Physics Poetry Platter and Politics

The Citizenship Amendment Bill having occupied a prominent part of the political discourse in India in recent days has deservedly won its acronym, the CAB. Although, it has become one of those pieces of legislation which has been given interpretations beyond its scope and aims. It has become a vent for those who perennially believe that the Indian government has sinister motives at its heart and wants to make India a Hindu Rashtra. There is no denying that there is a section in the ruling dispensation that does want that, but the quintessential question is, as it always is, has the actions of the democratically elected and accountable government reflected those desires? People will agree to disagree on that question. My objection is not to that disagreement but to the overarching misinformation that is going around about the CAB. Usually, I do not attach much importance to the reporting of foreign media outlets on events in India, since they are filled with biases and oversimplificat...

Some folk once sat around a table, To share a meal and sing and fable. ‘Twas sturdy but would shake and rumble When they did pause and stealthily mumble, For it was afraid of losing its guardians, Just as the fire feared of losing its radiance. The parting flame wildly wobbled a bit, When one man exclaimed in a wilder fit, We have lost our hearth, tell tales sans heart, Some gifted a gaze, others granted a glance. He then closed his eyes and fell to his chair, Tables shook and men still mumbled – But he could not yield nor could he care, Far away he saw another fire, slightly warmer. It had its own audience, just slightly quieter. He listened to their tales, unchained but entwined, In the lulling melody of crackling timbre behind. Tales of men and women, of gods and of beasts, Their wants and wisdom, conquests and defeats. Half a man, and half a bull, an old man exclaimed, In one hand his rosary, with the other he aimed, First at the heavens and then at the dun...

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.