The Pacific Limerick

Flying over oceans has always been a gut-churning experience to me. Well oceans or not, when we sit in a plane, we basically hand over the reins of our lives to the pilot. Irrespective of one’s race, colour, religion, social status, physical or mental state of mind, everyone is equal in the eyes of the holy cockpit which is suddenly elevated to a godly realm, till the flight completes its safe touchdown at journey’s end. A philosophical take, experimented in a limerick form (poem with a rhyme sequence of AABBA) which weds my worst trepidations to a dark undertow of the ephemera of human life.

It is an eerie traversal

There lies only the way forward, no reversal

My disposition no longer is steely

As my lines start pouring out freely

Make no mistake, it ain’t no rehearsal

 

The plane though in steady motion

Is stirring up the heart’s commotion

To be more candid and specific

We are flying above the mighty pacific

As I turn into an embodiment of emotion

 

The sight from my window seat

Fills me with morosity replete

As I stare below into the expanse of black

Titillating on the verge of a mild panic attack

At an altitude of Thirty Thousand Feet

 

What do I behold?

Why do I feel the need to be told?

Looks as if the symmetrical night sky from above

Transmogrified and plunged into the vastness below

With every passing instant, I let a new wave of frisson unfold

 

The metallic bird soars across

Sandwiched between the two skies, without a pause

A massive cloud gets in the way, puffy and ashen

Unletting the filter through of the stygian vision

For a second it appeared we had breached aeropause

 

While the nocturnal vistas continues to taunt

Even as upwards, the firmament does flaunt

A trillion coruscating stars

And the effulgent moon – Czar amongst Czars

The stillness of the darkness below aggravates the haunt

 

Face pallid trembling in terror 

I down the shutter looking away to divert from the horror

Attempting to focus on the In-flight entertainment screen

A fleeting mild palliating change of scene

From thoughts of the night sky’s reflection in the Thalassic mirror

 

The IFE doesn’t help much

The images offering plain facts as such

That we are sundered bang in the middle

Of the mighty Pacific puddle

I see no hope, seemingly at straws I clutch

 

And then arrives the inevitable gloom

Unwinding itself in copious volume

I can’t help but presage

A very idea that will spark outrage

But I can’t but help being the purveyor of doom

 

All it will take is one mistake, one pratfall

One Cardinal blunder, leading to another pitfall

If something as slightly as imaginable could go astray

A distressing prospect I will peddle, if I may

Literally and metaphorically, that is our downfall

 

I try peeping at the holy altars and the pulpit

Where the pilots must be working away at the cockpit

To transport us across the seas

Safely, and to put us at ease

One could only hope they are doing a good job at it

 

All of a sudden we arrive at the foot of nature’s plunder

A dazzling bolt of lightning strikes, follows the thunder

Buffeted by a series of jolts, the plane sharply angles to the left

Of any remaining tinges of optimism, I am left bereft

My gut instinct never sounded more profounder

 

As the sleeping inmates are aroused

Rattled hysterical squeals are quickly doused

By the reassurance of the captain’s

Mellifluous words that this was a momentary turbulence

I try to stem, but fail, the ominous foreboding I had already espoused

 

After five dreadful minutes, we are back to business as usual

Embarassed squealers at center of the hullabaloo, try remaining casual

I uneasily roll up the window shades

The magnetic vision below once again persuades

Me to train my eyes on the boundless visual

 

The Pacific now seems even more scarier

As if browbeating the avian carrier

With its snarling gaping jaws

Summoning it to jump into its deadly maws

To me, why does it does appear?

 

That the aviator might accede to it’s request

And coax the passengers to comply at their behest

Advertising it as the ultimate chance to end all suffering

Without needing to live through the deferring

And once and for all put matters to rest

 

I wish I could talk in telepathy

To the pilots – “We beseech thee

O lord, our lives are with you in the cockpit

Hoping you will honour the refundable deposit

But if you don’t, can we do anything really?

 

Why do I think you may actually laugh it off?

And that you think that we are better off

Floating as mangled corpses on the ocean floor

Whatever it is it’s not in our control anymore

Melancholia is solely mine, but my prayers on everyone’s behalf”

 

Into the skies, everyday a million planes break free

Bouncing from city to city, country to country

It’s remarkable that I feel an emotion so raw

That it would be us who would draw the short straw

Of what use is being a proletariat, or what use is being gentry?

 

On this note, I observe my co-passengers

Who though wholly aware of the lurking dangers

Their exteriors try to wax the sturdiness of an oak

Deep beneath I know it’s a desperate attempt to cloak

Surging inner foretokening of cataclysmic harbingers

 

I begin scrutinizing the specimens

Donning a more punctilious lens

One by one, I hope to unravel

Over the course of this travel

What each one entails, with my acute sixth sense

 

Starting with the ‘consultant-looking-chap’ immediately to my right, Mister

‘Jack’ shall we say, to give it a name, he seems one hell of a blister

He has been ramming away at his laptop

Since the flight took off, four hours non-stop

Sending missives to his subordinates, probably with intentions sinister

 

“Mr. Jack, of what use would be your Armani Tuxedo so slick

Or your sycophantic claque, who bootlick

You, so you can bask under the veil of self-aggrandizement

If I told you our plummet down is imminent

Would you still be so full of yourself, and your shtick?”

 

On to his right I see ‘Jane’ an older lady

In her face I discern a forlorn look of sadness, she seems unsteady

Perhaps a pain too much to be able to cope

With? One that has sapped away the last traces of hope?

She seems stricken with an incurable malady

 

“Listen Ms. Jane, please do not grieve

It may seem though, as diabolical a plot as I could weave

But if this imperiled plane now veers out of control

Over the ephemeral pain, our destiny would steamroll

And in couple of minutes, we shall be handed the ultimate reprieve”

 

Looking in front on my right to the aisle

I see two kids busying themselves in something puerile

Looks like some video game. Perhaps PUBG? Whatever it may be

Boys have you no clue of the decree laid out by the powers that be?

How blessed you are to be blissfully juvenile and not febrile!

 

To my front, I see a mother and her baby

The baby needless to say, looks hardly troubled, the mother maybe

Is brooking pangs of fears and nasty premonitions

Just like I am, she too perhaps is at the receiving end of admonitions

And just like me wishes to be caressed into sleep by a lullaby

 

The weather outside seems to have improved, it brings

Back the sound of the rudder’s salubrious whirrings

And the soughing melody of the plane’s motions

Coaxing me to alter preset notions

That flight journeys are laden with red herrings

 

I still won’t declare a clean bill of health

Imbued pessimism won’t change either naturally or by stealth

My apprehension, certainly won’t cease

Well, atleast till we cross over the seas

And make the safe landing on the morning of the twelfth

 

So with what could have been a more modest critique

I finally am at the end of my distended lyric

Needlessly embellished verses sometimes does the trick

With one final bow to the monumental pacific

I conclude my somber limerick.

The Panipuri Wallah

The story of migrant workers has always been one that has piqued me. The ones I come across the most are various costermongers that line up the affluent South Chennai neighbourhoods, hawking a variety of ‘Chaat’ and other savouries. Have we ever delved into the world of one such guy and tried to view the world from his perspective?

His looks were haggard, worn out by hours of toil

He wore a sweaty shirt, fighting like a lone ranger

Rusty palms, rugged features, eyes dreary,

His countenance was far from cheery.

In my town, he wasn’t anymore a stranger

But neither was he a son of the soil

He was the Panipuri Wallah

 

He didn’t speak a lot

Largely remaining taciturn.

When spoken to in Hindi, he didn’t fret

English and Tamil, he could barely interpret

Linguistically, he didn’t care to learn

But still, he was one of the most sought

Men in the locality.

 

For, in his possession were those skilled fingers

That whipped out the tastiest Panipuri

Twenty rupees for a plate of five

The competitive pricing helping him thrive

Amidst mushrooming cafes, still considered a luxury

That scented business in the area, harbingers

That our favourite fellow was to face competition.

 

Whether it was a hot summer noon

Or during autumnal rainfalls

 

Or on a breezy wintry evening

One could see him leavening

Wheat to be fried into crispy wheat balls,

Piquing tempted taste buds in the commune

As crowds from near and afar thronged all year along.

 

Students, professionals and gallivanters,

Bikers, walkers, drivers, and the like

Gathered around, as the Panipuri Wallah stood encircled

By wagging tongues and edgy hands, bearing recycled

Paper plates. As the sales for the day was ready to spike

So did the buzz and the lively banter

As the crowd wolfed down the moreish snack one by one.

 

One such noon, I was on the road.

I passed by the joint, that gobbled up my paltry savings

Though I was in a hurry to keep up a tryst,

The caressing thoughts of the mouth-watering snack I couldn’t resist.

Deciding to appease my sporadic dose of cravings

I parked by the side and made way to his esteemed abode,

Mingling into the queueing gang.

 

The ceaseless crusader was in the thick of things.

Grabbing a plate, I joined a small party,

Preliminary steps, without any curtailing

Need to be described in full detailing

To capture the end-to-end in its entirety.

The joy of this exercise alone brings

As much pleasure as the delicacy itself.

 

A quick run through his dexterous talents

Is in order. Firstly he scooped up a semi-fistful of mashed potato

And a euphonious ticking sound followed as he crunched

The puri. A perfect little hole he had punched

Then laced the potato scoop with blended traces of sliced onion and tomato

And poured the heady concoction into the Puri’s hollowed contents,

Scooped it up in fragrant mint water, and dished out the end product.

 

As the party enjoyed a satisfying repast

Caring two hoots about the sun firing down its piercing rays,

From the corner of my watchful eyes

I spotted a teardrop wriggle itself from stifled cries

As an unspoken sorrow enshrouded the Panipuri Wallah’s face.

His demeanour had long turned overcast

As I continued to scrutinize.

 

During the next minute and half

The teardrops spurted down his cheek and onto his shirt

While his hands, in all glory, continued speaking his brand.

A virtuoso exhibition of sleight of hand

While none of us even attempted to comfort,

Show concern or enquire on his behalf

In a deplorable show of apathy.

 

He capped off the final complimentary ‘dry’ serving

Sprinkling smidgens of Sev and Masala.

As we wound up the feast with a few final slurps

And followed it up with odorous burps

A short stint, having concluded a time so gala,

We paid up the money, still preserving

A mephitic air of indifference.

 

Moments before I paid

My initial inclination was to quickly ascertain

What caused him trouble, and offer any help I could within my capacity,

When I caught sight of my watch. The paucity

Of time nudged the selfish inner beast in me to abstain

And told me to move on, I was already delayed.

Moodily I trudged back to the car.

 

As I drove away from the scene

Our coordinates though moving apart

With every second out sprang

A new choppy wave of passing pang

Guilt-laden, gnawing at my heart

With nothing much to do, I endeavoured to glean

Inferences from what I had seen.

 

Was it some sad news received from out-station?

A thousand-mile distance conveying the inheritance of a new loss,

The thought of which possibly kindled an unnamed dread,

Or perhaps did he simply miss his kindred?

The sheer absence of which scatters his daily life for a toss.

Maybe it was the ultimate dawning of a silent realization

That he was merely a pawn in the game of presaged irreversible destiny.

 

Whatever it was, the least I could have done

Was to stay on for a while in deference

To his situation. A contrasting attitude

A warm clasp of the hands, words proffering solicitude

Could have still made a world of difference

To him. However all I managed to do in introspection

Was to incur the wrath of my own conscience.

 

So haplessly do we beguile

Ourselves, ending up as ensnared prey

In self-aggrandizing illusory traps

Not realizing that, to the stratagems of ephemera, we eventually collapse

Fraternal human emotions that, in its significance, far outweigh,

Are ignored, positions from which our greed cannot easily resile

Meliorism, even in its most utopian proximity, for now, seems a far cry away.

Beginnings

The lyric may be lesser in lines and content, but redolent with the imagination of a man who drinks in the growing darkness of the evening and within. All he hopes are for new beginnings to fill the void of an unexplainable emptiness he is subjected to.

The evening shadows lengthen

The burning sun tempers

The twilight silhouettes the trees

The panoptic imagery fades

A silence impregnates through the stillness.

 

Sinews must strengthen

I resist the urge of growing whimpers

I try to put my heart at ease

Fleeting memories evade

I begin anew at the mark of nil-ness.

Eulogy to a Noble Nonagenarian

This eulogy is a poetic tribute

To sing praises and to

Celebrate the esteemed life

Of dear Thiru. Narayanan.

 

Rarely did a man walk on the surface of this planet

Who had a multitude of virtues rolled up

In every fiber of his being.

 

An epitome of integrity and rectitude

A model of uprightness and dignity

A stellar example of righteousness

He was loved by one and all

Revered from near and afar.

 

His simplicity and humility

Kindness and compassion

Taught us awe-inspiring lessons

To lead a happy and healthy life.

 

His sage words of advice

On matters ranging from trifling to momentous

Keep ringing in our ears.

 

His perspicacity and clairvoyance

Guided us in the right directions.

A paragon of independence

An exemplar of Aatma Nirbharta.

 

He never wished to be a burden on his brethren

But always helped all and sundry.

 

A great grandfather

And the grandest of fathers.

 

A wonderful brother

A peerless husband

A dutiful son

 

And a great grand uncle to one and all.

 

It is inconceivably magnificent

That he executed all roles on the stage of life

To immaculate perfection.

 

Born on the banks of the nectared waters of Tamirabarani

The birthplace of Tamil birthed its own son.

 

Brought up on the holy shores of Mother Narmada

Which instilled probity and sagacious Hindustani principles.

 

It was ironical but on second thoughts foretokening

That his end had to come in Cauvery

Where he battled till the very end

In the process embodying all the lessons he taught through his life.

 

The ashes of a life defined by the riparian triumvirate

Immersed into the big blue pond,

Brought to a close the chapter

Of a colossus who strode this earth

Instilling a virtuous exhibition of how life had to be lived.

 

Gandhiji once when asked – “What is your message to the world?”

Replied without blinking an eye – “My life is my message”

 

And so shall be the same message

Of this noble nonagenarian

The crème de la crème of humanity

An ennobled soul nonpareil.

 

Who will forever live in our hearts

And whose life and deeds we will cherish to eternity!

 

                                                                                     By

   Nikhil Bharadwaj

The Celestial Library

Perched atop the water tank

I see myself reading the advesperating sky.

 

The Sun is an epic prose

A novel whose closing pages

Paves way for lunar poetry.

 

Gently appearing sidereal companions

Help the moon bedeck the firmament

With fluorescing nocturnal rhymes.

 

The lyric of the breeze

Gently buffets the homing birds

As they arc their way nest-wards.

 

At the other end of the horizon,

Roving cloud mail-men

Drop pluvious letters of love

 

As sky’s telluric lover

The earth laps up the romantic missives

And reads it with fragrance.

 

A few forgotten sentences

Find themselves suspended mid-way.

 

But connive with the

Crimson chapters of the novel

To concoct one final act of play.

 

The arched heptad of characters

Illuminate the bibliotheque

With a mystical drama,

 

The darkening cerulean Vista

Pans out in full glory

Best seen in solitudinous recumbence.

 

The sky is a celestial library

Craving for more bookworms.

Washing Utensils - A New-found Meditative Avocation

I never thought the day would come, when I would say, that I have developed a strong proclivity for washing utensils. Our womenfolk are so lucky to be dabbling away at this chore for generations!

If this were the opening lines of a speech, I am sure a few awkward moments of silence would have precipitated upon its completion. But even if this is to be read, as it is being now, I am pretty sure, it has already equipped our snowflake millenials with enough munition to start firing away judgements and abuses. To wit, I can see from a mile away, epithets in varying degrees of calumny such as “What a misogynist” or “Bloody male chauvinist”, or more patronizing pontifications such as “I feel sorry for the poor boy, it boils down to his upbringing” or “He needs to be put in his place” all in the process of being rolled up into one big wrecking ball, that is soon to be despatched my way.

I should have possibly thought twice before standing precariously close to a powder keg with an alighted matchstick twirling around my fingers. In a country like ours, where proliferation of social media has brazenly amplified, the polarization of opinions, misconstrual of even those comments spoken with tongue firmly in cheek, and the goading of pugnacious spirits of my fellow compatriots to take offence at the drop of hat, I ought to have been more careful before aberrating from my usual scrivening of non-controversial themes. Considering the intolerant times we live in, we live in perpetual danger of angling towards some controversy of sorts, which precariously waits to be dished up and served in mouthfuls.

But I will do my best at explaining fully what I really want to convey and then people can re-think and re-judge.

In late June, my wife and self returned back to Hyderabad from Chennai, where we were locked down in my parent’s home since March. It was a conscious decision we took, weighing the pros and cons of the perilous flight journey when the COVID-19 caseload in India was just beginning to spiral out of control. The pro was simple, single and straightforward – We missed the solitude of our own home, which was waiting empty in Hyderabad, where we were miles away from the nearest kith or kin. We could wake up when we wanted, roam around in more ‘comfortable’ clothing (otherwise considered unbecoming for a quasi-orthodox family) and have our much desired privacy without the fear of prying eyes or furtive ears. This incontestably was the sole incentive that drew us back to our loveable alien city.

The arguments notched up against the cons side of the ledger were more – We would certainly miss the comfort of our familial company, the quality time we spent breaking bread together, memorable dinner table banter with a skilled deipnosophist in the form of myself calling the shots, games that we used to play such as Rummy, Scrabble or Mastermind which weren’t touched for years, and newly cultivated fitness fads that had become part of our daily routine in the lockdown period. To boot, it was one of those rare stretch of weeks where I paid very little from my pocket for running the household, which facilitated a tidy accumulation of reserves in my bank account and most importantly, despite our best intentions to partake in the household chores, we didn’t break much of a sweat as we had ample help around the house – My father, my brother and I took the onus of procuring all essentials for the house, I helped with the laundry, whereas my wife and mother managed the household chores of cooking, utensil washing, sweeping and floor mopping (since we deemed it too risky to avail the services of our housemaid) with a bit of help from everyone chipping in from time to time. In short it was a rather comfortable setup, but deep down I knew all these fancy perks would come to an end sometime sooner than later. Which is why when the government announced the resumption of flight services, despite the huge risk of travel, I flirted with a major gamble, and booked a flight to get back to the environs of my Hyderabad home. My decision was eventually vindicated as thankfully neither my wife nor I contracted this debilitating virus.

Now having made ourselves at home, a difficult decision had to be made – how do we split the household management? We were pretty used to having the cook and maid help take a huge weight off the management of the household chores. The apportioning had to be equal and impartial. I, of course offered to take the ownership of groceries procurement/shopping and laundry management, as I am the more outdoorsy person, but I knew that simply wouldn’t cut enough mustard. My wife being a stickler for cleanliness, wasn’t too keen on handing over the reins to me in the floor sweeping and mopping departments, knowing jolly well that I would do an awful job at it. Considering that I was anyways neck deep in capacity planning work, if capacity is what I plan, she was good enough to take on bulk of the heavylifting, leaving me to gleefully lap up the less strainful of the lot. Well with the addition of one little thing, which I almost forgot - Washing Utensils. Little did I know, what I signed up for!

Washing utensils is a simple skill really that just needs a delicate pair of hands, and some finesse in your fingers. You first bathe the piece of chinaware with running water, then daub it with a bit of washing soap, and then massage its predominantly steely structure for a few seconds, and then again bathe it in water before you drop it off into a basket. Repeat this ritual over and over till you finish all the utensils.

I must admit, the initial days of this task wore me out, as I had no prior experience in this endeavor. Thanks to the flexibility of my schedule I could always pencil in a 45 minute slot between 10 PM and Midnight, but my approach to this hour of drear was marked with an air of significant lassitude. The repulsive sight of overflowing vessels plonked up the sink gave me the daily dosage of nocturnal blues.

My start in this undertaking was not very successful either. Neither would, my timeliness or my adeptness at wielding the culinary weapons, have qualified as a hissing and byword. If I were to describe my initial performance with an arresting one-liner, ‘Making a mockery of the crockery’ would be a fitting critique! Within the first week, I broke the handle of a tea pot and two plastic spoons, while giving them an intense scrub. During the second week, too much of soap application caused the cooker to slip from hands and break on its head. During the course of the third week, I shattered my wife’s prized glass soup bowl, nearly causing her a fit of apoplexy. In short, within one month, there were a handful of mutilated goods that had been defenestrated, and my wife said she regretted ever having asked for my favor and I was nearly forbidden from entering the kitchen, during the witching hour of the sink!

But I persisted. We Bharadwajs belong to a spirited clan. Of what use is a man of grit and gumption, if he can’t get a grip on a vessel or two! It was a rejuvenated Nikhil, who squared up at the old grind for round number two, albeit this time, with a stratagem. I decided to use music as my companion for the duration of this activity. My idea was that if I were to make a stultifying activity into a more engaging one, I could use a source of divertissement. There, thankfully exists a small pedestal atop the chimney right next to the sink, where I can mount my mobile and also have a good screen view. Having ascertained that it was fit for purpose, I decided to put it to good use.

So began the second innings of my utensil washing sojourn. I re-started the activity with the companionship of my usual playlist which hadn’t undergone much insertions or outsertions since I transferred my favorite songs from my laptop to a newly purchased One Plus 6T a couple of years back - A staid medley of world music – A.R.Rahman Classics, peppy feel-good Kollywood numbers from Harris Jayaraj, Beatles, New Age Albums such as Voyage and Enya, and Indian Fusion/Rock bands such as Agam and Local Train etc. Little did I know, this would bridge the vast chasm of memory lost to the recesses of time and form my re-union with long forgotten music which I last heard in my teens and even before that. I caught up with one of my favorite techno-pop bands Kraftwerk whose tunes I addictedly played on loop (purely going by my parent’s hearsay) when I was a toddler and devoured every single album of my favorite bands - Enya and Massive Attack which we used to listen frequently on long car journeys in my boyhood. I fossicked for my favorite 90’s songs such as Colonial Cousins, Vande Mataram, Deva’s Kollywood chart-busting Gaana songs (some of which are not in Youtube), which stirred up a heady brew of childhood nostalgia. And to top it all, thanks to the effective inveigling of Youtube Recommendations, which the fellows working at it seem to be doing a dashed good job of it, paved way for my bonding with newer genres of music which I socially distanced myself from, despite years of persuasion from friends and cousins! I decided to give Linkin Park, Metallica, Akon and Eminem a try which never caught my attention even two decades ago, when it was a rage with my pals, as I had deemed it to be too philistine for my own liking. My pre-conceived notions finally came to light now, as listening to them, I realized, there was more to it than what met the ear (with a slight tweak of the more acceptable phrase). In all honesty, I enjoyed them and realized that there is a certain meditative cadence about music, which is soothing to the soul, and  acts as a sedative to the fingers that ply the vessels.

It didn’t stop with music. It laid a neat segway into other kinds of informative videos on science, technology, psychology, sport etc. In the four months that have lapsed since then, I have seen atleast 50 insightful Ted X talks on topics such as Increasing Productivity, Creative Writing, Sustaining Relationships, Healthy food habits and lifestyles. I have devoured videos on Artificial Intelligence and Big Data that has always piqued my interest over the last several years, but that remained no more than piqued thanks to my purportedly ‘frenzied’ work life in Pre-COVID times. I have subscribed to several ‘for the most part unbiased’ Youtube channels such as The Economist, Khan Academy, National Geographic Channel, Science Insider, Fire of Learning and many other smaller channels (in both English and Tamil) which have drip fed my thirst for knowledge in a neat manner on various fields across the spectrum such as Politics, Science, Geography, History, Literature etc.

The cliché that ‘The most negative thing about 2020 has been the word positive’ has been employed ad-nauseum and I feel sickened whenever I hear this line. I don’t know how many real tangible positives are there that we could take away this year, but surely there is one according to me, which is the seemingly notional concept of a temporal slowdown. Short of saying the world has ground to a resounding halt, it would be undeniable to admit that there seems to be more time in all our hands. In pre-COVID days, life careened at a dizzying pace, seemingly providing no time for anything outside of the usual fixtures of quotidian life. But now a few useful hours have been reimbursed to the 24-hour circadian rhythm. Of late I have been sleeping for 9 solid hours a day, and have woken up with the insouciance of a man, who knows there is no need to hurry, gladdened by the knowledge that food is a stone’s throw away, and comforted by the fact that there are no physical distances to be covered and the provider of my daily bread - The laptop is at a touching distance. There is suddenly more time to pursue hobbies such as to read books, to take a few potshots at writing the premise for my first novel which never got beyond a few pages or to pick up and polish the short story ideas that have littered my laptop over the years, to do a solid one hour session of Yoga or Walk or to initiate little virtual connects with close friends and relatives across the globe. In short there is a profusion of ‘Me Time’. The concept of weekend has blurred, as all days look pretty much the same (I have time to watch a movie on the morning of a Tuesday, and if needed I could even clock in a couple of hours of work on a Sunday) and as a result, the notional feeling of Monday Blues has also diminished significantly.

To top it all, I owe a little note of thanks to this wonderful little hobby (having accorded it with a well-deserved promotion from a chore) which has wrought about a thirst for knowledge and learning. I no longer view vessels with the weariness of a looming ennui, instead I look upon it as a 45 minute capsule of learning and knowledge enhancement.

Yet another rare benison of a wretched year! So much for a damn virus which research has proclaimed to be ten thousand times smaller than a grain of salt!

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.