The Romance of Geometry

This poem is completely fictive from my perspective and there is not a modicum of inspiration behind it. Even otherwise it is perhaps in one in a billion chances the events transcribed in these lines below may have played out to reality, however I would term this one as perhaps the most outrageously imaginative topic I have ever conceived till date. It is written in the eyes of a mathematics teacher on his nuptial night, who pours his heart to take his newly wed bride on their long life ahead and how they can derive inspiration from simple concepts of geometry. How good or bad it is, is purely left to the reader. Needless to say, the feedback of this poem in particular, amongst all the other ones, is eagerly awaited the most!

Oh my dearest wife!

While the world leaves us in peace

For this one night, let’s put ourselves at ease

Ahead of us lies a long life

So let’s break stereotypes of the nuptial night

Come with me and take flight.

 

Oh my new better half!

You might initially stare at a future bleak

Having plighted your troth to this mathematic geek

And unwittingly ended on the wrong side of an institutional gaffe

But not after you listen to this tune of Poetry

As I will take you into the romance of geometry

 

Do you remember the geometry box?

Of your nostalgic mid-school grades

Yes the very one whose memory never fades

Imagine a version of it more unorthodox

And reminisce its unwieldy contents

We are inasmuch those contents in every sense.

 

With you, the ruler on the chart of fatwas

I ‘the pencil’ will delineate our pathways glittered

And will endeavor to erase out encumbrances that lie littered

On the way. Wisdom shall sharpen the pencil for the canvass

To problems, we won’t remain chained and captive

We will deal them with wit rapier and incisive.

 

There will be times when we protract and contract

For the fickle path demands changing angles

But remember whenever we end up in tangles

We will default to the righteous path and not distract

We shall use integrity - Our moral compass

To cut out our angled paths on the canvass.

 

‘I’ and ‘You’, like legs of the Set Square

Might, at times, clash on views particularly

Polar and may diverge perpendicularly

Let us not forget, in such times of wear and tear

We’ll be bridged by US in the connecting HypotenUSe, in lieu

Of the shorter lone legs ‘I and ‘You’.

 

Let us remain at the center of life’s circle of raging fires

And keep troubles, upheavals and interference

At the maximum possible distance to it’s circumference

We will still be tested with jagged javelins and searing spears

Some will diametrically cut us, some will fly off at tangents

Some will remain internal like a chord, some will come and go like secants.

 

But whatever be the nature of these outrageous arrows

We shall be like the center

And display immaculate moral fiber

Treat with equal composure, both joys and sorrows

The circles may grow in differing radii

But we shall remain strong and govern right in the eye.

 

‘Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good thing’

Sings the proverbial Bible, but I’ll gently contravene

You aren’t just a thing, you will be my queen

And I shall strive to be worthy of my ring

Let’s treat matrimony as a voyage of discovery

Life shall be good if we toe the dictates of geometry.                                                                                                            

Twin Days are Win Days

As a sequel to the poem – ‘COVID’s Witching Hour’, I try and discuss what a perfect COVID era weekend quarantined at home would look like.

Forty Eight Hours lie ahead,

Precious hours that will never come back.

Life has been scattered off-track,

But I’ll endeavor to use it to my advantage instead.

 

I don’t have plans grandiose,

If grandiose is the word I want.

Lockdown has made home my favorite haunt,

But what I have planned will be far less otiose,

 

Than exertions on a usual weekend which would

Have in Pre-COVID times been unduly

Spent far more wastefully,

Doing me more harm than good.

           

So let’s see what I have billed,

For the best days of the week.

Here goes a sneak peek

Of the schedule I have penciled.

 

Saturday’s dawn has been reserved for Yoga,

An art that was never learnt proper,

Still in process, since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.

In the weeks to come, I hope to complete this saga.

 

By perfecting the onerous head stand

And champion,

The inimitable poses of crow, peacock and scorpion,

The toughest of the lot in Asana land.

When the mercury will rise,

Heralding the arriving of noon,

The hunger games will begin soon,

And the kitchen shall see a new chef.

 

Dabbling with esoteric recipes at will,

To concoct a Biriyani,

With ingredients zany and style uncanny.

My repertoire will welcome the addition of the culinary skill.

 

As the evenfall approaches,

I will make a beeline to the terrace

And shin up the dangerous

Water tank, unguarded, ignoring reproaches.

 

I’ll immerse myself in the splendor,

The spectacle that a ravishing sunset

Will produce and one that will beget

Darkness, welcoming the full moon which is even grander.

 

As the cool breeze sets in when time turns nocturnal,

Sans pubs and buddies, a solitary guzzle of beers

Fizzle out of bottle, to myself I’ll say cheers.

And then finally indulge in primordial love so eternal.

 

An almost impossible act to cherry-pick,

One fine star from the vast Wodehousean sky

And curl up in its sublime wry

Humor, and get lost in its pages idyllic.

 

With that I hope I will conclude,

A near perfect day, as Saturday

Will segue into its twin-day.

This is what will lie in store for Sunday.

 

The early morning’s toil

Will be for a spot of gardening,

Watering, plant tending

And composting the soil.

 

Add to the pleasurable strain of backs bent

A couple of hours of work done hard

I shall loll in the small patch of greensward

And savor the time well spent.

 

Following an icy shower and quick bite of bread,

I will have time finally to catch up on loads

Of missed Instagram activity and couple of episodes

Of the riveting ‘The Walking Dead’.

 

There is nothing that beats,

The heavenly siesta on Sunday afternoons.

As post-prandial torpor kicks in eftsoons,

I shall clock in a good three hours between the sheets.

 

Yet another evening to drink the dying color burst

Of a retiring sun that will bequeath,

The reins of the sky to the effulgent moon, as it sleeps beneath.

A sight that will never quench this opacarophile’s thirst.

 

As the first drops of Monday Blues trickle,

I will tuck in an early dinner.

A humble meal nevertheless an outright winner,

Such as a bowl of curd rice and lemon pickle.

 

The last activity, as I retire to my room,

Will be a long coming virtual hangout of friends,

From lost halcyon days of college, it’s time to make amends.

Isolation has been made far less painful, thanks to Zoom.

 

COVID-19 has made the smaller pleasures in life,

Visible by what is invisible to the eyes.

And teaches us to spot the blessing in disguise

Even though the outer world is rife with strife.

 

On a note so philosophical, the twin days of peace shall end.

I would have loved the weekend to tarry,

But there is nothing to worry,

For after five days it will knock on the door again my friend!

Breviloquence

Never usually a fan of new year resolutions, I for a change persuaded myself to take upon one at the start of 2020. Having learnt lessons the hard way on many occasions, where usage of words either excessive or inapposite, have landed me in trouble, I decided to make a conscious effort to exercise brevity wherever possible and let my actions do the real talking. The profundity of Thomas Jefferson’s immortal quote – “The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do” has been the cornerstone of my life this year, and I must say it has largely held me in good stead so far!

I haven’t taken a New Year resolution

For several years now

All those I took, ended up in dissolution

I reneged on every single one of them, I abashedly avow

 

This time around though, it is quite clear

That I will have to buck the trends

Due to what I have gone through the last year

For my own peace, I aim to make amends

 

As we break into a fledgling decade so young

I will, looking back, readily acknowledge

That, the problem always lied with my tongue

So this shall be my momentous pledge

 

That I shall talk less and more less

I have had too much trouble

Words have plainly added to my stress

Now I pick my pieces up from the rubble

 

It was construed as flattering, whenever I praised

When I spoke with sweet intonations, I was judged pretentious

People however viewed hostility, when my voice slightly raised

As even facts, I pointed out, turned out to be contentious

 

When I attempted genuine criticism

I was chided for being snarky

When I tried to sugar-coat, donning the hat of pacifism

I was asked to abandon the rot and talk turkey

 

I hardly managed to instill

Much impression, managing feeble attempts at humor

Neither did plain Jane talk help, making me run-of-the-mill

Stuff, but I nonetheless drank it all without a murmur

 

This year, I resolve to mellow down my spoken word

Seek I shall, the tempering help of many an experience

A tough task lays ahead, and I hope to continue undeterred

As the theme of my year will be breviloquence

 

I resolve to not fall prey

To any ways, shapes or forms of animadversions

Or unintended bouts of lapsus linguae

Which cause me to cast aspersions

 

Wherever possible, a reverential nod shall suffice

As long it achieves it’s communicational motto

Though it may take people by surprise

Largely to silence, in the coming twelve months, I will kowtow

 

I will largely speak through smiles

And remonstrate through tears

Abandoning my animated reviles

While I shall express only what are truly my arrears

 

Emotions will run high in Twenty-Twenty

But my eloquence I will not fritter

Verbal statements, waiting to be spoken are aplenty

So neither will I turn a quitter

 

I aim to eschew admonishments courtesy free flowing verse

While against no one I hold any malice

I hope to win the world through words succinct yet terse

By spilling a few nectar drops time to time from my golden chalice

 

On paper rather than speech

Through poetry, my pearls of wisdom I will reserve

For this medium is more conducive for my outreach

To people, those who truly deserve

Thought for the Day – Decoding the Argument of Relative Secularism

In the intolerant times we currently live in our country, I have often complained that we are becoming increasingly polar in our attitudes to different faiths. This new culture of othering is extremely concerning to the very idea of India which has always stood as a shining emblem of social and communal harmony. I have lampooned the current ruling dispensation which is effectively championing a distorted version of Hinduism and Hindutva which is merely a political doctrine that is deeply imbued in an ethno-centric, illiberal and bigoted version of an agglomerative, flexible and inclusionist religion. One of the greatest religions known for its acceptance and capaciousness to accommodate differing views of spiritual beliefs, Hinduism has been narrowed down to a re-fashioned virulent avatar, which goes against the very ethos of pluralism and diversity whose cause it has so eloquently espoused for millennia.

Almost immediately after I have uttered thus or words to the above effect, the immediate rejoinder that follows, from friends and relatives whose views have changed colour in recent years and who now sport a firebrand version of themselves, is a pathetic hate-spewing diatribe -  “If you were a Muslim in Saudi Arabia and if you said similar about Islam, you would be tried guilty of Haraam and subjected to one of the most inhumane form of death – A blood-curdling decapitation in broad daylight in the Deera Square of Riyadh to enthrall a blood-thirsty crowd that would throng to catch hold of the spectacle. Instead we tolerate anyone who insults Hinduism, including Hindus like you. This should tell you how secular we Hindus truly are. We are several times more secular and tolerating of such open blasphemy, than the Abrahamic faiths.”

My rejoinder to that:

Firstly it is a shame that you would term the democratic questioning of the most perverted version of Hinduism which has been fanned by you as blasphemy. In reality it is folks like you that have been perpetrating blasphemy by going against the very constructs that undergird the greatness of our religion.

Secondly, let us for the sake of reasoning hypothesize that I have indeed been blasphemous. Here is my response:

Consider two students, let’s give them names – Shiva and Ahmed. Shiva has been the perennial topper of his class and has been acing all his exams with 95+ scores. Ahmed is a relatively less bright student, who has been notching up 50’s and 60’s but has never been able to better these scores.

However in recent months, we have been witnessing a new trend. Shiva has been keeping bad company, and his distractions have paved way for a drop in his scores to the early 90’s, the 80’s and in the most recent exam he hit a record personal low with a score of 70. Ahmed continues to languish in the 50’s and 60’s.

The rational argument that spouts forth is - Will a good teacher, be more concerned with the drop in scores of Shiva or will she continue to train her efforts on Ahmed whose scores are inferior but more consistent. Or to reframe it better, will the teacher merely derive satisfaction that Shiva’s scores despite plummeting are still above Ahmed’s or will she be focused on efforts to improve Shiva’s performance to get back to his ‘A’ Game?

Think about it.

The Trinity

Written in one of my sombre moods when contemplating life. Honestly there isn’t much to add to what spiritualists and great texts of wisdom handed down to us over the ages have conveyed that in life, the ultimate truth is death.

Birth

Here we cry

Exiting the womb

To herald our arrival

As the world’s new guest

Clasped in maternal warmth

Embraced in tight grasps of love

Unblemished life, waiting to be blotted

 

Life

Here we try

To make a mark

Treading the measure

On thin borders of morality

To carve a purpose for existence

Finally, making peace with ultimate fate

That in the game of life, death is the winner

 

Death

Here we lie

Taking retirement

From a job held too long

The ultimate freedom beckons

As we unite with the ineffable truth

Our body is pulverized into sombre ashes

The soul transcends into an ethereal oblivion

P.T. Period

Nostalgic memories came gushing forth when I wrote this poem. I was in an instant transported back to the hallowed portals of my high school and its fusty classrooms. It also brought back memories of the pressure and competition of board examinations, which till date is regarded as one of the most important rites of passage for students by parents, teachers and students themselves alike. During those days, the only relief from constant studies was the solitary hour of leisure called P.T. Period where we could unwind with sports and games. Even these were robbed many a time by teachers in what were infamously regarded as sheer acts of sadism, masqueraded under the pretext of finishing portions.

Afternoon. Quarter to Two.

The second half of the antepenultimate period,

Was easing to closure.

 

The subject in question was Civics.

Boring and listless in itself,

Further added to the drear caused by the teacher,

Who babbled Federalism, Secularism,

And the four pillars of democracy,

In a somnolent voice, akin to lullaby.

 

As minutes trickled down the clock,

Which now announced the time as five minutes to half past two,

The drooping eyes and comatose bodies,

That lay seated in files of benches in 10-B,

Slowly began to come to life.

 

The P.T. Period, was finally here.

The one hour saving grace of the week.

The solitary hour of escape,

From the confines of merciless schedules

Of board exam year.

 

The window was open for catharsis.

A temporary one though,

To flex the muscles,

And to forget the tensions rendered by

Piled up studies and academic rat races,

Late night toil and burn of the midnight oil.

 

The insipid book and notebooks,

Were put away in the bag,

Much to the chagrin of the teacher.

 

The last benches were now buzzing with activity.

Tough boys split teams for the cricket and football.

The girls, even the bookish nerds, were whispering plans

Of Tennikoit and Throwball.

The middle benchers who had dozed off

Like wilted flowers arose as if watered.

 

The bell rang sharp at Two Thirty.

The boisterous class dismissed itself,

And was preparatory to leave the room.

 

When in entered a hard boiled battle-axe,

Nodding to the outgoing teacher.

 

The woman of science thus spoke the dreaded words -

“We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.

The boards are just 3 months away.

So I am taking the P.T. Periods to finish portions.”

 

For about five seconds, the exasperated class froze in horror.

Then the dung hit the ceiling.

 

“Ma’am!!!” “Please Ma’am!!!” the front bench girls squealed.

“Ma’am!!!” “We need a break!!!” begged the middle-benchers.

“Ma’am!!!” “This is killing us!!!” appealed, both in unison, to better senses.

The last bench toughies didn’t speak, but belched uncouth noises,

Whistled and hooted like owls, with a few thumping the tables.

 

After fifteen seconds of mutiny,

The science teacher, hit back with equal measure.

Banging the duster against the table three times,

Spoke in a stentorian voice -

“That’s enough. P.T. Periods can wait but portions can’t. We are already behind schedule.”

 

The voices subdued.

The teacher took chalk in hand, turned her back and moved to the board.

 

The voices began gathering steam again,

The teacher swiveled around and quelled the rumble.

“Shush. I said that’s enough!

One more word and that’ll be it.

Turn to page number 230.

Today we will cover Chapter-11: Body Health – Nutrition and Fitness.”

 

“Priyanka”, she pointed out to her pet student.

“Can you read out loud the first paragraph?”

 

“Yes Ma’am.”

 

“Physical health is very important for the body. Regular exercise and physical activity like running, cycling, swimming, Yoga and other sports helps strengthen muscles and bones.  It improves respiratory, cardiovascular, and overall health….”

 

Travesty Called Sancti‘Money’

A vast majority of Indians seek succour in a supernatural force widely termed as ‘God’. Including myself for the record. But why God-men? Why do we need an anchor that channelizes a path for us to access our creator, when we have HIM readily accessible everywhere? While history has handed down few great examples of well-meaning saints who have truly embodied the spirit of spiritualism and more importantly dedicated their lives to the service of humanity, a large number of present day so called self-proclaimed godmen continue to exploit the latent insecurities and vulnerabilities of many of my compatriots. Many of these men who have successfully cracked this model run large business enterprises paraded in the name of the godhead. A larger part of this conversation is explored in an another poem which can also be viewed in these archives – ‘The God Business’

The godman walked in

Escorted by his sycophantic claque

As the auditorium bursting at the seams

Fell into pin drop silence.

 

The coterie climbed up

The dais and the godman

Was helped to his throne

As he ensconced himself in his seat of poise

 

A girl came up

And invoked the divine

With a recitation

Of well-rehearsed shlokas

 

Having prepared the audience

The godman started

“Today we are here to teach

You the ultimate secret to happiness”

Instilling a frisson of hope in

The miserable masses seated affront

 

“Money isn’t everything.

It is the root cause of all evil

Here in the pristine precincts of this ashram

We will take you on the path

To reach exalted state of the ultimate realization

That money is the last thing you will need”

 

“When you die,

Will you carry the millions you made?

Or the homes you built?

Or the land you bought?

Or the materialistic pleasures that weared

You out all your life?”

 

“Make peace with your fellow humans.

Shed your materialistic dispositions.

Forgive.

When your mortal remains

Enter the graveyard,

Only your name, your thoughts, deeds,

Will accompany you on your farewell journey”

 

“In this course you will be taught

How to decouple money from your life

And shed aside the avarice of materialism

By the end of the week, you will be taught

To regard money and materialism as

The 2 goal posts of Suffering

And surely no more”

 

And with stereotyped and over-wrought

Platitudes of bed not buying sleep

Food not buying hunger

Clock not buying time

And the likes

The soi-disant godman bored on and on and on

 

The benighted crowd listened with messianic zeal

With five minutes to go,

As the strategically timed hour rang in

The claque shimmered down and split themselves

To cater to each aisle in the throng

Handing out neat glossy brochures

Of what the camp entailed -

 

Pictures of the ashram, a promising schedule of lectures

Shlokas and a strict diet regimen

Marketed by embellished words

Calculated to inveigle the wariest of

The hoi polloi

 

On the last page of the brochure

In words that neither blared nor were hidden

Text of an unsuspicious font said

“The duration of the rejuvenation camp is Fifteen days

It starts on the 15^th and ends on 29^th May”

3 hours in the morning everyday”

From 6 AM – 6PM, Saturday and Sunday

“Early bird registrations last till May 7^th”

Camp fees - Rs. 50000/- only.

Extra donations for the noble cause are most welcome”