Mercy Killing

"Put me out of my misery," begged his eyes and lips,

While I stood by, watching him suffer

From within, up unto his tips,

He beseeched me for a favour,

That none would ask another,

While I stared, helpless, into his teary eyes,

His body burned and so did his soul,

Under flames that would never cease,

They blazed forth, consuming him whole,

Yet leaving behind, a little life to live,

Oh how could the lifeless inferno be so cruel,

I thought only the living could,

But this was no room for thought,

For he needed help and fast,

The heave from pain to ease,

Seemed a losing duel,

And any attempt to heal or cure,

No matter how pure,

Would only cause him agony beyond bearing,

And let him suffer for life,

I shuddered, holding the knife,

That'd both save and relieve that man,

And it slipped, wetted by my sweat,

My hand trembled as I took it forward,

Towards his wounded skin,

A stab to kill, I knew, would be,

A stab unto my own heart,

And though he'd be free from his wounds,

I would never be for life,

I cursed fate, that ugly god,

Which put me in this place,

Forcing my innocent hand to hold,

This bloody knife of choice,

I sought to run, abandoning him,

And this dagger that ruined my day,

I knew if I tried, I might save him,

And the other would free him too,

But the thought of putting him,

Through any more pain,

Paralyzed my limbs,

And I stood watching,

Not him but my knife,

That's already pierced my soul,

Time flew past us,

Precious time,

And I knew I had to act,

So I held it tight,

Turned my wrist,

And drew closer to him.

Written at 4:35pm at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

Impending Death

I stand, motionless,
Imprisoned in this bodily cell,
Staring into the arrows of death,

That come swiftly, straight at me,
Fearing the pain of the impact itself,
Over the uncertainty of death,

Choosing to close my eyes instead of facing it,
For anticipation of pain scares one,
Further than pain itself,
I hope it will be quick,
And yearn for unknown death over prolonged pain,

I take my last few precious breaths,
Tasting every last ounce of comfort it gives,
And listen to every last beat of my heart,
Cherishing every knock,
I find the fear of facing overwhelming,
And choose to flee instead,

I take another peek at it,
Before I turn away,
Distracting myself with stories and sports,
With the little pleasures that surround me,

Forgetting that which truly awaits me,
Losing awareness of time ticking away,
And of life wearing away,

And while I lie such, intoxicated,
The arrow hits me hard,
Piercing these coils,
Freeing me in exchange for terrible pain,

My nerves take one last bite,
As my soul tears apart,
From these mortail coils,
And I ascend the final stairs,
That countless men have taken,
Into the doors of that old friend,
A strange, yet familiar one,
The doors of Death.

2:45am 30th Dec. 2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

The Touch of the Hostile Hand

With a cold look from pale eyes,

He places his hand upon my shoulder -

A cold hand with an uncomfortable touch,

That sends a shiver through my trembling spine -

His look means business and so does his stance,

He cares not for my comfort,

Nay, even my life,

And shall not hesitate for an instant,

Before he strikes me down to death,

I have lost all hope,

And my defenses melt away in the heat,

Of his unforgiving presence,

I stand there, naked,

Devoid of the sheaths I'd once called my self,

Now I see a new self,

Compromised,

Ready to share all he wants,

If only he'd let me go -

And now I see and I feel,

That none in the world is any different,

Every soul around is selfish,

And comes to me with purpose -

It could be for a shoulder,

Or a noble cause,

But is seldom without reason -

While I, the person, am seen,

As the holder of their product,

And not a soul that needs a friend.

At lab, 9:37pm 22.12.2016

Glorifying Love

Curses be upon you,
Oh wretched poets -
Hungry for fame, you wrote on love -
Glorifying falsehood with the jewels of language,
Showering upon it, honour it deserves not,
And placing it upon a throne in our hearts,
While we, timid readers,
Take your words as gospel,
Paint our lives that way,
And spend our lives, pursuing it in vain,
Though hurt and in perpetual agony,
We chase after it in true pursuit,
Of a thing that's false,
While reality raises its mighty foot,
And crushes our wounded* souls.

Written at 6:35pm on 22.12.2016 at aero structures lab
*already wounded

The Dark Night

I sit, still and  numb, as dusk falls,
Inevitable darkness closing down upon me,
My blanket shivers along with my body,
Failing to shield me,
Even before Darkness arrives,

Guilt's eerie fluid wets my limbs,
Its dampness crawling within,
And while my teeth chatter in the cold,
I give up my grip and hope-

I wrap my arms in a futile try,
To save me from the freeze-
And a heavy burden falls upon me,
That of inevitability.

I stay quiet, but for my heartbeat-
For no scream, no shout will ever help,
Or save me from the wrath of this night.

I stay still but for my breathing,
Knowing in vain,
That no wife, no friend, no mother can shield me,
From the heavy arms of this formless beast,

Oh it is but unfortunate -
That the night I once relished -
Now holds nothing but fear for me.

Written on 4th Dec, 2016 (at LHC ground floor?)
I need to change the title but I see a weird reference to Batman and to Green Lantern's "In brightest day, in darkest night.."

Sexual Desire

Weird indeed is the lust of the flesh,
A craving I fail to decipher,
A yearning that builds up like nothing else,
To see, to touch, to feel,
To explore anatomy that is already known -
A touch of skin too familiar,
A desire that grows with uncanny stimuli,
Reaching endless heights, consuming the mind,

It still seems baseless to the inquisitive soul,
Hiding behind the sheath of oblivion,
Into which it drives the weak,
While it survives in peace,

It is but hollow when sneaked upon,
Fleeing when one seeks to gratify -
A mountain whose foothills, when touched crumbles,
Tricking one into a firm belief -
That one is indeed satisfied.

4:06pm on 12.11.2016 at C504, IIT Bombay

A Nighttime Walk

On a dark silent road,

I smile wide and bright,

For you are here with me,

Walking by my side,

Every stride we take,

I shall hold dear to my heart,

Feeling every beat,

Cherishing every breath,

To you it might be another walk,

Time spent with another friend,

But to me this night is special,

As are those that you've forgotten,

You turn around looking for me,

Tilting your head with a heavenly smile,

And I lose myself in the beauty,

That turns its attention to me,

I give you a hasty response,

Oblivious to the time that has passed,

Why do I slow down, you ask?

I'm carving in my heart, etching each moment,

Tripping in joy, I catch up,

In the dim, pale moonlight,

I stifle another brimming smile,

As I steal a glance at you.

Written during Walmart PPT at LA302, IIT Bombay. Updated at 1:38am on 6.11.2016

The Paper Cigarette

His chest squirms in impending desire,

His brain heavy with content to clear,

Their way out only too well known,

Habit itches his forefinger as he stifles a groan,

Followed by his thumb and middle one,

Three fingers fidget about apart but in unison,

As his other hand reaches out it hesitates for a second,

"Perhaps not now?," his heart pitches meekly,

And he casts a look at the work piled up*, vacillating slightly,

But he grabs the thin cylinder before his mind replies,

And he surrenders to the will of his thirsty fingers -

Which grab it in a frenzy to slake their hunger,

Holding it a shade too well,

Placing it at its rightful place of dwell,

Maneuvering it swiftly,

As he lets his thoughts drift.

As the pen scrawls his thoughts down,

He grips it in tightly, bent with a frown,

His thought currents flow from head and heart,

Through his arm onto the thin chart,

The cigarette scribbles rapidly, struggling in vain,

Hurtling ahead to catch up with his racing mind,

A phrase in a book, another on a bill,

Some on his arm, and even on his table,

He sighs in relief as he empties his ink,

Taking a break, stopping to think,

The contents of his mental vessel now spilt,

He's done, finally, and free to rest,

At least until another thought fills his mind,

Perhaps similar, or of a different kind,

It was a marvel, yes, but would others ever know?

That writing was a compulsion, not a talent for show,

An addiction, a disease, an irresistible urge,

To capture and pen down fleeting thoughts that surge,

And that, at times, the pen-canvas fails to record,

An idea that flickers and dies, especially when tired?

Would they know it's a feat that could come and go,

That writing wasn't by demand but thoughts that could flow?

That though today his work was fresh and novel,

They would, one day, become rusty and stale?

He fears it when alone,

Letting out a soft moan,

They demand another, cheering him on,

While he waves and smiles but cringes within,

 He locks himself, with his paper and pen,

Ignoring the fear, that forever haunts his den.

*The fleeting thought shimmers temptingly

The crux of this poem was written on 27.10.2016 at 2:55am, at C504.

Significant edits, along with putting in a rhyme scheme were made on 31st Oct, 2016 (post lunch). Completed by 4:20pm. It took quite some time, distributed over more than two hours.

Wishing for a Soulmate

“A man's sexual choice is the result and the sum of his fundamental convictions.... He will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience a sense of self-esteem. The man who is proudly certain of his own value, will want the highest type of woman he can find, the woman he admires, the strongest, the hardest to conquer--because only the possession of a heroine will give him the sense of an achievement.”

- Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged*

I crave a heroine*,
Worthy of my company,
Whose heart I win in honour,
And who wins mine in return,
A beautiful, intelligent one,
As I consider myself,
With no dearth of morals,
And a conscience like mine,

I will shower her with love and care,
Giving up to her my heart -
Expending resource and energy -
All to make her smile,
Oh I crave her presence, her beautiful smile,
My hands wish to hold hers,
As she leans her head on mine,
We'd go for a long walk, hands held,
In the moonlight by the still lake -
And I'd lose myself in the ocean,
That fills her deep eyes.

Written on 27.10.2016 21:46 at LH101, IIT Bombay (Walmart test).

*The first line of this poem, perhaps the poem itself, is inspired by a quote of Ayn Rand in Atlas Shrugged, shown to me by Swati Hegde a few days back at Aero structures lab.

வேடிக்கை

மண்ணில் ஒரு பெயரில்லாத்தோற்றம் கொண்டு,

தோன்றிய காரணமோ தானறியாமல்,

பிறந்து, உண்டு, உறங்கி, பேசி, பாடி, ஆடி, ஓடி,

மற்றவையின் இயல்புகளையும் காரணங்களையும் ஆராய்ந்து,

இப்புறம் திரும்பி தன்னை ஆராயும் முன்னே,

அம்மண்ணில் மண்ணாகக்கலக்கிறானே,

இதல்லவா வேடிக்கை?

Written at 11:27am on 24.10.2016 at Aero structures lab, IIT Bombay

Pain

A distracted creature he is indeed,

Fleeing at the sign of trouble,

He escapes pain, engaging in little pleasures,

In sex, in films, or by reading books,

He chooses not to confront pain,

Picking to fly instead,

A coward to put in in short,

He lets his mind well in pleasure,

While hoping the pain to pass,

Upon his return, intoxicated, he finds,

That pain still does remain,

He also sees, in his sight,

A chunk missing from its waist,

There he find the key to quell,

The pain that seems to forever dwell,

Clouding memories of his past,

And so his pulls up his socks, hoping to act fast,

Pain passes in pieces,

Blocking his breath in its way,

The lump it makes in his throat,

Hurts bad, but goes,

Leaving behind hot lessons to cool,

Pain goes when faced and embraced,

In pulses, now and then,

But what it truly needs, to go,

Are time and lots of sleep.

In Search of a Holier Consummation

Oh how I wish, my love,
That there was a union holier than this,
A ritual of communion to make us one,
Oh how I wish could rip my heart to give to you,
To merge your soul and mine,

Why should there be such a meagre means,
A bodily conjoinment,
A nervous pleasure,
To celebrate our wedding,
And the unifcation of our divine love?

Why does our journey,
Have to culminate in something so low?
A physical desire followed by a gross release?
Is this love, my darling?

Oh how I desire a worthy consummation,
Signifying the union of hearts, not just bodies,
Oh of what use is such wrapping of our carcasses,
When we have fused our souls into one?

Perhaps there is none greater,

No feat more sacred,

Than to love each other thus,

Perhaps no ritual holier,

Than that we already did,
When we wrapped our hearts into one.

Vain Love

Inflicted,

By the disease of love,
I stay in vain anticipation,
Craving attention and recognition,
Chasing after opportunities to make memories,
Sacrificing all in lieu of her time,
I stare down the empty road, squinting my eyes,
In an effort to see her handsome form,

She sees not, my eager eyes,

Hears not my racing heart,

But the lifeless road takes pity,

Its heart melting,

It returns my empty gaze.

Come, sit by my grave

Oh dear reader whose heart I may have touched,
I give you my thanks for listening to my work,
You may be a stranger to me, but I am not, to you,
For you have seen a speck of my soul,
And tasted a morsel of my heart,
Pray, I beg you, I may be dead and gone,
But visit me by my grave,
And sing to me a song.

My grave shall not scare you,
For I am timid myself,
A sensitive and mellow man,
I crave your company,
My nights may get cold and damp,
And my corpse may writhe in vain,
I pray to you my only friend,
To come, sit by my side,

I may lie motionless,
Silent and inert,
But I beg you, my worthy friend,
To come, sit by me,

I fear death and closure,
As a kid would, a ghoul,
I'll lie quiet and await your entry,
And revel in the joy of your company,
My life is dark and so shall be my grave,
Yet my heart is all light,
I promise you I won't scare you,
When you come to visit me,

I speak of solitude and the bliss it gives,
But maybe that's only in life,
I know not what death holds,
Perhaps I'll need a friend,
So you, my reader, my friend,
Come, sit by my grave,
Come sing a song or talk long,
But don't leave me by myself.

Don't leave my grave,
I'm not so brave...
I'm sorry if I've hurt you,
Through my writing or in life,
Forgive me and come to me,
Come sit by my grave

Written between 12:28am and 12;45am on 19.10.2016 (night of 18.10.2016) at Aero structures lab, Dept of Aerospace Engg, IIT Bombay.

Initially thought of titling it as "When I'm dead and gone"

A wandering thought

These words that put my mind in labour before spilling out my pen onto paper, they stay there, disconnected from the soul that bore them.. Oh some may perish in vain as victims of the test of time but those that endure?

Oh they are of no use to me even now* - of what use will they be to me when I'm dead and gone?

And tomorrow, when I cease to dwell on this planet, nay, even this plane, people will connect it to a name and face that I might perhaps no longer relate to..

*Well, they do serve the vain purpose of letting my ego gloat with a false sense of achievement when I complete a piece, or receive praise..
Written at aero structures lab, aero dept, on the night of 18.10.2016 (11:30pm or so, perhaps a little after)

In a weak moment..

In the blink of an eye*,
Desire grabs the wheel,
Clouding judgement with a translucent wall,
Jerking one's stance albeit however firm,
As one stumbles, possessed,
By a compulsive impulse to slip,
To taste the nectar of transgression,
Intellect trips and so does sense,
As a powerful urge takes over,
Caprice's eyes meet his,
Before she steps behind him,
Ready to push him into the abyss of vice,
He looks down into that well of contrition,
Contemplating on the joy of breach,
The lips of sin smack in anticipation,
His mind surfaces, facing a moment of choice,
While his feet stagger at the cusp,
Instinct nudges him, and so does compunction,
Once more he trembles as he makes his decision,

The Fall

He picks the easier one as his heart races,
Guilt engulfing him as he gains momentum,
There's no turning back now that the choice is sealed,
The Devil smirks as he falls, weak,
Choosing to relish the fleeting joy,
But alas! 'Twas too short,
A moment's pleasure, followed by,
A lifetime of remorse.

The Abstention

The right choice was harder to make,
Yet a higher joy overwhelms his soul,
His soul revells in a bliss unknown,
And conscience sends a kiss forth,
Yet, a trace of regret stays smeared,
Secluded in a corner of his heart,
And while the brighter side rejoices,
The road more travelled receives an empty gaze,

But the heart is a maze,
With countless corners and passages,
Behind both, conscience stirs,
Revealing yet another sign,
It tells him, as it tells itself,
That even the stumble was a lapse.

Epilogue

The deed done, he looks back,
His head hanging under the weight of his choice,
He assesses his actions with a biased eye,
Praising or cursing the source of his decision,
And slowly he rises looking at it from above,
Accepting the effect as an outcome of his resolve,
With a deep breath and a firm mind,
He embraces his resolve swallowing it whole,
In time he digests the lessons he learnt,
As it adds to the person he's made himself to be,
And the choice he made, it stays with him,
Perhaps as an effect, but evolved into more,
It gains lustre over time,
Condensing into a pearl of wisdom.

Written at 12:53am on 18.10.2016 at C504, H13 IIT Bombay
*This line is a humble offering to the Tamil work, Sivapuranam from Tiruvachakam.

Breaking Free

I break free from the chains that've given way,

Brushing the dust away,

Inhaling the first of many fresh breaths,

Discovering a calm in my depths,

A peace I'd always had but'd chosen to bury,

To let myself think and worry,

No heartbreak was ever inflicted,

As I see now, why I was so affected,

It was never you that'd bound my soul,

Nor my love for you, my girl,

I made the choice to bind my spirit,
Giving up joy and delight,

I gave you my heart, while calling you mine,

In it I sealed your form, forging the chains,

That hitherto bound my spirit,
I built my cell, trapped myself,

And chose to stay imprisoned,

I inked my core and made a stain,

Choosing to hold the pain,
And unlike Him, the Lord's Son,
I bore a cross for no reason,

Until today when I looked within,
When truth slapped my chin,
I shook off the gloom, killing misery,
With no fight or archery,

And now with newly found freedom -
A treasure I'd always owned,
I walk with head held high,
I twitch my feet, clench my fists,
And I take off towards the stars.

Written between 8:58pm and 9:36pm on 17.10.2016 at C504, IIT Bombay

Pondering About Life

Blinded,
Submerged in a sea sans surface or bed,
He lashes his limbs about in vain,
Living life between pangs of desire and pain,
Sometimes balanced, sometimes sinking,
Fidgeting about without thinking,
At times seizing onto a hold,
That he values as gold,
Afraid to let go,
In fear of the unknown -

Clueless and confused, he moves,
Unsure if forward or in reverse,
In this way he lives his life,
Sploshing through the mess,
Yet putting on a show of calm,
A pageant for the blind,
He hides behind the mask of reason,
Yet tormented by absurd fears,

He spends his day fighting friend and foe,
And nights fearing all who come and go,
Unaware he spends his days,
Like there are countless more to come,
Thinking not for a second that he's racing to his doom,

But perhaps death is a gift for his puny soul,
A relief from this pointless rush,
A sleep he needs for his mind to quell,
A peaceful grave to dwell.

Written at 2:08am on 14.10.2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

Mellowing Down

With skin that feels just like mine,
A voice and body slightly different,
A mind and heart I cannot divine,
A person nonetheless, flawed and human,

But a character so gentle,
She mellows my rough soul,
With words of love and a smile,
Softening me whole,

Her presence calms the mind,
Diluting aggression, alleviating rage,
Without words, generating a field of some kind,
Though different in experience and age,

How can one human soften another,
And that, so perfectly though unwittingly,
Be it a wife, sister, friend or mother?
How does the ego submit so easily?

Sleeping Errors

Perhaps I must let it lie,
The sin I'd buried,
But the restless mind refuses to stay still,
Meddling with trivia, blowing them up,
Clouding my judgement, deluding itself,
And prods my inhumed lapse,
Like jabbing a still snake with a stick,
Awakening pains I thought didn't exist,
Pangs of regret engulf me before I see response,
Peace as know it, forsakes me,
Leaving behind a turmoil,
That seems never ending,
And I struggle in vain for relief -
A dormant creature within stirs,
Awakening with a fearsome roar,
Keeping me awake for nights, attacking with guilt,
As new pains surface, deepening the pain,
I die within, as I shrink to void,
And what remains of my life bears it in silence,
For it is left with no choice,
Tears flowing down in response,
While I decay to naught -
And then, after an instance of death,
I reemerge into existence,
Devoid, now, of any pain or guilt,
Virgin and unbound,
Freer than ever before.

The Key to Happiness

Spending time and resources in its pursuit,
Seeking it everywhere, turning every stone in the hunt,
Sometimes deriving it in those little things -
On a nice morning when up, or when with an old friend,
Sometimes for reasons difficult to comprehend,
Perhaps when with family, or remembering an old lover,
It is still unexplored, its mysteries remain uncovered,

I find it as a fountain whose source hides behind the mind,
Leaking a little now and then, whenever one's spirits lift,
Oh happiness is always about going back -
Oh not in time, not to a place,
But to a state of the self -

Familiarity is indeed the key to happiness,
The search for happiness lying in its forage,
In a song, a trip long,
In a little chat or an old play toy,

It unfolds in fond recollection of long lost days,

When one not merely recounts, but goes back to that state -
A state of longing, or little joys, or even fear -

In fact it is such events that remind one,
That one truly relates to -
A movie, a story,
A song one heard when young,
A picture, a painting,
Seen with an open heart -
They must've registered within,
In a nameless language -
Sans words, sans pictures - just an inexplicable experience -
One that registers deep within - and stays there,
Until stimulated by a response unknown,

Such things awaken the heart,
Giving it a jolt -
Oh if such is the case with a few years back,
What if we dug deeper -
Perhaps the state of sleep,
Why, even the one before we were born?

Appendix:
(Stray thoughts while writing this poem - lines that have been cut out of the poem but ones that I cannot take down from this page)

Where such familiarity exists:

Of unpenned thoughts, and inexplicable emotions,
Of events perhaps not so important -
With no records in picture or word,
But registered in a dimension, known only to the heart -
Oh it surprises me to see -
How records are kept in a chaotic world -
Pictures, memories, books and biographies,
Of histories and men long forgotten.,
Facts that bother a handful, recorded in numbers and figures,
While the pain and joy of people,
Has died with their memory.

*I had written this in a half sleep state, naming it "Memories" for some reason. Publishing it, I went to sleep unsatisfied, since the title did not fit the poem. I've made a few changes and updated the title to a more befitting one. I am aware that this writeup is still substantially haphazard and has been presented in an uncanny manner, but I find that any more changes may remove the emotion from these words, and hence, I choose to leave it this way. (7.9.2016, 1:28am at C504, H13,, IIT Bombay)

Give Her Wings

'Pon the edge of reality she stumbles,
Hoping she trips and tumbles,
Her bosom weak and vulnerable,
Her ribs exposing her soul,
Oh of what use are her heavy breasts,
When they fail to protect her meek heart?
Awaiting her fall, she craves surprise,
As would an addict crave his high,
Rightly so they have named each,
For the latter has redemption, not romance,

Lacking awareness, devoid of thought,
Like a flower waiting to be plucked out,
Or a herbivore at the butcher's store,
Anticipating its impending slaughter,
She hopes to be whisked away, swept off her feet,
By a handsome face she knows not,

Why narrate fables of handsome warriors,
Of princes saving girls, being men of valour,
Painting the little girl's heart with false stories,
That she cries in a corner and await a saviour,

Why colour her thoughts, denying her choice,
Separating her from the rest of the race,
Turning women to objects of treasure,
Sometimes even to those of pleasure,
To be respected, adored, owned,
Saved and protected separate from men,
Not humans with thoughts, emotions,
Skills, goals and notions?
Nay, why talk of even long hair and fair skin* as beauty?
To let her grow in her own way is your only duty,
Teach her to live, to fight,
To know and exercise her right,
You needn't give her wings, she has her own ones,
Just stand far enough to let her rise,
Call them humans, people, not merely women,
For, in truth, they are no different from men.

Written between 2nd Sep (after 7:00pm) and 3rd Sep, 2016 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay
*This line is a tribute to my cousin Yash Vardhini who has expressed beautifully, through her paintings, the fact that we humans are inherently racist when it comes to skin colour.

An alternative thought, as pointed out to me by Sivasakthya M, my junior and friend, is presented here.

While I am inclined to agree, to the points pointed out there, I do not know how many others will. It looks like a third level above chauvenism and gender equality - a mature acceptance of how things are. I have never been a woman and I shall never know what it is like to be one - I am of course intrigued by the life they lead - something that is reflected in my writing, but I admit to myself and to you, that all these will remain as speculations.

Further, I see that my notions are yet to improve, but I will embrace the process and let it happen as and when it does.

To this end, I leave this poem intact as a monument of my current thought - call it liberal or immature.

I fathered the woman I love

Upon a human's form,
I placed a mirror that reflected my heart,
Painted her in hues of my soul,
Breathing love into her eyes, life into her lungs,
Showering her with my attention,
Sanctifying her person,
Knowing all this was in my head,
Yet I worshipped it in a human external to me,
Who said divinity wasn't natural,
That the spiritual was forced?
Why, even idol worship is inherent,
For the human is all sentiment,
Alive in a soul that feels,
In a heart that melts,
In tears that flow,
Cold logic is but a mask,
Even like clothes we wear,
It is a presentation to the world,
And protection for the weak soul.

---

A continuation:

And then he approaches her,
The woman she is,
Wishing she is the one he saw,
He accepts the difference, bearing pain,
He calls these as faults, as complaints,
While they are merely discrepancies,
Between a person who exists,
And one who doesn't,
And all this for what purpose?
A soul's sport for pleasure,
Where one gets hurt?
Nay, it is self infliction,
For no pleasure and all pain

Written on 22nd August, 2016 at 6:08pm

Upon requests from several people for clarification, I'm putting this explanation here:

This poem talks of a person superimposing the qualities desires, on the woman he loves, thereby being in love with someone else, not the one she is.

The term "fathered" in the title is to imply that this imaginary woman is a product of our man's imagination and has hence been "fathered" by him

Creation

Be it a written code that works,
Or a machine that runs,
A song, poem,
A story, a play or just a character
Be it a dialogue or a quote,
I find that it springs to life once a man writes it,
Freeing itself from the man it came from,
Escaping the nib that wrote it,
The lips that sang it,
Or the hands that made it,
Growing a heart that starts beating,
Breathing, living a life of its own,
Devoid of any connection with its baffled creator,
Lo, if such is the case with insentient creations of man,
I dread to fathom the potential,
Of the sentient ones the Lord has made.


*Wrote a poem that sort of went like this in the afternoon of 9.8.2016 on the whiteboard, thought I'd taken a picture but it isn't on my phone. I had named it "it's all alive" and hadn't written the last three lines This is a version that is quite similar (whatever I could remember) but with additions. Wrote this one at Aero structures lab at 11:56pm on 9.8.2016

Stray Thoughts

Falling Out of Love

When a face once etched in the heart
Is wiped our without a trace,
When those memories are no longer fond-
And become mere factual remembrances,
They say one has fallen out of love.
Then is a man truly liberated-
They call it falling when one is smitten -
But the recovery isn't called a rise.

Straying Away

Oh the human is indeed strange-
In one dimension when subjective and in another who objective,
Objective not merely with others, but even with oneself,
So much so that the past is judged harshly,
And the future planned precisely,
Yet the present that arrives is always but chaos-
Oh man does indeed live in presents*,
An infinite number of 'present' moments,
Planned in the past and remembered in the future,
But an immeasurably infinite 'current' when it is,
Oh, who can give a number to time -
A collection of intertwined moments,
One of which happens to be an end,
It is indeed remarkable,
That one discretizes so easily,
An infinite continuum to a finite figure.

Written in C504 on 9.8.2016, and edited at Aero structures lab at 11:30pm

A Partner

Arms to embrace you,
A soul that cares for you,
Awaits your arrival, by the door,
And loves you for who you truly are,

A friend who puts you before their own self,
Who loves you more than she does herself,
Who understands your every move,
Showering you with unconditional love,

Who holds you in the core of her heart,
Laughing at your jokes, considering you smart,
Providing a shoulder to lean on, her lap to lie,
Holding your hand in sorrow and in joy,

Lovely though it may all seem,
It's all just a blatant dream,
Take a deep breath and heave a sigh,
For you must know it's all just a lie.

This world is built on selfishness,
With each resident wanting for itself, no less,
Any gift is with the anticipation of a possible gain,
And no creature will unnecessarily take any pain,

Written on 9.8.2016 at the Aero structures lab

Standing by the Funeral Pyre

Amidst blazing flames I stand,
Their fumes filling my lungs,
Fires that burn corpses,
Bodies that were once persons like myself,
Eating, walking, talking and living,
Ones who were loved, hated, ignored and cared for,
Persons that now lie as lifeless logs by my feet,
With no life in them to feel the heat,
That burns them into an ashy heap,
We see them now as mere things,
Objects that were once alive,
Ghosts of which dwell where I know not,
Haunting ruins, houses, perhaps floating around,
Or perhaps burnt away or in another world,
I, however, am haunted by a restless mind,
A bundle of thoughts clouding me from reality,
For I stand here amidst men who have faced doom,
And analyse it objectively,
Doom that I know lies on my path as well,
And yet, I fail to see,
That here lies my fate.

On Watching TV Shows

Back home after a rough day,
Finding it hard to put thoughts away,
Sans energy, sans life,
You put on the show, seating yourself,
At once all is forgotten, and you are lost,
In the land of the broadcast,
Life is indeed simpler in two dimensions,
Free from bondage without tension,
Your glee and sorrow dictated by characters,
they are your friends, your family, not mere actors,
They throw in a line, provoking deep thought,
Giving you lessons, making you smart,
You laugh you cry, you relate with their story,
But below all, you remain untouched by worry,
An hour or two of unwinding yourself,
It proves the power of forgetting oneself,
Objectivity is indeed the key to life,
The only way to live free of strife,
Perhaps it would help to learn from watching shows,
That it helps to step out and look at ourselves.

Written on 19.7.2016 at 12:18am at C504, H13, IIT Bombay (My first poem in my new room)

On Artificial Intelligence

नासतो विद्यते भावो नाभावो विद्यते सतः|

उभयोरपि दृष्टः अंतः तु अनयोः तत्वदर्शिभिः||

(Bhagavad Gita, 2:16)

When code starts breathing,
When keywords stir,
When software hardens,
And hardware softens,
A machine sprouts to life,
Signified by the will to choose,
A choice rising from randomness
Of the true kind, not the premeditated one,
And with that they talk of thinking machines,
That plan, express, enjoy and execute*,
Writing books, and films on them,

Oh ye foolish men,
Do you not find it ridiculous,
That a thing should rise alive from inert,
More so, a man who creates life?
Do you dream of talking balls, fighting racquets,
Of thinking phones and planning lamps?

These are mere systems that do man's bidding,
Like a body responding to a force,
Who would call an inert machine a servant?
These are mere products of one' effort to conceal code,
To objectify it and imitate life,
Do you consider a statue a man, however human it may seem?
It is merely a ghost for those who know it not,
And a joke for those who do.

Written at home on 25.6.2016 at 12:40am

On Taste

The human is a complex creature,

Surprising even the cleverest, with its every feature,

Sometimes being brutal, sometimes kind,

Reflecting the unpredictable nature of its body and mind,

The only creature that studies itself,

Doing both right and wrong, yes, but wanting to amend oneself.

While evolution in nature occurs across species,

Here it is within each person, who transforms in several layers,

It is not mere adaptation to a condition,

It is evolution by choice, by decision,

Defining one's own self, breaking barriers of genes,

The human defines its own persona, and lives by its own means,

Acquiring distinct tastes - some simple, some of a complex nature,

Changing, evolving as one matures,

Some by virtue of one's innate qualities, desires or perhaps genetic,

And others, from curiosity, companions or merely force of habit,

Each human develops in such unique ways,

Defined by its life, its actions or sometimes what it merely says,

But such acquired tastes do remain,

Contributing to defining our person in ways known or unknown,

They are studded in the creature in a manner unseen,

Some revealing themselves when one is alone,

When our person is involved in deriving pleasure,

Usually at times when one is devoid of pressure,

Such tastes could be similar across people, even creatures,

Sometimes drastically distinct from each other,

Some could be simple activities, while others may seem strange,

Tastes vary with infinite possibilities, bound by no range,

Even the pattern isn't bound, with some things liked by many,

While others appreciated by hardly any,

Some like doing things others don't,

While others simply do what others want,

But the human's faith in what it does is so strong,

That it watches what another does, judging if it is right or wrong,

Some impose their ideas on another,

While others choose simply not to bother,

Today, things are different, society sees no good or bad,

Merely looks at another's life and feels happy or sad,

But there's more, with the human learning to accept, even empathise,

And eventually accepting others' tastes,

The greatest gift of mankind is to be able to agree to disagree,

Becoming fiercely honest beings, nurturing true respect for comrades.

Written on 9th June, 2016 at 10:32pm, at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

On Dying in Battle

He walks into the battlefield,
Head held high,
Wielding his weapon, striking fear,
His fiery eyes unflinching,
A thousand questions pose themselves,
Will he see another sunrise? Or be slain?
Just as a thousand enemies glare at him,
Both are greeted by a fearless glance,
As he walks forth,
The sound of his tread
Echoing through the noise.
It is indeed great, that he has put,
A cause before his own life.

Moments later, he fights on,
Somewhere in a cluster of pairs of battling men,
Drenched in blood,
Some others' some his own,
His weapon strikes precise blows,
Maiming, killing and mangling his foes,
Such action continues tirelessly,
Until he is struck.
Struck not by a weapon, but a valiant rival,
It is indeed a blow,
But is meant as a bow,
A trophy for a glorious fight,
The foe knows it too,

And it is not he who falls,
It is fear, defeat and death that die.

Written on 3.6.2016 at 1:27am, at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

A Rose in a Thornbush

Strange, the places where purity can sprout,
Such purity that no vermin can stain,
Genuine, selfless, virgin, powerful,
It surpasses the rose in a swamp,
Oh what power has the Nameless given it?
Power that it itself knows not,
I shudder to think what such resolve can do,
A fire that burns for eternity,
What powers such people, feeds them?
What fuels such flames?
One can only wonder and watch in awe,
The strange ways of lives.

Written on 2.6.2016 at 9:50pm while watching the Bengali film, Rajkahini (42 minutes or so)

Shutting the World Out

He'd suffered heartbreak,
Or had his mind twisted by book, talk or thought,
Reckoning he no longer needed the world,
He attempted to shut it out,
But who in truth even knows what it is,
Let alone outrun it.
He drew lines and curves,
Setting boundaries for himself and others,
Resisting human and excess material contact,
Was he happy or not?
Strange indeed are man's needs,
He wants people but prefers alone,
It is not a balance that he seeks,
He constantly craves the other when in one,
His inner turmoil kindled by himself,
He blames the outer world for it,
And the world, no matter how hard he tries,
Seeps in, like a heavy flood into a weak house.

The End?

Does death end a person?
Perhaps the soul is trapped,
In a motionless body,
Crying out to not burn or bury,
Still feeling pain and agony,
In spite of inertness or decay,
While we, being hasty beings,
Carried away by what we deem right,
Pay no heed to such calls for help,
Discard the carcass mercilessly,
Like a kid would throw a toy,
That refuses to dance anymore.

The Walk to the Scaffold

They held his hands from both his sides,
Down the narrow passage,
Their steps echoed forth,
But hardly heard by him,
His feet felt like heavy iron shoes,
His limbs numb, refusing to move,
He dragged himself forward,
His heart pounding hard,
Knowing these were its last beats
He tried to cherish every tread,
Knowing they wouldn't be retraced,
His throat was parched, his lips dry,
His eyes trying to cry,
He couldn't hear, couldn't think,
Couldn't even gulp,
Couldn't say a thing,
He tried to dry his eyes, to think of his life,
To regret his crimes, but remorse wasn't going to pay,
His loved ones seemed aeons away,
It mattered not, they'd forsaken him,
Now nothing was going to change,
No friends, no wife, no family could help him now,
His life stared back at him, an empty heap of thoughts,
He struggled within, his heart racing,
Until it settled on him,
He gave in, stopped resisting,
Letting it fill him up,
All he wanted now was for it to end,
And as quick as that could be,
He raised his head, glanced at the scaffold,
And it returned his empty gaze.

*Written on 20th May, 2016 at 5:53am at B001, H13, IIT Bombay while watching Jesse Pinkman being tortured on Breaking Bad
Title was previously The Walk to Death

The Tour Guide

They came from a land far away,
Spending with him their entire day,
They knew not who he was,
Or whence he hailed,

But embraced him for who he was,
Passing no judgement, keeping no secret,
Sharing their food, jokes and their love,
They treated him as no different from their own,

His joy knew no bounds when he was with them,
He opened his heart, shared his secrets,
Showed them the best locations,
In all earnest

He was drenched by their warmth,
Oblivious to the passage of time,
He revelled in their company,
He forgot all worries.

Before they realised it, it was time to part,
He didn't know which hurt more -
Saying goodbye or quoting his wage,
With a heavy heart, he waved and let.

This treatment wasn't new -
Tourists could always be categorised,
But why was it that even after years of being a guide,
The kind ones kept making his heart melt.

Birth

A disgusting act,
Performed to signify a lifelong pact,
Sometimes without it,
Merely in a spur of the moment,
In answer to a craving,
With senses raving,
A few seconds of joy,
Triggering months of agony,
A burden borne as penance,
By the two who profess its creation, by choice or by chance,
Do they really know what created life?
Is it an entangling of bodies of husband and wife?
Or some inexplicable force?
That brings in and runs life's course?
The sprouting of the offspring softens their hearts.
Transforming them gradually from spouses to parents,
Whence came this purity, suddenly after marrying?
Did it exist all along or develop in carrying?
When did these minds get clear of all the stench,
A lot of which makes one's mind wrench,
Acts in a gross sense disgusting,
Both intercourse and birthgiving,
Deep down, however, beneath the seeming filth and dirt,
Lies beauty, purity, innocence and a life yet to see all that - a child.

Written on 18th May, 2016 at B001, H13, IIT Bombay at 3:46am

A Sibling

The closest person to your own self,

Born the same way as yourself,

Seemingly different but similar in inexplicable ways,

Growing up the same way as you did, treading the same path,

Experiencing the same feelings, the same thoughts,

Understanding you with a mere nod, sometimes not even that,

Connected in strange ways, sometimes merely humming the same tune,

At others, sensing your heart from far far away,

A reflection you can stare at, fight with and admire,

Nothing short of a gift from God.

Doubt

Who are these people

Or rather what are these creatures?

Embodied living things like myself,

Or are they merely lifeless imitations of me?

They express some things I feel and I can't help but believe,

That they are indeed like me,

While such a thought is reassuring,

To know that I am not alone in what I call this world,

It answers no questions,

Solves no mystery,

The greatest mystery, however, remains,

That I question the existence and behaviour of all that I see,

But not this I who sees,

An entity that takes itself for granted,

Before one even grasps the import of such a doubt,

The screen that blinds one takes over,

Pretending to think logic and science,

Brushing aside real questions of life and its purpose,

Until one day when

The brain that functions, and the body it thinks about are turned inanimate,

By that other mystery, Death

Beauty

It was born with her, it grew with her,
Earning her attention and words of praise,
Words that were once received humbly,
But later sunk in, taking away her modesty,
It got her a job, earned her followers,
Why, it even won her the man of her dreams,
She thought it was one with her, and would never desert her,
Too bad it was only skin deep, it never sunk into her head,
She never realised that all this would go, that one day she would drop dead.

A One Night Stand

A mutual spark,
Or an attempt that worked,
It could be a long term pursuit,
Or a pick up like that clicked,
They knew they had a vibe, they think,
Not pausing to wonder, even for a blink,
They approach each other, suspending sense and thought,
Hoping to make even more out of the night,
They hunt for a room or just a quiet spot,
Hasty, in a frenzy to engage in the act,
Claiming to 'enjoy' an evening,
As if there's no way for that but smooching,
A night they both knew they will forget,
But for some reason, nurture no regret,
Believing they are enjoying each other's presence,
While, in truth, it is merely the pleasure of indulgence,
Human craze manifests in ways that are, to some, despicable,
Even in an age where gratifying hormonal whims is fashionable,
An age of forgotten chastity,
Of neglected morals and ruthless audacity,
They tell themselves that they had fun,
Reminding each other that they had to run,
They bid goodbye, never to meet again,
Emotional beings feigning cold, but for what gain?
It is victory for both, or at least for the one that tried,
If such is victory, where is true pride?
They say it is forgotten, a one night stand,
But I'm sure it's it's a night that in both hearts, will forever stand.

Written on 2.5.2016 at 6:30am at B001, H13, IT Bombay

On Upendra Yadav

A brother, more a guide,

Who's walked with me, helped me with every stride,

A selfless boy,

A source of joy,

Loved by all, a man none can hate,

But perhaps none would want for a soul mate,

An unassuming lad,

Who is seldom seen sad,

A fierce mate who wouldn't hesitate, in the nick of time to teach his friends,

A student to whose understanding science bends,

Certainly a sportsman even when not on the field,

To whose limbs every sport yields,

His hands always full, usually handling a ball,

Occasionally engaged, scribbling his ugly scrawl,

An avid drummer,

But a terrible hummer,

Ever ready to listen to a roommate's whine,

Providing valuable insight every time,

Our dear roomie whom we love calling "zeher",

You've got a place in our hearts forever,

It's going to be hard for Mangesh, Ashit, Raam, Sandy, Prasad and Shubhu,

To even imagine IIT in without you,

We'll miss those iterations of shehar ki ladki,

And one or the other of us losing our room key,

We thank you for those long night talks and unforgettable memories,

And hold you in a warm, tight embrace,

Etching your face in the core of our hearts,

With a heavy heart, now we part.

Written by me on 1.5.2016 at 1:48am, lying on my bed

Woman

A head turner, a true beauty,
She charms men and women alike,
Graceful and supple, yes,
But she is trapped,
In a sophisticated, hostile body,
That is more a burden than a tool,
A bundle of agony coated in allure,
But all that one sees is the poise and charm,
Ostensibly weak, but built to suffer, her body is no hitch,
She marches ahead, multitasking with ease,
Her instinct beats science,
And the mysteries of the Universe,
It sprouts up in dark times,
Guiding man and illuminating his path,
Gentle, soft, but dominating when needed,
She teaches one to bear pain and to heal when wounded,
Biting her lips, holding her tears,
She slips through life as a daughter, friend, wife and mother,
An enticer, a slave, an object of lust?
She is nothing lesser than a fellow human being.

Written at around 7:15am on 29.4.2016 at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

On Sex

"Biology designed the dance. Terror timed it. Dictated the rhythm with which their bodies answered each other. As though they already knew that for each tremor of pleasure they would pay with an equal measure of pain. As though they knew that how far they went would be measured against how far they would be taken" - Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex" - Adolus Huxley

Two bodies intertwined in the dark,
Seeking pleasure they possess not,
Inflicting their desires on each other's parts,
They hold each other in a cold, tight clasp,
A carnal flame that pined to burn since each was a child,
Today blazed forth, turning them both wild,
Some are possessed by passion, lying on a private stage,
In a vengeful attempt to satisfy their lecherous rage,
And then there are the gentle ones, for whom it is usual,
To engage in something sensual,
An act that seldom misses attention,
Turning heads, causing hushed discussion,
Praised, ridiculed, sought - in books, songs and the internet,
Always extreme, seldom moderate,
It seems magical indeed to the deluded one,
Who deems it pure, exotic and fun,
While nature's beauty does overwhelm one,
Compatible bodies that entangle into one,
It still ceases not to be an act for progeny,
A fact forgotten by many,
Men, who waste their lives thirsty for flesh,
Based on misplaced ideals of relish,
"Evolved" beings of stardust,
Revelling in pointless lust,

It is the pinnacle of overrating,

So hyped that they call it something sacred,

Yes, heartlessly so, love, they call it,

When did a thing of the body meet the inner heart?

A mere moment of thrill that lasts not a second,
And takes a long time before it can be beckoned,
The acme of embellishment,
The summit of exaggeration,
With peripherals relating to forced pleasure,
And acquired taste, like liquor,
Nay, only a beast would call it pleasure,
Even animals value it lesser.
An act a dog knows, matters less than food,
But man fails to realise it does no good,
A pleasure that lasts hardly a minute,
But for which one spends months, years in pursuit,
Instinct, they call it, but is it really so?
A runaway hormone that refuses to go,
Merely a plate that is closed to attract attention
Just another act, like breathing, eating and defecation.

Written over the last few days.

The Admirer

He saw a form in the distance,
A form that stole his heart in one simple glance,
He thought of nothing but her all day,
Her talk, her eyes, of what he would say,
He dreamt of long walks,
And of lengthy talks,
A little gesture seemed so stark,
His heart skipped a beat, his eyes lit up with a spark,
A smile, a stance,
A sneeze or a dance,
She knew not that her ways had a fan,
That, worshipping her manners was a dazed man,
He pursued her, wanting to get close,
And he thought he had, but it only made it worse,

Dazzling him further, stripping him of his focus,

He followed her, altering his locus,
Like a dog trailing its master,
His mind losing its grip each day faster,
He wrote poems and letters, but locked them all away,
Hoping to give them to her some day,
He knew he could and would wait,
And he did, merely admiring her every trait,
He divinized her movements, sanctified her gait,
Fathoming not the least, that all this could make him a bait,
She was indeed beautiful, certainly a damsel,
But does beauty make one an angel?
If every woman is divine, where is the devil?
If every love is sacred, where is betrayal?
Why, if everything is extreme, where is usual?
Why does the intoxicated man ignore the normal?
Eccentric, he jumps up in the air,
His intellect flushed, he forgets to think and care,
He thinks they are close now, but slowly realises,
It was not the sex nor the talks,
That true intimacy is when her flaws,
Are seen as caricatures,
He sees her as someone new, a person he hadn't seen during his race,
Merely a flawed being with some grace,
Her traits hadn't tarnished,
His blindness had just vanished,
It takes him hurting words and inhuman deeds,
Lots of pain, and some heart bleeds,
To see her as a human, with defects like himself,
And he either accepts or rejects her for being herself,
All this learnt, he emerges a wise man washed ashore ,
Only to see that it is wisdom he had before,
All this time wasted,
Just to learn something a child could've said.

Written on 21.4.2016 at reference section, IITB Library

Random Rants

1. People write a story in England, and America wants a sequel set in their country (The Lost Symbol, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them).. Heck, we Indians read all shit that happens in Europe and America, with zero demands.. So much for tolerance..

2. Spreading awareness isn't much of a problem these days.. In fact, the real miracle will be when someone decides to do something better than "share"ing info about a problem. And then does it. We read and forget it like crap it is. Information has lost its value thanks to the internet.. And we are plagued with plagiarism.

A Pet Dog

He brings into his house a little pup,

Buying it as an item for sale,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

In no time the latter,

Fills his life and those of others,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

He becomes its life,

The centre of its universe,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Licks and cuddles, baths and walks,

And hours of time together,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

The mutual love is sometimes admirable,

The affection seems two-sided, but is it truly so?

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

He pours out decisions and love,

While it shows only love, for only that it can,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Called a member of the family, and certainly considered so,

Sometimes taken on trips, sometimes left behind,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

A family member with no say in anything,

But just to have around and be loved by,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Nothing changes its love, except increasing it,

Not anger, not insult, not enforcement,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

All it does is wag its tail,

Serving as an underpaid guard,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Vaccinated, drugged bathed

Sometimes scathed,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

It accepts it all,

Giving back only love,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Protecting its "owner",

Nothing short of a soldier,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Barking at other dogs for no reason at all,

Yet remaining bound by his word,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

All it wants is his time, but demands none,

Does it have no desires?

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Attached, yet detached,

Nothing short of a saint,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

All this for a decade or less,

Sometimes more,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

A lifetime spent with creatures of another species,

Loves, yes, but also used, abused and chided,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

Syringes, baths and drugs foisted on it,

While it forgives all, returning only a caress or lick,

A creature to love,

Or a creature to be loved by?

He brought it in, desiring its love,

His ego longing for recognition and masterhood,

Not a creature to love,

But a creature to be worshipped by,

He ran its entire life, and as if that wasn't enough,

Decides its death, wanting to "put it down",

On the pretext of saving it from pain,

Gives a verdict that he thinks is right,

And yet, in its last moments, it smiles at him,

Innocently, but does it not know?

A creature that loves him to its grave,

More forgiving than his mother, but certainly not naive,

He looks back at it pitilessly,

With false tears rolling down profusely,

Who let him decide, the dog or God?

He watches it go, still reckoning himself its superior,

Is man so wretched, so wicked?

That he spends his life controlling and deciding?

It was other men before, now it's a per,

A creature he calls family but which is really a slave,

With no trace of empathy, and just cold thought,

His insolent pride blinding his heart,

His desire to rule and to control shall reduce to naught,

When Fate raises His mighty sword, and puts him in his place.

Written on 29.3.2016 at Central Library, IIT Bombay (upstairs) between 12:00 noon and 1:27pm
Vicarious again

The Dark Side of Love/Marriage

My (lost) (female) Friend

He came out of nowhere,
Tall, dark and handsome,
A man beyond her wildest dreams,
He stole her heart in no time,
All she could think of was him,
And talked about him for hours on end,
I couldn't have been happier,
And listened intently to every word of praise,
Helping her with him as she has always done for me,
With words of advice and succour,
All this went on for months, with her opening her heart more than ever,
Pouring out to me, but hardly letting me in,
I could never blame her, she was all I had-
My best friend, but nothing less that that.
It was all fine till one day they spoke,
Expressing the love that they mutually had,
The last time we spoke was when she told me about this,
And there it severed the bond between us,
They would spend hours with each other,
Sunset after sunset, park after park,
With me on a lonely bench, sad and lost,
With a heart full of things to say but no one to talk to,
A void filled only by tears of sorrow,
And a drooping head with no shoulder to lean onto,
I pined for her like a child for its mother,
With every attempt ending in vain,
We would talk, but once in a blue moon,
A distance had set in like between pavements in a flood,
With sharing reduced to pleasantries,
And laughs to smiles,
Our talk had sunk from discussing deepest secrets,
To awkward conversations like those about weather,
I could hate none, blame none,
Perhaps this was merely a trick of fate,
Perhaps as you grow old, you can only love a few,
With your heart shrinking from infinite to a tiny tube,
Is wedding the only way to always be with a woman?
Is friendship too hard a cross for her to bear?
Is wanting to be her friend inappropriate?
Or does possessiveness only mean love?
I do love her, but only as a friend,
And all I crave is that the world understands that,
Can love be the only bond between a man and a woman?
Should I have pretended to have fallen for her, just to stay by her?
They say love changes a person - I don't know if it did her,
But it changed my life, by snatching my friend away.

An attempt at vicarious poetry, conceived during the evening on 23.3.2016 on the terrace of H13 B wing (7th floor), and written thereafter.

The dull after a storm*

The heart is wrenched dry,

Not unlike a piece of cloth,

Filled with gloom,

And false signs of impending doom,

When did I get so attached,

To people I hardly knew?

A void is all there is now,

A feeling that could well be mistaken for love,

I miss it - the waits,

The dissent, the laughs-

A song we heard,

A laugh we shared,

The inception of interest,

The birth of trust,

The mutual admiration,

The perspiration,

The tension, the fear,

Until it all became clear,

A team that was far too dynamic,

That towards the end it caused quite some panic,

It most certainly felt like a boon,

Too bad it all ended too soon,

The end of a holiday,

The morning of a Monday,

And yet, as they all say,

This memory is here to stay,

We may all drift away,

But I shall remember each and every single day.

Written on 14th March, 2016

This poem is an expression of how much I miss my drama team - the ones who co-wrote and performed "Flashes" written by me, at IIT Bombay's PC Saxena Auditorium (on 11.3.2016). The title is a pun on a dialogue I had written (lull before a storm)

On "love"

A chauvenist's take on love

My insides squirm,

My heart is scooped up into a cup,

Squeezed and stretched,

I am gripped with an excitement that I think is pleasure

Thought of sex and the like evaporate, deserting me in an instant,

Leaving behind a sensation that engulfs me,

I stand like an angel in a trance,

Bereft of corruption, virgin and pure

Pangs of like and dislike,

Of attraction and repulsion,

Pulsate -

Not unlike the pain of a woman in labour

The heart beats so fast that I think it is missing beats

Looking upon her as an angel, a goddess

Painting my image of her with qualities that I desire

Some from my mother and from others I admire

She is but another person,

Perhaps very different from what I want her to be

Don't I know that?

I choose not to believe it

With random heartbeat,

Lurches in my stomach,

And pulsations of like and dislike in phase with them,

I choose to stay drunk and be swayed by these waves

I delude myself into thinking that this is a great feeling,

More pathetic than a dog tasting its own blood,

Than an insect succumbing to light,

Or a beast caught in a swamp,

I burn her image into my head,

Let my heart leap at every sight,

Jumping in joy at every gesture,

Cherishing every smile and talk,

In solitude and in dreams I am haunted,

With images of romantic moments,

Of being with her, of talking to her,

With that one song ringing in my head throughout,

Why does everything sanctify this? This love?

It is no great feat,

A mere competition - with ten such men trying to win her heart,

Being judged by a person of less worth,

It is unfair, unfortunate,

That men of such calibre should fall so low,

And quite surprising to see where desire leads a man,

Standing strong against swords but being swept off by a smile.

Aren't there worthy women too?

Does such talk objectify her?

Oh yes, but in this field it is they who choose to be objects,

Wasting words of poetry, stories and colours of art

There are countless varieties, but are all clichéd,

The damsel in distress, the dominatrix,

The childhood friend, the one they all seek,

The cute charmer, or that old familiar face,

I turn a blind eye to all that I don't want in her,

Accepting every word,

Chained, bound,

By the fear of losing her

In the presence of this love,

Every emotion intensifies,

Be it happiness, depression, passion or disgust,

Like a chemical reaction with a catalyst

Possessing undeserved glory,

For centuries if not more,

Even its name stands, in truth, for something greater,

Now reduced to imply this cheap, crude desire,

Praised as a soft edge to a brave man,

Unduly compared with the likeness of boldness and chivalry,

Would I blame her for it?

The woman who has been my mother, sister, friend or wife?

That would be a lie, for she didn't start it,

It was always me - my weak mind, my weak heart.

Written on 14th March, 2016 (between afternoon and night)