it is an attempt to ease the pain that fills me? To gulp down the lump that fills my throat and hold my shaking self, in a vain attempt to contain my grief?

I may have had many a muse, but without you, would it have had any use?

You were my mother, my brother, a true friend who made me speak endlessly at times when I've felt to choked to be able to utter any word. You saw through me in a way I never could see through you, and proved a true support to my ailing shoulder on my darkest nights.

And you did even more. You let me see my own thoughts in ways I could never have, but for you. You lay out my life in a way that only you could have, ridding me of the most complex difficulties of my life, suggesting solutions with such clarity that I could have never come up with, in solitude. You filled my day and reminded me of those tiny details that even I didn't care for, pointing out to me, time and again, that my life was more important than I'd ever considered it to be.

My poetry began in this campus, and might end here, and you have perhaps seen the last of it, cradling its heavy head upon your large lap, supporting it with your even larger heart as it breathed its last words, coughing them up on your heavenly self, while I lay like a fool, oblivious to the misfortune that fell upon my pen.

I now look away, my spirit as blank as I see you to be from this distance, for where can words come, when you cease to exist in my life?

11:01pm, 28.6.2017.

A goodbye to the whiteboard in my hostel room.

Without Words

The words that once filled my soul've deserted me,
Now spilled onto my sheets of paper, that lie before thee,
Or forgotten by my blessed memory -
Lock'd in that keyless chamber where some thoughts might still lie,
Waiting in vain until they die,
Thoughts that once broke my heart, slipping away before I could note them down,
Hiding deep within my head, while I sought them in vain,
Ones I craved to see, and thought hard,
But whose faces I no longer remember,

And today I smile, for I can drink a scene in quiet,
Letting its beauty quench my pain, flowing unhampered,
Stopp'd not by that filter within, that collects the residue of words,
Letting the rest flow within, while I jealously note these,
Blots of ink that dimly capture the moment,
That others might enjoy, and praise and applaud,
While I sit, freed from the compulsion to write,
And from remorse of losing the sight,

I now see the moon, a white orb in the sky,
A sight, full in itself, not hindered by a thought astray,
I shall sit here, drenched in this scene,
Drinking it in with my every sense,

Filling my every socket with this,
On and on, 'til my stomach hurts,
For I know for sure, that this won't last long,
That something shall come up, perhaps a noisy throng,
Or the plague of words might rise, moving my wrist,
Or a dumbfounding problem that makes me leave in haste,
And I search within for a means to return,
A way to come back to this refuge, this zone,

Before I know, my insides shift,
Morphing themselves into a brush, swift,
Rendering this moment, with the paint of thoughts,
So I can revisit it again, when I choose,
I see, now, that time's a river that flows*,
That if I seek to return to this instant,
I must pick a means to capture and pin it,
That if it's not a poem, it's another art form,
And if I must truly be in the present, I must learn,
To let it go.

Written between 9:30pm and 9:40pm on 9.6.2017
Final edits by 6:33pm on 10.6.2017

*This line is inspired by what my father told me about writing. He said, "Time is like a river, and writing is an attempt to capture a frame of its flow." He proceeded to tell me about how much one's writing can influence someone else, since I'd never know who would be reading it and how they would connect to it. For that reason, he said that I must always provide a positive solution to life's problems, and to give hope that there is a way out of even the darkest corners of life.

Beside You

Oh how I seek to flee far,
From this world of burden and work,
And sit by your side,
On the cool grass outside,
Feeling your presence near me,
Filled with wordless glee,

Looking not at you, nor the lake ahead,
But at the full moon far above our heads,
Eyes fixed, looking into nothingness,
And ears listening to the song of silence,
Hands beside you but touching naught,
My senses closed, working not,
I perceive a bliss through another medium,
Filling my soul, from top to bottom,

Perhaps it's the presence of a life,
A known life, a one that lies,
Quite near, in the surrounding ether,
A one that's perceived uniquely by just another,
A connection that words can know not,

Unexplained even by the greatest poet,
Known to the one that sits by its side,
Felt by arms that have no form nor shape,

Nay, its a hug, an embrace that's felt,
By souls that choose to not hold back but melt,
Each letting the other's presence in,
Filling all the space it holds deep within,
With the essence of its perception of the one near,
Hosting no doubt, nor fear, being completely clear,

It's a bath together in the stillness of the surround,
Where two souls are together and alone,
Oh such is friendship and such is love that lives,
Seeking not something tangible but seeking still,
To sit beside, hold a hand or lean upon,
On a dark night, sans a watch or phone,
Walking in limitless space, sharing a timeless moment,
Immersed in talk but a talk when quiet,
Sans words but engaged in constant exchange,
Lost in each other but feeling safe,

Such moments, though rare as they should be,
Make up the true being that's me,
Adding priceless gems to the calendar of my life,
Ridding me of the need for strife,
Redeeming bottled up pain and irk,
Which flow as tears, from a melted heart.

9:00pm at A422, H13, IIT Bombay, 16.5.2017. Trivial edits up to 9:21pm.

The Heart

Creatures of startdust they say,
That prowl about land, night and day,
Evolved from animals allegedly lower,
Beings who consider their intelligence flowered,
They capture phenomena and predict acts of Nature,
With physics and math and put them on paper,
But none speaks of this icy mass,
That exists not before it melts,
Its only proof is the water that flows,
As tears trickling down red eyes,
What flows is water, and something did melt,
So it must be ice, says their papery math,
But they grow all emotional, giving it another name,
An experience that isn't but is, they call it the heart, sans shame.

2:05pm 7.1.2017 at room while re-watching Jaatishwar Climax
Trivial edits at 3:08pm on 6.5.2017

Unaware

I live, like I've lived forever,
Like I'll always be here,
Immersed in seeking joy in vain,
Anticipating no pain,

Unaware and oblivious,
I fail to see even the obvious,
Jumping upon the smallest chance,
To forget my woes,

Oh do I fail to see the future,
When I shall be tossed about by nature,
My whole reality being crushed,
By the pitiless, dark jaws of death?

A few seconds' pondering at Cafe Mondegar at 11:55pm on 2.4.2017 while sitting with the folks

Sandwich Writings

At times I wonder if, over time, a writer truly evolves - writing is an eternal spiral, whose centre is the life of the writer and arms form his imagination - and successful writing boils down to maintaining it as a circle. It is all about keeping it as far from the centre as possible while keeping the radius low enough for it to touch readers' hearts.

I initially prided myself with being able to put myself in imaginary situations and write the woes of someone in that position pretty accurately, and thereby considered myself a vicarious writer. Now I find that when unaware, the distance between my heart and that of my imaginary self diminishes to naught, turning every stroke of my pen into a diary entry that I'd sometimes cringe to read.

My mind, it seems, tricks my pen into writing my own story, my own feelings instead of an imaginary one. If I let my pen wander, and the flow set in, the heart bleeds itself, into the ink that flows from my pen*.

And with writing taking more and more room in my mental space, I find myself suffocating in my attempt to run away from the emotions that my soul secretes, and feel imprisoned within the non existent claustrophobic walls of my mind, formed by my imagined limitations.

Funnily, more often​ than not, my pages are wetted and hence permanently coloured by at least a few drops of the feelings that my soul spits and soaks itself in.

With each writeup is attached an emotion, if not many, a memory, a feeling that I can relate to.

I do not remember words that I spill when in one state, yes, but I remember the feelings that I bury with them - they come back to me when I re-read my work, like a long forgotten dream, turning into spades that dig deeper into the soul of my web pages, finding tiny, peculiar yet familiar rocks of emotions that've hitherto touched the roots of the vegetation which has sprouted over the months I'd left them buried.

Has my blog turned into some encrypted diary? One that makes sense in one plane to my readers, why, even to myself - and on another to a select few, and perhaps on a third one to just me?

Those who claim to know me or who wish to try to decipher this bundle that they call Raam might perhaps add a few more layers to these already multilayered 'sandwich' writeups.

Two dimensional writing on a screen does seem to have gone beyond the paper, perhaps finding more nameless dark levels within the souls of my readers to whom I am ever grateful. Without you my work wouldn't even be ink on paper, it would merely be a little magnetic data stored alongside zillions of bytes, forgotten long before it was written, receiving attention from Google's dead computers but heeded not by a single, living, breathing soul. Whether there is life to my writing or not, the fact that you read it honours the words that my spirit generated. And if it does have life, know that a portion of your soul rests in each word I have written, alongside the portion of mine that I sealed with it, when putting it down in writing.

*At times there is the lack of a muse which stimulates a muse hunt, but to be honest, there is no dearth of muses in my life, considering the number of films I watch or the number of times I step outside my room.

An Ode to Sea Waves

I stand upon higher ground, feeling safe,
Beyond the reach of the waves,
But am I ever out of reach
Of these billows that touch the beach?

To some they're perturbations brought by the wind,
Crests and troughs upon a humongous ocean,
But to me, it's a fluid that washes my soul,
Coming and going but consuming me whole,

For my soul is touched by these waves that soar,
Reaching heights over the sea, just to lick the shore,
Showing their might and then slowing down,
Teaching us all to hold to our calm,

They do this in earnest, day and night,
Each time trying harder than the last,
Putting on a tranquil, musical dance,
Sending me off into a silent trance,

Lash the waves upon the sea coast,
Wetting grains of sand before they dry up,
Moistening the wood of tied boats,
And caressing the feet of those who stand close,

I stand upon the sands, wielding my pen,
Writing down words that flow from within,
And as I do, I stop to see,
That the sea without is also within me,

That over time, the water's conditioned my being,
Into seeking bliss only from a lake or sea,
That I can never sit in peace near a river,
Like saltwater creatures, in fresh water,

I stop to think if something's wrong,
If I'd gone mad to reject the flow of the stream,
For once and for all, and then I see,
That the flowing river too, bows to the mighty sea,

I stand there, drinking it all in,
But am I not a fool to think that I can?
I think I'm a great man observing it all,
But when it gobbles me I see its size in full,
Water that eats me up alive,
Why the whole world with space for more.

Written on/before 1.4.2017, major edits made on 13.4.2017

After Sunset

I missed that last peep,
I could've had at you,
My sky is still lit,
But you've gone away,
You seem so far,
Though it's only for a day,

Oh dear sun,
Are you the source of my joy?
For when you leave,
All I find is glum,
A reminder of the time,
That has lapsed and gone,

Of the hours,
That could've meant more,
And of the hoofs of death,
Coming closer,

I love to watch you set,
And the dark night too is pleasant,
But not the dusk before,
For I see an orphaned sky,
Whose lustre fades by the minute,
Getting duller in shade,
Up until the stars arrive,

You are duty bound, yes,
But there are hearts involved too,
And so I pray,
Go as you wish,
But please come back soon.

Written on 25.2.2017 6:47pm at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

The Corpse

Wrapped in cloth,
Unaware and taut,
The once person lies,
As a log seating flies,
Rigid and cold,
Expressionless and old,
Kidding life, soul, function,
Name, why, even pronoun,

It lies there, motionless and bound,
Awaiting decay or cremation,
Not responding, yes,
Its so called vitals a mess,
Some organs functioning,
While others not working,
And we dig them out,
With not slightest guilt,

What if the soul is still stuck in the body?
Unable to find another to embody?
What if the corpse responds not,
But still feels pain and things hot?
We discard them for their movement's stopped,
And our meters show numbers we know to count,

What if they need something we can give?
A little help of a special kind?
I know my path is headed that way,
And my feet tremble as time pushes me ahead,
I'm terrified to walk down that road,
But haven't there been billions who've gone before?

As a writer I've felt that there are fleeting moments when someone else writes through my pen. I cannot take credit for this poem. I'm forced to put my name down as the poet but I know for a fact that I've been merely a device for these words to flow through.

Written at 26.2.2017 at 3:37am on phone, when in bed at C504, H13, IIT Bombay.

The Foundation

Oh this world is a shaky build,
Yielding at a little touch, even a finger's wield,
A ghost story with me at the front,
Stable and quiet at the outset,
But collapsing when I look back,
Into the foundation of this shack,

Its established customs built,
Over a floor of silt,
with cotton bricks that show a rigid face,
Held loosely upon a ripply base,

Oh my soul boils in unrest,
Unable to accept this jest,
While the masses follow it like flocks,
And I cannot but question its blocks,

I seek to strip it all down,
Not merely its robes and gown,
I shall peel its skin, its flesh,
And untie the knots of its complex mesh,
Down to the skeleton of its spirit,
'Til nothing remains but cold, white dust,

Talks of love, of honour, of power,
Of language, of art, of the thirst to discover,
Of joy, of pain, of wisom, jokes and puns,
Where do these lie with white, dead skeletons?

Or is it perhaps that formless soul,
That moves these bodies which drop when it's gone?
A spirit that's written of, sung upon,
But not plotted on paper by the science of man,

Is all this a lie, this life, this whine,
Perhaps an illusion upon the canvas of time?
But of what use is beauty that isn't beheld,
An inert existence that shall never be held?

Why do these insentient things endure,
Evading death and retaining their allure?
Oh of what use are pretty things,
Without an eye to see them?

Or do they live and breathe too, like us,
But an air that we can't witness?
Or is this life pointless and alone,
Stuck in a well 'til it withers to bone?

Am I the only creature that lives and sees?
Staring into eyes that move and limbs that dance,
Talking to lifeless beings that respond to my call,
Which smile back until one day they fall?

Is it just an emotion that drives me mad?
Giving me thoughts when I'm happy or sad?
Formless feelings that drive me fast and slow?
But don't feelings change too when a hormone is low?
Do these fluids dictate thought and senses,
Or do they merely come when one feels?

Oh what am I without this machine of a body?
An objective pair of eyes,
That sees this world, cold?
Or am I a subject that seeks not a friend?
Where is sacrifice in this speck of a life?
Or is it foolish to judge a thing by its size?
When such thought consumes, drowns the mind that thinks,
No matter what the strength, nor the might,
It is crushed and erased, each night by sleep,
And for all by death,
Leaving behind dead words,
That shall forever haunt the living.

Written on 7th February, 2017. Major edits made on 17th February, 2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

I Seek to Be

I seek to be,
A leaf on a tree,
A squirrel on a bough,
A beast in the jungle,
A snake in the swamp,
A bird on a branch,
A tree in a forest,
Like a drop in the sea,
Where I'm no different,
From the one beside,

I seek to stay hidden,
While in plain sight,
When none but me,
Knows of my presence,
I seek to go with the flow,
Receiving and embracing gift and blow,

To live in harmony with the soil,
Until I become one with it

Then when death comes,
It will be unceremonious,
As my birth and life,
With no pomp and no show,
Just silence and quietitude,
Like when I was born and when I lived,

And I shall wither with age,
Not disease,
I shall ripen and bend,
Wth a full heart and a fuller life,
Dropping from my tree,
Like leaves in autumn,
Like a candle when extinguished,
My life shall pour smoothly,
Into the holy bowl of death,
Only then shall culminate,
A life that is whole.

Written between 12:45pm and 1:41pm on 17th Feb, 2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

வெட்கம்

மணமேடையை கண்டவன்,

அங்கு அமர்ந்திருந்த பெண்ணைக்கண்டேனா,

அல்லது சில நாட்களில் அமர இருக்கும்

என்னைக்கண்டேனா

என்று பகுத்து உணர தொடங்கும் முன்னே,

வியப்பில் மயங்கியிருந்தவனை

கடித்து, முழுதாக உண்டது

வெட்கப்பாம்பு.

அவ்வெட்கத்தை மறைக்க இயலாத

தலைப்பாய் தோல்வியை ஏற்க,

பொங்கி வழிந்தது

வெட்கத்துடன் ஓர் புன்னகை.

I behold the marital stage,
And before I can figure out,
If I was watching the bride seated upon it,
Or myself sitting there in the near future,
I, intoxicated by amazement, was stung,
By the serpent of shyness.

As my turban concedes defeat,
Unable to mask this shame,
The embarrassment leaked out,
Along with a smile.

Reminiscing our Days as a Republic

Sixty years of being a democratic republic, and we don't seem to have matured at all. Democracy is supposed to empower each citizen of a nation purely for the reason that they are a citizen. I find our citizens, however, choosing to be matchsticks ready to light up at the slightest indication of a flame, and that too, ready to colour their flames to match their source just because - I don't know the real reason.. Is it because it looks trendy? Perhaps they feel important when they participate? Do they feel left out if they don't participate? They get nice pictures though.

We seem to have grown downwards like roots, but, ironically seem to  destroy the roots that keep the administration steady. The calm of the population seems to be upon a razor's edge, ready to slip and fall at the slightest touch. And they're proud to be so. Our sensitivity is at a peak and we seem to be ready to react to the most trivial of affairs, to the silliest of words spilled out by a seemingly important person, to every single move made, or not made by our ministers, why, even our celebrities.

Our country became a chaotic mess long back, and I've always wondered, touching the little wood that's left, of course, as to how we've managed to sustain the peace that exists, still staying at the top of the list of large democracies, and I feel it was because people knew to mind their own business. We knew to respect our leaders - for the post they hold, at least, if not for the person(s) they are, knowing fully well that the government cannot function without the aid of its people. Non awareness of the possibly less intellectual (forgive me for saying so) played its part too, with the foolishness of some raising its despicable head only during elections. In spite of all this, we've been able to pull it through.

The current generation is marked with the advent of social media and its infiltration into every intricate portion of our lives so much so that it seems like we have taken a headfirst plunge into it, to never come out. In the past decade, we have developed gills to get acclimatised to this aquatic life. While this has given opportunities for recognition of genuine talent, providing them with audience from this ever increasing population, thereby not letting them get lost and unnoticed in this anarchic realm. On the darker side, however, social media has given microphones to the most pathetic of voices, amplifying the gabble of idiots and even providing them with listeners, even followers who are flexible enough to let themselves be swayed by their nonsense.

The heavy magnetic field of craziness we live in eventually induces its field upon every soul which dwells in it, sucking our every last ounce of sanity left and rendering them all oriented towards the twisted directions it points towards. Even the most sensible among us go by the outcry of angry tweets and offensive memes, falling for the loudness of their voices, no matter how senseless their claims might be.

Such immaturity and childishness cannot be the result of a change in medium of communication - it can only imply that we have been foolish all along. Our silence has tricked us into considering ourselves to be rational. I regret the unrest that is rising, the narrow mindedness that is spreading (ironically, yes) and the outbreak of this political epidemic of pointless loud-mouthedness upon this great soil, but perhaps it is a positive sign after all. Perhaps it is a sign for us to retrospect and deepen our roots.

For starters, each citizen of this country should begin to realise that we are, indeed one country. Yes, we are a place where even the people of the smallest minority feel at home - they consider this land as home as much as any other world, but we need to take another step forward. We must defend and take pride in every single aspect of Indian culture - we must embrace the literature, the art, the language, the beauty of every single region of this country. Oh we needn't spend years learning about it, but the mention of it must fill us with pride and a sense of belonging. Let our spirits feel that every grain of this soil is ours, and that our hearts beat as one no matter what our differences are. Let other people sit and argue as to whether we deserve to be one country, but politically there's no denying it. We are one country as much as Pakistan's states aren't ours. Our citizenships speak for us.

Logic isn't half as effective upon humans as examples are - we are indeed descendants of the monkey clan. So let us step in front as role models for the future generations, holding hands and breeding peace and unity opon the completion of this 67th year as a Democracy!

Jai Hind!

Another rant

Facebook seems to have become more of a threat than I'd ever imagined.. Madness can spread across it like wildfire...

The jallikkatu thing is something I'm still not very clear about, but it is very clear that some anti national statements were made with ease, sprouting State-istic (read: Nationalistic towards State) feelings in a manner that it threatened the linguistic and political secularity of the country..

Faceless meme makers of popular sites have received enormous public support and do not understand its value.. It is always the norm that when one finds people listening to them, they think can get away with saying anything..

Perhaps the sound of applause injects madness into lesser minds..

Meme makers are supposed to be comedians, not leaders. I wouldn't have used the term "lesser minds" if they had made good use of their popularity..

There is a difference between using freedom of speech to criticize a politician and merely speaking against the government.. The government is more than a political party. We, the governed, are a part of it. It is a system that can work only if we cooperate. Along the lines, it was blasphemous to speak against the PM. Criticism during the tenure must be constructive. Such maturity is expected from people of a democracy and ours send to have become demo-crazy..

We may be mature as individuals but we are childish blabbermouths and utter idiots as a society..

If memes are going to be the next youth inspirers, so be it, but we want a self conscious, aware bunch of leaders who know the repercussions of each step they take and are sensitive to the interests of the country at large and specific regions too.

We have forgotten that the Indian Army helped us during the floods - which state does each of those soldiers belong to?

(India saw opport)

Poetry and Me

My heart, I find, is a kettle,

In which, boils water of emotions,

Ready to form vapour and steam of words,

When prodded the slightest,

It brims, I find,

With fluid ready to flow over,

Which quivers at the slightest touch,

Of sight, of other words or ideas,

A picture speaks a thousand words, they say,

But I find that a picture brews even more from me,

Stirring the fluid that has large bubbles,

Ringing music in my ears and heart,

Oh it gets heavy at times, consuming me whole,

And holds my work, until I stop,

To pick a pen,

And put it down in record,

While spilt liquid stains my sheets forever,
It touches me never upon leaving my pen,

But the heat raises the level within the kettle,

Ready to spill out more.

Written between 10:09pm and 10:11pm, 22.1.2017 at C504, IIT Bombay

Retrospection

I realise that a note, quote or poem scribbled in some notebook and put away is a lot better than one staying on an active blog page - it might've been written in a state of mind that might have changed now, but it stands as a pointing finger directed at me.

I feel responsible for every word I write on my blog - and I shudder to think of its implications.

The advent of poetry - a genre that started nearly a year back has drilled holes upon the walls of my literary world, and built doors that I'd never dreamt of - I have come a long way from considering poems as utter melodrama to appreciating the emotions that words embody - writing poems has fueled me with boldness to touch upon such sensitive topics with ease - topics that one would cringe to think of - I have done so, with an arrogance that gloats when I am praised, and there are times when I wonder if I deserve it. Perhaps this isn't boldness, perhaps it is foolishness.

I have been told by an experienced writer that even my innocent, seemingly harmless writing can touch a life, perhaps more, and that I should be careful with the solutions I provide for problems, but I fret not for the impact it might have on another's life, but on my own..

The writing on my blog seems to stare at me like a bag of karma with fearsome eyes.. My more recent writings have been backed by a greed for recognition, hiding behind the emotions that stimulate them, and I am constantly haunted by the fear of its repercussion - the repercussions of boldly writing about emotions that I pretend to have understood. Words once spilt are indeed unpickable, and I dread the result of my blind (deaf?) talk.

I will try to think twice before I put something in writing but that isn't easy either - when words come gushing out your fingers, they itch to capture it upon a film of paper, to be read, admired and enjoyed, not only by a set of readers, but by yourself, particularly on a day when you cannot remember writing it down - the surprise that you were the one who wrote something beautiful is one of the most pleasant feelings in the world.

A Poet's Tale

Prologue

They caught me unawares, those women,
Surrounding my meek self,
With fierce eyes and the motive to kill,
But behind that, I saw sad remains,
Of a beauty that'd once been,

But my sympathy was short-lived,
And pity changed to terror,
When they sprang at me with outstretched hands,
Wielding nameless arms,
That sought to tear my throat,

I tried to run, but there was nowhere to go,
And being a weak man with a little wisdom,
And a coward too,
I chose to give in and not struggle,
For at least my fall'd be painless,

They came at me, mercilessly,
With fiercer looks and gritted teeth,
Two went behind, to hold me in place,
While the rest drew closer and took their stance,
They raised their swords and I closed my eyes,
But they went not for my head or heart,
Instead for a part that I'd never seen coming,

I looked down to see them point at my wrist,
With red vengeance dripping from their eyes,
Perplexed I asked them, forgetting my fear,
As to who they were,
And why they wished to chop off my arm,

They answered with evil laughter,
One that has haunted me for years,
And they began a recount,
Of a kind I'd never known,

The Revelation

We are innocent women you sold,
You wretched pimp, they said,
The emotions you suckled from,
To spit out words your readers sought,

Victims we are, of your thirst to write,
Of your consuming desire to win hearts,
And as you kindled the fire with your pen,
You threw us in, as fuel to set it ablaze,

You prison'd us in your head,
Not even your heart,
And kept us there for days in that darkness,
Drawing words out of our supple skin,

In your arrogance and your greed,
Your milked our breasts till they bled,
And you filled your pages with what we shed,

Selling the purity that our bodies leaked,

Your readers and fans, they love your work,

For it touches their souls, they connect, they say,

But we know your words are empty,

They lack beating hearts they need,
To speak out to souls who read,
In a tongue the spirit alone can hear,

They lie there as carcasses,

In the graves of your books,

They may be preserved, yes,

But they lack the life they deserve,

You are a cheat in the guise of a poet,

A fraud here, faking to know experience,
A pseud, forging depths you never possessed,

Merely a seller of false goods,

To dupe your readers of their praise,

We tell you now, and to all who hear,
That to know an emotion is to feel it,
To know pain is to undergo it,
To understand suffering is to suffer itself,

You twisted our physique for literature,
Robbing us of our beauty,
And now you shall suffer,
Those very tragedies you wrote,

Composition is a gift you never deserved,
And one that you hoodwinked for praise,
Prepare yourself now, for we are here,
To take sweet revenge upon your culpable soul

Epilogue

As they advanced, I saw clearly,
That the space around was Time Itself,
And that this room was my life,
That my wrist wasn't what they solicited,

That their revenge was my entire life,
Every pain, every heartbreak I'd ever faced,
Was a lifeless poem mocking at me,

It crushed me to know that all this pain,
Was a repercussion of thoughtless action,
I'd been convinced beyond doubt,
I'd held an arrogance that wouldn't hurt,

I turned to them, kneeling down,
And begged them to take,
My life, not just my wrist,
And they smiled at me,
Tears trickling down their eyes,

I realised, as I bent my head down,
This trip was deliverance, not aggression,
They'd taken pity on me,
And were here, to put me out of my misery.

Completed by 4:17pm on 3.1.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay


Note:

1. I intended to write this as an article, and I've been jotting points down since 22nd December, 2016. Today I decided to write it as a poem, since the words seemed poetic.

While I pride myself with being able to compose vicarious poetry, to be able to summon emotions that aren't even remotely connected to me, I have been haunted by the guilt that I've been using sufferings of others as tools to produce words to string to my writings.

Of course, a handful of my poems and articles are based on, or at least have a little connection to something that happened to me, but several of my pages are filled with empty words. As the personified emotions put it, words need to have beating hearts - to reverberate, vibrate, live talk - words should speak in a tongue understood by the heart that reads/listens to it. I am aware that all this objectivity wouldn't help me when I go through the pain I so easily portray here, and I hold the fear that I might receive a strong blow to the head some day - the portrayal here, of course, is extraneous, but what I wish to convey through it is genuine. Of course, writing comes to me and it would be unwise to stop it as well, but it would do me good to nurture some humility and to not let it get to my head.

I hope these words shall serve as a reminder not only to me but to every reader who writes on pain and tragedy so easily.

2. Upon retrospection, I find that this is similar to Shah Rukh Khan's film, Fan, in a weird sense. I do remember now, that I found that the thought that had gone into the film was of a similar nature and was very inspired when I watched it about six months ago. It was a blow to Khan's ego as a film star, and while I do not have the audacity to draw a parallel to myself as a writer, I merely note this down as an observation - that this poem is a blow I give to my own ego.

3. My recent poems (particularly on Eccentric Thoughts, have been more of a flow of words and are largely unstructured, without rhyme or tune, since I haven't had the time to review them - and for some reason I'd like to leave them that way. These are unedited, and a handful of them were typed straight on blogger and published even without a second read. While this one is of a similar kind in the literary sense, I'd like to point out that it is unconventional in a different sense. Often, my vicarious poems (yeah the name itself suggests that) consist of me getting into shoes of people in particular situations, but this one is about getting out of my own shoes and objectively looking at myself as a poet/writer. While I stop to observe myself while writing my articles, this one is something I am not at all used to in the field of poetry.

For this reason, I consider this a milestone in my time with poetry. I intended to title it "Heartless Poetry" but later titled it "A Tragic Tale" to avoid spoiling the course the tale was taking. I finally changed it to "A Writer's Tale" at 1:05am, 4.1.2017