Thursday, October 29, 2015

Fox


















O fox! Lovely little fox,
My sweet innocuous animal!
Cunning! Which orthodox
Sketched you the title?

O fox! For fables’ sake, pardon us.
My innocent bestial, please note,
To picture our meanness and mistrusts,

In were you framed; made a scapegoat.

Eagle

















An eagle
A success-symbol
Flying high
But never looking at the sky

A lone eagle
Just another beautiful bird
Beyond the human herd
Let it enjoy and fly

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Organisation zone

This article is in response to numerous posts on LinkedIn blaming the managers as incompetent, as people who are the very cause of disengagement amongst the team members of their respective projects. The posts also say that organisations are recruiting wrong people as managers.

While I understand that these posts stem out of frustrations, I find them laughable, just as laughable would find the recruiters of managers! Please understand that all organisations are recruiting right kind of managers, as their representatives, their porte-parole. I don’t know if it would be unfair to draw out a similarity between terrorists and all private organisations, but, the behaviour, the signals sent out to non-conformists and the way justice is meted out to them killing multiple people in broad day light under the behest of HR is strikingly similar. I am saying this with a lot of affection which, I pray you understand; ‘love it or leave it’ is what private organisations believe in. Everything these children do is based out of competition, including their CSR activities! Why so? Well, why not so! This model of competition, killing, back-stabbing, gundaraj is working everywhere.  What I find amazing is that these activities are carried out under the banner of protecting employees as families, rest assured there is nothing called ‘family’ in all these profit-seeking organisations masked as being employee-centric. They are there in the market to make profit, to make them the best of the best, to excel, to deliver high performance and client satisfaction, that's all. With experience they have gathered over the years, this system is validated as foolproof, in time, as it works every time and all the time. So it is here to stay.

Organisations, private organisations, have failed to deliver two vital things to their employees, viz. stability and peace. In fact, for all practical purposes, they’d undermine these and usher in 'instability' and the object 'war' as an excuse to growth and excellence. It is only wise, therefore, to accept these rules as fellow employees have to work for a living, to bring home food. If you went against these ‘philosophies’, you would be shown the door for sure. You would go begging from door to door, like a popper, much to their amusement.

There was this employee who sent an angry mail to the manager using an expression ‘blessed organisation’. For this, issues and transfers followed one after the other until the time the employee was killed (thrown out) in broad day light, and mind you, without a right to return. How are these managers different from those who don’t want to hear anything against their faith? How! Then there was another employee who found some typos (in all forms actually!) in the manager’s English and showed the foolishness to point them out. Sure enough, issues followed, and sure enough the inevitable had to happen.

All of these killings are justified, recorded as fair; you won’t be able to convince them it is wrong, just as you cannot convince those people who slay innocent lives.  Private organisations are also headed by extremely intelligent people, toppers from colleges, you could also find very saintly people as the founders and senior executives, just as you find very intelligent and saintly people in the horrid zones too.

So  recruitment of managers who specifically disengage the workforce is going to happen, love it or leave it. My advice to you is to be very careful with these very competent people, because ordinary mortals like you need to work to fend for your families, the concept of which is marketed in most private organisations. Your grievances, if any, would be recorded, meetings will also be held, with the inevitable outcomes. With all these processes in place, my only advice would be 'compliance'; please comply with them, because private organisations do a lot of good too; their goodness is recorded and quantified, some of them rank as best employers as well. So please stop judging, because there is no point.

Just focus on your work. Do not backchat, argue.

Keep smiling.

Sunday, October 25, 2015

Friends



Friends! They’ve qualities a bit special and stark,
mélange of a parent, sibling, spouse and a child
A tad informal, outside they reside, off the family mark,
Yet in them, we look for our home, a comfort, we find inside.

Friends! They’re ageless to the very core,
Same age, or decades younger or older to you,
Could be miles apart, or a person next door,
They define and defy all boundaries, milieu.

Friends! They’re a keep, not a symbol to flaunt,
Celebrities, erudite, panwalas*, all the same,
Fools judge their company, duds praise or taunt.
Market conditions of guilt, pride or shame.

Friends! They may not always stand beside
When you are in dire or pressing need,
For that, if you brushed them aside,
It’s your failure indeed.

Friends! They become you, you your friends become,
With them you dive in, keep afloat, swim or sink,
With them around, your sailing world becomes a home,
A shore-less bond beyond rests in the ocean of friendship.

Note:

*panwalas  - This may also be spelled as "paanwallah". Literally taken, this means "betel leaf seller". It is composed of two Hindi words, "Paan", which means "betel leaf" and "wala" (or "wallah") which means "person associated with". Betel leaf and areca nut is a common breath freshener in India and there are other ingredients added as well depending on region, similar to sausage varieties in German towns. It is a chewable product. (Source:Wikipedia) 

The irreverent


Scene: A court

You are one man without basic manners
Minimum courtesy is to use salutation for the aged
Don’t you know it matters?
Use Miss, Mister, Madam and Sir
It’s a civilised world here.
And what the hell are you scribbling there, show!
 It’s a contempt of court, don’t you know
(The man chuckles)
What? You want to say something? (Looks at the jury, laughs)

“Yes.”

Say!

“I am sorry, but age matters little to me
It’s so unkind to remind one of those years
Salutations, merely decrepit, a superannuated thought
People disrespect with feathers of the sort
I respect all, would want to make it clear
The gray hair and wrinkles, visible lies, you see
For me, it’s a bluff.”

It’s a civilised world here. Your staffing is enough!
If you don’t salute, it only has one effect
A mark of disrespect!
Again?? What the hell are you scribbling there!
Hiding like a criminal, inside the court, how do you even dare?

“No, it’s just a letter... a lie... not of any worth to you”

Give the damn thing to us, we’ll read what is not so true
(Snatches the letter, everyone to their hearts’ content, grinned)

“Mr. Jesus, Madam Durga and Reverend Allah
Please accept my apologies, all through the years, I have sinned.”

Ha ha ha... behind the bars you will your lessons learn
For today, the court is adjourned.


Friday, October 23, 2015

The fall














flowers
in love with the grasses
detached from the holders
the sounds of waters
from the nearby brooks
and those of the birds
marries the fall
the garden
a stage of fallen flowers
a bed, full of lovers
with fresh brown whispering leaves
night and day
ceaselessly unite here
in moments, bloom
through millions of dawn and dusk
the numerous cracking, befriend,
celebrate the falling
waves of time, fall on the shores
folks write, written
seeds of love-thoughts, drop on the ground
this is nature, in permanence
loving and making love
in multiple folds, old anew
o sense, loud and mute
a sad wall, an island
accursed, live and stand
a death that does not die, ages
perpetually distant
its height cannot smell the grass
from where waves wither its cold feet
a non-living, inert symbol
trained, groomed, never to fall
all around, surrounded by
breaking, falling
sounds of love
ready to lose

a bee just pierced a hole
at the bottom
a cracking sound
with an ouch,
it went to the other side
busy
in the same way
falling,
failing, and
falling
in all of this
the sole wall 
looks old

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Times


No holidays since long
Days rest tired, somehow go
Night-eyes stare up, blank
Hope for a tomorrow
Work might never start
Holidays might never wait
At the crossroads

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

The last shadow













the last shadow
disappears from the trees
the sky sheds off the clouds
complain rains
melancholic day
drowned in alcohol
stays sunk
until the dog at the corridor
of my garden howls
brings the intoxicated day to a halt
everything around changes
for some moments
a gap
an in-between
it will eventually get back
clouds will hang again
shadows will re-appear
water is the rock of Sisyphus
curse, curse, curse
what bliss this curse is
I walk down the corridor stairs
my legs have rain-sounds
jhhum jhhum jhhum
filled with the glory of falling
all absolutes become obsolete
blurred, nonsense
I lie flat in my garden
rains cover me...
moments with openness
without shelter
the dog howls
the sound, blunt and content

In this gap, curse or bliss
I know
Last is never the last. 

The source of entertainment


Literature of the world
Wounded, hurt...
Operas weep,
Sense engrossed in the narration
Pain becomes the healer.

Dying mind, history’s only hero.
People who fight, put behind the bars
In worship-cages, locked for good.

Dearth, horror, scarcity re-appear into the fore
Poverty, a permanent guest, hoists richness
Insanity, which is beautiful, mesmerising, becomes ugly
Weapons re-surface as the only truth
Imprisoned fighter, banished in the pages,
Wars and destructions, followed with awe
With utmost care, and sincerity
Bought and sold
Flawlessly, all over the world.

Operas re-weep
Literature re-wound
Senses drown
In the mindful, elite entertainment

Saturday, October 17, 2015

the relentless poet

















with high sugar, bp and other physical plights
the poet writes
through the dysfunctional ears, myopic eyes
the poet types
in an armchair, with a stick that wobbles
the poet scribbles
with wilting legs, quivering hands
the poet dares to stand
despite migraine and toothache, the poet giggles
the words on those pages scrawl, squiggle
despite wars in the air
in every corner
stony tones that joke and smirk
the jerk, with the restless mind
writes
what drives the poet, no one knows
would the poems anywhere go
to the insane, matters the least
out in the sun or in foggy mist
drying, drizzling, or pouring
tools aiding or ailing
the writing continues
of the sighs and the hues
in the world around
with the spirit of wonder
yet untapped, unbound

the broken rhythm

 

in the world, there's only this slow, stress-less pace
the muddy heart, water-beats of peace
no race, no dolour, none at all
quiet, sound is the world, authentic, every moment
no bloodshed, brawl
life abounds in the air, replete with existence
yet
essence picks up images of horror, scarcity
nurses, nurtures, mirrors nature-less discords
as insipid truth
hollowness intrudes,
a stranger with an unwholesome passport
marks boundaries in horizon-less minds
breaks into lies, with wide open eyes
a lilt fast, hurried, abrupt...a cadence queer,

disquieting still

the tuning back into the pristine...
the attractive, abounding whole
could journey its way
through cleansing the lot
wishing away

outlandish thoughts.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Pervert

Water boiling... morning tea in the making
My east-facing kitchen and my bedroom get the morning sun
My wife also suggested a glass door in the balcony
From where comes every morning the soft sun
My wife, asleep... half of her body is sun’s
The rest, shadow’s...my world looks beautiful, complete
I smell her hair, my black nest
She’s my married wife ... Married wife? What kind of an expression is that!
I am standing...looking empty and hollow...am I a pervert?

Suddenly a rage ran through my nerves
Desdemona! What on earth are you doing with him? O, that’s why the glass, is it?
Wait...kill him I will... I pull the heavy curtain
She takes the quilt and embraces it inside her
O the quilt, the bed sheet, the pillows
All seem like scattered handkerchiefs... Desdemona! Am I a pervert?

‘Hon, where’s the tea?’
Just a minute darling... about turn...the mirror traps me in horror
I rush to the kitchen. Boy! The sun has washed all the water away
‘Honey...where’s my tea?’I know a full honey is not so sweet.
A wind blows through the leaves of the tree that my kitchen covers
The one we planted some years ago. Honey!
Just a minute love! No, no... I am not going there until the tea is done
Through the breezy branches, the sun winks at me sniggering in the roaring chirps
‘Pervert’!

Monday, October 12, 2015

we can do without weapons












This poem is in response to the most alarming screech ‘I will shoot you’ by a child in a school. Where it happened is not important, because it happened in my world, your world, our world.

‘I will shoot you’, a child says to another child.
The trigger pulls, the child kills and is killed.
Children reflect grown up children’s wild burden,
Destined to hate, hit, and hurt with the excuse of a reason.

Ye civilized world, worthy women and men!
Did you hear the sound, the alarm, the screeching siren?

If this doesn't trigger to lock out weapon factories
and convert them into flower-houses, then what would,
my dears,
with how much more bloody tears?
What is your fear to do away with those
think anew
you need to,
put an end to these shows.
Weapons are free, and they’re on the loose
Children o heavens be; let them play, amuse.
Drop those hoity-toity toys
For the sake of those budding girls and boys

Children are shooting stars,
weighed down, heavy, with our sad scars,
change your mindless, reckless game,
help them shoot out love, without guilt or shame.

Eons of years have gone by,
failures of primitive outcry
attraction still is to repeat,
humankind’s utter defeat.

Think afresh and choose
a weapon-less winsome place
the world will win its space
none will ever lose.

Dive in deep to know
its useless disastrous root
the need for weapons would go
children, all ages, would never ever shoot.

join the world





Weapons are injurious
to the health of the world
Ban the need for weapons
from the beautiful minds

Wonder in the oil canvas




















Lucky smiles....

Hamlet and Romeo
have come to join Didi and Gogo
under the tree.
A song...
 ‘Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,’
Portia looks at lady Macbeth’s hands
just arrived,
they look at the new entrants and courtesy.
Portia tries to listen to the song...
‘Noh’, she says, ‘it’s far from a greenwood tree
in the middle of a desert deforested...
fiction is overpowering reality
this is not true, not real
what preposterous impertinence
it doesn’t in the least, make any sense’.
She concentrates on those pardon-seeking hands
counting numbers in fingers!
Suddenly they all see
Joan of Arc, Emma, Elisa Doolittle
in the team,
how horrid
for they do see
Shylock, Hitler, Black Peter, Peter Pan...
the children which took away the Pied Piper
all playing in the never-to-be-lost field
unworried.
With them, are those two famous shepherds
there is no cattle though, no herd
the lover boys look so much the same, are they twins!
Only the hands of Van Gogh know
zoom...splash...screech...
in the chaos, characters statue...
their eyes getting bigger and bigger
they see a hollow
in those helping pairs of hands
amidst a clutter of sand...
they finally look at the world
... a zero land...
And in there they see
All the other characters
Victims and victors once
Now holding hands
Synergised with fusion
Floating around
In the oily canvas

Amol* is fascinated, as always
Spoke to these newfound strange travellers or passers-by
about the King’s arrival
Doesn’t understand what on earth
In the tableau happened, or is still happening
He only wonders, never questions, not any more
He’s thus destined, created through sense
With an out-of-the-world confusion
(Looks at Lucky and says)
I am in between
Could it be that or this
If ever I have to ask
I know there’s always my Sudha*

Lucky smiles

(Amol covers himself with the quilt...Olympus moves...hooosh... he goes to sleep, is sure to meet the king tomorrow... he found her Sudha in all the characters in the tableau... she will surely bring him flowers and he won’t die...he chuckles
“Pray, do not mock me:
I am a very foolish fond old (child),
Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;
And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.”)


Note:
I must admit that this poem comes from a failed attempt of writing an inter-textual play. In the play I wrote, or tried to write, there were these characters from very popular plays belonging to different literary movements; viz. classicism to existentialism, talking to each other from their own fixed, created positions. I found it difficult to continue and, therefore, have scrapped it, or should I say shelved it. The theme behind this inter-textual nonsense was to bring out the sickness from society and banish the disease once and for all.

About Amol and Sudha

There are only two characters Amol and Sudha, which many readers, especially those outside of Bengal or of India, wouldn’t know. These two characters have been created by Tagore in the play ‘Dakghar’ or ‘Post Office’.   

Summary
The Post Office (Bengali: Dak Ghar) is a 1912 play by Rabindranath Tagore. It concerns Amol, a child confined to his adopted uncle's home by an incurable disease. W. Andrew Robinson and Krishna Dutta note that the play continues to occupy a special place in Tagore's reputation, both within Bengal and in the wider world. It was written in four days.

Amol stands in Madhav's courtyard and talks to passers-by, and asks in particular about the places they go. The construction of a new post office nearby prompts the imaginative Amol to fantasize about receiving a letter from the King or being his postman. The village headman mocks Amol, and pretends the illiterate child has received a letter from the king promising that his royal physician will come to attend him. The physician really does come, with a herald to announce the imminent arrival of the king; Amol, however, dies as Sudha comes to bring him flowers.


W.B. Yeats was the first person to produce an English-language version of the play; he also wrote a preface to it. It was performed in English for the first time in 1913 by the Irish Theatre in London with Tagore himself in the attendance. The Bengali original was staged in Calcutta in 1917. It had a successful run in Germany with 105 performances and its themes of liberation from captivity and zest for life resonated in its performances in concentration camps where it was staged during World War II. Juan Ramón Jiménez translated it into Spanish; it was translated into French by André Gide and read on the radio the night before Paris fell to the Nazis. A Polish version was performed under the supervision of Janusz Korczak in the Warsaw ghetto.