Nonsense. Inc

17 01 2008

He is the CEO of his company
called Nonsense dot Inc.
lives life like a king
but has got a lot to sink.

He is the CEO, President
HR and the lawyer,
Keeps his files under lock and key,
and tries to fit his PC in a drawer,

One ought to be as careful as it takes,
God knows!when the rivals rake
He assures the dear Investor,
even a burst cant make Nonsense shake

Cash flows are positive, he tells to the investor,
but from the view of a customer,(he murmurs)
The product will be in demand,he says,
only in the year of nineteen eighty sixer.

He is gonna rock, and he is gonna IPO
gonna make the history as the meanest CEO
Featured on TIME,he’ll be the man of the year,
will go to the Oprah’s grinning ear to ear

Flying on a jet, diving in the Thais,
Kissing the babes,jumping from the skies,
He has got the guts, he has got the ‘mony’,
Will walk up to Jobs and call him ,’Sonny!’

Life is smooth, life is fine,
Gonna check in Ritz and there he’ll dine
When VCs sued him one day,
he coolly walked away,
Sold his stake to an’er PE,
and bought a Cooper mini.
And well, E&Y awarded him
“CEO of the Decade”
Knowing really well, its all his facade

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The Victory

16 01 2008

She was the Princess Ajita,
the heaven’s beauty,and the nature’s grace
and he was poet royale Shekhar,
smith of the words, sewing them with a lace
She was the Princess Ajita, the smile broke a thousand moons
and he was Shekhar,on poems of whose the kingdom revelled
He loved her, with all his poetical truth,
and all his white heart.
Yet, knew not the King Narayana,nor the Gods themselves.
Yet sang he when, the songs of his love unheard,
the love of his bosom graced the stars of the sky
O ye! but who listens to this song behind the velvet drape?
Who is it, who peers on his voice with her melodious trinklet?
Manjari, is it, the maid of princess?
Shekhar, loved her not,but her company to keep,
She sat on the evenings alone for his sweetness to seep.
Shekhar, buoyed by his lone muse and presence,
and flowed from his pen the ballads like essence
devoid of all his worldly defence ,
The world knew, the King knew, and so did Manjari,
or so did they think,on these innocent trysts.
But truth is oft a bag of clues, layers filled,
and Shekhar knew the truth and his heart alone,
yet with the jesting world he reeled.
The Duel
Day 1
Whose ominous shadows does this monsoon bring?
On whose arrogant wisdom does these trees swing?
It is the Pundarik, oh is it?
The great poet from the Kingdom of Anandapur…
It is Pundarik, oh is it?
The word smith par-less, holding the pride
of thousand bested poets.
“Oh Rajadhiraj, Oh kind and virtuous king,” Pundarik roared
“I seek the war of words, the battle of hymns”, his voice soared
“I have the pride of thousand poets, and all of them implored
afraid and defeated even was the poet of the Lord”
Urged the King, the crowd and life itself,
Shekhar bowed down and glanced at his love,
yet joyous was the court, thought he smiled at the Lord.
“If I be the winner, lady, then thy name be victorious”
So did, the duel begin,
the battle of the hymns, the sound of the seers
The war of the words and clash of the wordsmiths.
Pundarik stood, and so did the court,
raptous were the subjects, hypnotised in short
So began the conquistador, and so began the King’s praise
The court moved, swung in the gardens of Pundarik’s emotions
King swayed, in the swings of his beaming voice.
Shekhar, stood up and lanced with his poetry,
glanced at his King, advanced on his mastery.
The love for his king, the pearls of his heart
the blood of his veins throbbed in his art
Yet it was Pundarik’s glory
The day went on, with both of them lancing around
Yet Shekhar was at a loss, and the curtains were drawn.
the war stopped till another dawn
Day 2
Shekhar got up, glanced at his love
he smiled, unknownst to the world, prayed in his heart
and sang the song of his King.
“I maybe defeated in the play of words,
yet defeated I am not in the love of thee”
Shekhar forgot the trial with his rival,
lost in his thoughts rustling, quivering in the breeze of spring
thus flowed the Song of his Flute,visions of Ajita in his poetic wing.
Yet lost was he, with Pundarik’s art,
flinged him out with the toss of his poetic twig
the court hushed, revelling in the scholar’s clout.
Narayana smiled, and held up in his hand
the exquisite necklace of pearls,
The arrogance beamed and took it as his band
Shekhar lost and dejected, wandered away in the warmth of the setting sun.
The Victory
Screamed did he, in his home alone,
tossing his works in the fiery fire to atone
yet hurt was he, with his own broken love,
couldn’t usher the court in his patho filled cove
“Burn, Burn thee, my beauty, my lady, my fire
thou hast been burning in my heart since the futile aeons
If my life was the gold unshone,it would glow ever brighter,
but it ‘s a turf of grass and nothing remains but dust and ashes”
The night wore on, the jasmines blossomed
Shekhar drank with the acrid bacchus, dipped in poison of his life.
Golden trinklets seeped past this night, the smell of roses rising high.
The poet with his eyes shut,”You are a bit late, My lady, my end is well-nigh”
“My poet, I have come”,
His sight was dim, breath shallow, yet he heard the last of her swallow
“I am Ajita, oh poet, and you were my victor today,
Charmed was I, in your words did I ever sway”
She took the garland of flowers off her neck and put it on his head
The poet smiled on her grace and threw himself
beaten, desolate and dead.

So here is my entry to From Soups to Nuts. Let me see where does it all fit in. A story rendered by Rabindranath Tagore of the same name, presented as a poem by yours truly. Although didn’t quite expect it to be such a long treatise, yet couldnt quite make it short. Its bit of heavy, so I don’t think at least it will go well with Hors d’Oeuvres , maybe will send it to Main Course 😛 . Anyway do let me know how did you like it…
Another poetry alongside, Upagupta , inspired from the same man who penned them all…
And yeah if you liked this place, then I would appreciate if you spread its word around.

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Acto sin sentido/Jabberwocky

22 12 2007

Ruffle duffle doe, Ruffle duffle doe
Ipsum Lorum what ‘nder your brow
sweet little eyes, cute little eyes
and who gave you that bright little prize
Ruffle duffle doe Ruffle duffle doe
Ipsum Lorum what ‘nder your brow
Rat-a-tat tat, Rat-a-tat-tat
Caracum daracum, growly little cat
brown blue cat, pink green cat

Rat-a-tat tat, Rat-a-tat-tat
What a fierce cat!
Mora tui tui, Mora tui tui
Cogito ergo sum,stuck without any gum
two men ‘nd some rum
Mora tui tui, Mora tui tui
Cogito ergo sum


21 12 2007

Life brings with itself ironies galore,
filled with sarcasm and some more
yet we love this cruelty met to us
cursing Him often on our tomorrow’s loss
This heart is a cruel thing to listen to
often has to say a word or two
it pains to hear them, O, I do know
yet in the works infinite, those words still they glow
The warm sun beating down on the weary road,
that soldier rests in the tree shade
and takes of his velvet coat
rests and refreshes, he walks away
I wonder what happened to the tree,
for it has to but stay.
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The Artistic Sabbath, Ghalib and Taj Coromandel

21 12 2007

This is going to be a long post. At least longer than what I am used to post. Many of my readers have no doubt come here a lot often in the past two months only to return disappointed at no new thing here. Or in Web 2.0 speak “no-fresh-content”. Well although it certainly is not beneficial for your online presence to have such long hiatus of inactivity, yet surprisingly it does oneself far more good than bad.

Let me come to the point right away, and let me start explaining all those small questions which pop up in our heads often, when we see something inexplicable. I had been blogging actively for some time, bringing forward to some poetry and prose, which I would like to believe was enjoyed by one and all. But I guess, thats the beginning… isnt it? You start off with your heart’s sorrow pouring out in front of the world, and suddenly you see that those lines are so well appreciated that, you blow yourself up. Not literally, but in pride, satisfaction and other such altruistic feelings you start feeling on cloud 9. But then you indeed blow up, not yourself but your artistic pursuits. People pour in, take a morsel of the dessert here, try a ladel of the sauce there, reject the tofu yet lap up the soups, and life goes on. Yet after the party ends and you retire to the sanctum sanctorum of your heart, you feel a void. A sudden void which crops from the release of long pent up feelings out in front of the world, and a stronger void in the lull after the ‘party’ . Now you want your friends to drop in some more, most often to give you company, yet you want to make the tofu, which they refused to even touch last time. You know you can make the tofu and the sauce much better this time, far different than what they have ever tasted, far more exotic yet you again go back to the soups and dessert and convince yourself that tofu will be for the next time. So this carries on, you want to try out unchartered territories in your artistic skills, yet you have to carry on with the facade which everybody loves putting on. So what do you do? I think at the heart of this, lies a very basic question about artistic survival? What do you do? You keep on trying new things and risk rejection (albeit after some time they will vehemently take that thing up, and you know its a good thing the others have never tried out) or you keep on whipping up the different sweet variations of the same old things. Well I believe nobody can answer it. What do you think?

Well something similar happened, yeah my prose suck (somebody said that 🙂 ), my poetry is heart tugging, yet somewhere I was feeling a gaping void build up. Couldnt help it, could I? And when you stagnate, things dont flow(cliche). Your words refuse to flow and then you get frustrated, get up and leave or keep convincing yourself that it will get better. I took the first choice. 🙂 .

I left. I left and took a long Sabbath. Stopped commenting on others blogs. Stopped visiting poetry blogs. Didnt reply to any mail which came to me, inviting me to poetry blogs. Well I had all, and left all those things. Whooff! Two months… yeah two months quite some time. My daily online activity just had checking my mails and visiting orkut. Nothing more, sometimes less. I needed to clear my head. Feel passionate about things again.

Well so here I am 🙂 . A lot of things have happened in between. I have been actively involved in many things. Professional life has taken quite some interesting turns. May divulge to you sometime later. Had been following the financial markets actively, started investing too. Predicting and expert commenting, I had it all. Doing some extensive technical work on my end, (personal although and completely). Reading quite a bit. Had a cursory walk through The High Performance Entrepreneur by Subroto Bagchi, for whom I would have ended working if not for my present employer. Had been dabbling with Perl, and VLSI Testing very actively, my list also contains a Python (heard a lot about it), Javascript, My SQL and PHP(dont know if I can pull the last two).

So what made me come into it all over again. Well, I came across an article today in The Economic Times, Chennai Edition about Tom Alter, a Plebystrian Christian living in India, yet knowing Hindi and Urdu better than perhaps the natives(me too included). He has a Gold medal from National School of Drama, active theater artiste and..and ..and , guess what, a Ghalib enthusiast.

I discovered Ghalib at a tender age of 12, and wow! the poetry and prose he wrote. Before I continue with the thread of Alter, let me tell you something about Ghalib. Ghalib had a tumultuous childhood and being the royalty he was, the apparent poverty on young Ghalib’s family was sort of a black cloud. Born and brought up in Delhi,at the close of 18th Century Delhi Sultanate, the apparent grim childhood gave him a much stoic mental makeover. Married at the tender age of 13, he had seven children yet none survived. In his twilight years he even adopted one of his nephews, but kismet had other plans. At his ripe age, his adopted son too passed away. Although a witty man, yet his poetry seems to reflect his hearts pangs and some more.He self taught himself to Persian and Arabic(to a certain extent), he was a man who wore many hats. In fact his masterpieces came at the time when he was devastated with pain and sorrow. He is today remembered as one of the most prolific writers of Urdu. For all those who understand Hindi and Urdu, Ghalib is one of those beacons of Urdu literature which winds of time cant fade out. (You can find a wiki entry here and a much more comprehensive entry over here ).

Yesterday Tom, co hosted along with Juhi Babbar, in Taj Coromandel an exclusive evening on Ghalib’s shayari in Taj Coromandel. The guests were requested to come dressed in Mughal attires, and were made to sit on the gaddi-s on floor (in true Lucknowi Gharana stlye). Flowers adorned their wrists and Chivas flowed copiously as Chennai braced itself for another rainy night. Tom and Juhi along with some heart rendering back ground violin, recapped some of his best works, interspersed with the incidents in his life which made him write such heart rendering stories. As I write, I am finding myself increasingly transported to those days of Lucknowi shaan.

Jaate jaate arz kar raha hoon-

Naqsh faryaadii hai kis ki shokhi-e tehrir ka

Kagazi hai pairahan har pekar-e tasvir ka

Ghalib (age of 19 yrs)

kismet :fate

gaddi :cushions

Lucknawi shaan: A golden period in Lucknow(a city in erstwhile United Provinces in British India) where the best in every material tastes were associated with the city.


Arash: An Adaptation

17 10 2007

A long time ago, when war was man’s way of decision and bravery, sacrifice and patriotism were not mere epithets, an era where men strived to be heroes, and women mother of braves. Life, when it was peaceful used to be showered with endless mercies of Almighty, and joy reigned supreme,O ye all, I am but telling you all about Iran and her brave son Arash.

Life is like the eternal flames of an ancient fire temple
If we light it up, the dancing of the flames will be seen in distances afar
If we don’t, then the flames will go out
And that will be our sin…

Those days the Persian life used to be peaceful and love, harmony dripped with abundance. Their arch-enemies Turans were defeated and laid low. Men rejoiced in the mercy of Allah and women sang their love songs. Children played with their wooden ponies and life was good.

Yet enemies come back again only like pests, enemies value not your mercy and come back again and this time the evil Turans came back. Oh yes! They came back with all their forces and all their might down the plains of east to the north, down the lush white river of Oxus. They came and waged war, they came and gave the Persions a scar. War was at its low and life was filled with sadness which Death sowed.

The dark nights were cold and seemed endless
The stars no longer shined in the sky
Fear was everywhere and the wings of death above everyone
People were motionless without hope
Silence reigned behind our barricades
Yet the encampments of the enemies were buzzing with hilarity
No one smiled at each other
Tears instead of rain poured from the sky

Persians were staring at humiliation and Turyans were nearing Davamand. Hope was none and muted despair ruled supreme. Yet Turyans knew better. They had to exact the last blood, throw the last blow and kill the last vestiges of their pride. And Persians knew it and they cried.

No one smiled at each other
Tears instead of rain poured from the sky

Afrasiyab, the lecherous, ominous son of Death, the king of Turyans sent on his finest horsemen, the pact of peace, the extractor of Pride.

Listen, o! ye all, Persians, we too desire peace
we too despise war, this is the pact of peace
from your king the great Afrasiyab.
Ye all, will have your land, the Persian land in an arrows flight from Damavand,
hurdle Persians and choose your heroes for we know Damavand is your abode morrow

What a shame for the proud Persians, what a humiliation for the proud men. Archers there were, yet gods they were not, who they mulled will return their proud plains of Oxus, who will return them the groves of Sistan. Hushed in their despair were men, looking hard for a hero amidst them.

I am Arash
A freedom loving warrior
An archer of reputation
Fire burns from the feathers of my Arrow
And the wind obeys my orders
I am the son of toil
And I carry the hopes of my people
On my shoulders…

When times come, heroes are born. When despair runs in the wines the men turn brave. The man called Arash has given them the hope of their land. Prayers were made for him by elders, men eyed their only hero, women threw their necklaces yet Arash strode on in the setting sun of the land for his work was a higher than the Damavand.

On the bright morning of Tirgan (the Persian rain festival), Arash bid farwell to his home and people.

Which roar is falling down on the mountain?
Which song can ever make the sound of the footsteps heading dominantly toward the nonexistence?

Farewell to you my last dawn
for this will be the last Arash will see of you

Arash rose to the perilous peak of Damavand, on the stones of Alborz, he sat contemplating his actions, for he was a human at the end. He meditated and prayed for divine strength. Stripped naked, he took the slender arrow from his quiver, eyes lined up with final destiny, shoulders brave and high with hopes of his people, chest filled with pride, he took a breath, a long one. The arrow will be his soul, the bow will be his people’s hopes. His body will be the final answer of his people. The string was drawn and the feathers of the arrow glistened in the golden sun, bow arched, his soul one with his arrow, his eyes looking for the last of the Persian land.

Legends say, the arrow flew the entire morning from Damavand. The horsemen could not keep with the arrow guided by Arash’s soul. The arrow flew away. Legends say, the air itself parted to let the great soul of Persia guide his arrow. The entire morning it covered the plains and mountains, the lakes and fertile soils of Iran Zamin . In the noon of the same day, the arrow was found in the highest walnut tree in the groves of Sistan, its last feathers still glistening, merrily chiding away the final answer to their Persian captors. By the late afternoon it was found by Turyans on that walnut tree, beside the river Oxus, east of Persia.

Arash’s body was never to be found. It was his answer to Turyans, Persians can never be bound. His bow fell from him after he shot the arrow, and his soul left his mortal coil to guide the arrow. Nothing was ever found.

Persians rejoiced and Persians thanked. But Arash made himself from a mortal to a hero. Till today, travellers and climbers of the Damavand in their weary delusions have found Arash to be their guide. His voice gently nudging them to summit, taking care of them all the while.

Years passed by,
Amongst the silent snow ridden valleys of Alborz,
Climbers who are struggling to ascend the peaks,
Call out for Arash,
They seek his strength and they seek his guidance,
And the rocks and cliffs reply with Arash’s voice,
Arash guides them and heartens them
Gives them hope and shows them the way…

Arash lived and faded away, as heroes do. But his legend rolls on forever.
Listen O ye all, I am but telling you all about Iran and her brave son Arash.

Life is like the eternal flames of an ancient fire temple
If we light it up, the dancing of the flames will be seen in distances afar
If we don’t, then the flames will go out
And that will be our sin…

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I am a Gypsy

12 10 2007

I am a gypsy of my own making,
treading in this desert of earth
high is the sun in my life,
yet still I am in search of my home
Oasis come and go, in these sands of treachery
Often resting in their shades, sip the rare waters of amity
I am a gypsy of my own making
treading in this desert of earth

I have seen betrayals
close to me ,met to me
They are mirages and illusions,
in this journey of mine,
but did found a few oasis here and there,
passed them over, thinking ’em as hallucinations
I have lived my life and the sun is setting down
yet I am to find my hearth of heavenly celebrations
I am a gypsy of my own making,
living this cruel incarnation


If you liked it, I am sure you would love reading it