Physics Poetry Platter and Politics

I had nightmares for the past few days about having to hear the news of Arun Ji’s passing and then having to vent out my despair and sadness through the written word which more than often is a substantially challenging task. But then there are occasions when it borders the impossible. This for me is one of those occasions. In this world full of prevaricating politicians who either cannot string together a whole meaningful sentence or ones who have no substance to offer and yet are inebriated by the exuberance of their own verbosity, Arun Ji was someone who knew it all, and could persuade even a five year old (which is what more often than not he had to do in parliament) with his articulate and passionately put arguments. Although he would never die in our hearts and minds having become a part of the way we think and essential to our ideology, if there were an epitaph for him, it would read this: “Let’s be very clear about this”, as he would always say. This shall reverberate in my ea...

Standing still in this land I wonder, wonder if time trickles through its sieve. Chilling winds gush from hills yonder, I wonder if they hear me heave. I heave for the river that streams, I wonder if it could just trickle, trickle ever so slowly and stand still, stand still with me, in this land arcane. I envy the little pebbles that revolt, revolt against the mighty stream's run. I wonder if their resolve is borrowed, borrowed from the mountain's gentle tremble (as much as it may tremble, it stands still.) The purpureal hills crowned with divine dust, seamlessly strung to the heavens above, treaded by monks and shepherds august, who spin their wheels and lead their herds. Wheels of dharma spun with wisdom and love, wheels of patience and the wheels of trust. Columns of pebbles and heaps of stones - like scattered epitaphs they remind, of man's restlessness to leave his marks behind. As I prescind from this land sublime, the distant gongs play a peaceful hymn. A hymn of de...

Yes I do remember these shadows. Ten summers have baked away their marks, long marks they cast on timeless walls. Ten rains have washed them out, washed out the the paths they once tread. Ten autumns blew away the leaves, leaves that grew under their tepid palms. Ten winters stretched and tore them apart, tore them into a heap of anonymity. Yes, I do remember these shadows, Long cast and long gone, they bemuse me, bemuse me with their strange cognizance. Like trickling drops of rain they do not yield do not yield and drench me in their darkness. They chatter in my reticent dreams, dreams both vague and vivid, warm and bleak. I remember the times when our paths did cross, cross, but did soon swerve and veer away. For shadows are solitary travellers, I grieve, grieve not, for so soon I lost your sight, I grieve as I harrow over your footprints. Yes, I do remember these shadows.

The gears turn in unison, the cogs move the wheel. The hours pass by and the days go on, said the Clockmaker. The hands of this clock will sway; but mine, they can't , these fractures in time are for me to heal. The strings resonated, the melodies became ripe; The fruits of the lovely song, were as sweet as honey. Shouted the Musician; Can your bits of steel and cogs and wheels, bring these rhythms to life? The Baker down the street, thought to himself; The oven glows and the bread turns to gold, these dreams they cook, the tales they stew; Let's serve this art cold, and ask the men to chew. The unassuming man, searching for benevolence, passed by the road; But Alas! was not seen nor heard, in these tall claims of relevance.

In the dark tight corner I see, Under the glittering yet timid light— A countenance void of all glee, Scathing eyes drowsy yet ready to fight. Scores of men and women do inundate, The banks of its somber sullen guise, Affluence, faith and freedom they berate, All glitter seems to them a cruel disguise. The great feasts, the carols of hope, Men’s fears and remedies in heavenly looms, Stitch them a blanket that could never cope, The gush of indignant wind from tombs— Tombs whose cries resonate in a vacuum, But discerning ears hear a shivering requiem.

May 19, 2019 Let me at the outset make my intentions absolutely clear. I am writing this opinion after the fates of all the candidates in fray in this election have been sealed in those blue boxes which have often like the famed Pandora's box brought evils into positions of power and influence but at the same time offered the nation a glimmer of hope in a winded and painfully slow democratic system. So my writing this introspective piece has nothing to do with my desire to influence others to also vote for the BJP, although as it is evident, I do not claim to not have such desires, it is just not the motivation for this piece. These intentions have become moot on the 19th of May when the largest electorate in the history of humanity has cast its last vote and sealed its judgments, prejudices and aspirations into the EVMs. Several years ago I had read a quote about democracy which has since rung in my head every time I have looked at the political discourse around me. Like most vot...

A sullen star in a glistening sky, A timid grain amongst towering heights. I gasp for each breadth but fall just shy, I scramble for glory in the smallest of fights. Running away from the curse, I drag my chains, Pulling curtains of reluctance over fears deep within. For long I have carried these shrouds of denial, The shoulders now droop but my soul rebels, Go on, wear out, grind away, in the battles of survival. Fulfilment evades the parched creature, Walking through the vastness of God's space and God's time, Wandering towards man's mirages awaiting mortal departure. Changing paths, changing accomplices - he looks within and beyond, Rage burns wild, and smokes of desire screen his reality, Till the ashes settle down, and when peace awaits, The tired traveller stares at the certitude of mediocrity.