Life at a stop

For anyone living in the city, traffic jams are as much part of our lives as getting up, having food, going back to sleep, and other such mundane things. Curse them, bless them, or just sulk and ruin your mood, the one thing that you cannot do is ignore them. This poem was penned down while I was caught in one such traffic jam.

I sit in the bus staring out the window

Wondering at the chaos and the melee under the streetlight's glow

The cacophony of noises makes my head go woozy

The smoke and dust make everything seem hazy.

The sun is setting and the tempers rising

The bikes find their way while the cars keep on honking.

A stream of expletives here and the waving of fists there

Frustration, despair, and anger cloud the very air.

Like a matador in the ring, the signal waves red

Standing tall and stoic, it makes you wither under its gaze

It has a will of its own and cares not for the throng

You can do naught but wait 'til it waves you along.

Put one foot wrong and the guardians come calling

They make you beg and whimper, till you are a sight too appalling

Portly and bumbling, they form a strange tribe,

law-breakers they call us though they don't say no to a bribe.

A moment's hesitation and you miss an opportunity

to snake up your way through the rabble of the city.

A scratch on the fender, a dent in the door,

each scar on a ride speaks tales galore.

Mundane things in life can pose great ironies

Raising questions strange which forever remain mysteries.

For the answers lie in the very essence of human nature,

which after thousands of years is still a conjecture.

Life's too fast, there's no time to smell the roses,

is the reason often offered for the lack of reposes.

And yet caught in the slow lane raises angry voices,

and makes one wonder about the sanity of the masses.

For isn't this a time to sit back and relax,

listen to a song till reality pulls you back.

My mind whirls in confusion, these thoughts clattering inside,

as the signal gives a nod and we carry on with our ride.

Waiting for the gallows

Reviews are one of the never ending sagas of life. When in college Professors prefer to call them as Vivas; moving into professional life, they take the forms of code reviews (for IT professionals), product reviews, appraisals, and so on. This short poem was a result of waiting for one such review.

I sit in a room thinking all alone,

the deep contemplation spreads a chill through my bones.

My palm sweats with abandon, my eyes seem to burn,

every way that I look, there's misery at every turn.

A wrong definition will set the tongues yapping,

if a page doesn't open, they say, "Where's the mapping?"

Miss a functionality and they put you on the noose,

you spell the product wrong and all hell is let loose.

Flawed beings that we are, we love to scoff,

spotting mistakes made by others, we love to show off.

Little do we realize in all the finger pointing and more,

a mind free of malice can solve problems galore.

It's time to end this rambling, and get back to work,

as I sit in a room no longer alone.

Evading the Question...

Another meeting...another poem...a short one this time.

"I'll get back to you."

is what all say when they have no clue

about what they've got to do.

It's a fact that we all know is true.

"There's no time now, we will take this off line."

seems to be everyone's byline.

They may say they have no time

though truth be told they pray for intervention divine.

"I have some work now, we will discuss it later."

is their way of telling you that you should have known better.

You are asking them question on such a terrifying matter,

that rather than answer you, they wrestle and alligator.

Oh what is this conundrum that defines human nature!

Doesn't he comprehend that a safe today doesn't mean a question free future?

But as they all say, as you sow so shall you reap,

so you may find yourself guilty if in the past you may peek.

A day in the life of...

I wrote this poem while attending one of the endless stream of meetings that are a part of the corporate life. It's senseless (so don't try and make any sense of it), stupid (so please don't try to find any deeper meaning in it), and is borne out of a deep desperation to avoid going to sleep during the meeting.

Sitting in a big square room,

I bite my nails as the big shots croon,

they tell of their plans to conquer the world,

with nothing in stead but a bunch of nerds.

They yap and they babble, about things unheard of,

"Hear ye!!!", says the leader, "we will beat all competition off!!!"

we nod in agreement with no clue nor hint,

numbness takes over the brain as we watch his eyes glint.

"Just get the product out!!!", says the thin bald guy,

but what do we do if no one's ready to buy?

this is the buzzing in one and all's mind,

the answer to which neither sane nor insane man can find.

The fingers go on clicking and the slides go on sliding,

all the meetings and presentations bring along more bad tidings,

some feature's not working and the UI's gone kaput,

the database's been overloaded and there's still so much to put.

Then they turn to documentation and then it's time to pray,

with all eyes upon us, "Where's the UI?" we say,

the developers squirm in their seat,

embarrassed to see their aura getting beat.

Boldly gets up their chief and surveys the crowd,

"Gentleman", he proclaims, "what's life without some mystery and shroud?"

amidst all the bewilderment and nerves that finally seem to fray,

"The meeting's over", he says with a lazy smile, "please help yourselves to the samosas on the tray."

P.S: This poem is a work of fiction. All the characters and events described in this poem are fictional and bear no resemblance to any living character or actual event. Any resemblance is purely co-incidental.

Walking into the light

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman


"O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish;

what good amid these, O me, O life?"

Answer: That you are here; that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

                                                     - John Keating, 'Dead Poets Society'

The clouds looked dark and the wind howled loud,
the lonely wanderer walked through it all without a shred of doubt,
a grim smile on his face and his fears put to test,
he made his way through the raging tempest.

The trees were shaking,
beneath the stern gaze of the storm they were quaking,
the sword of lightning wrought havoc with each stroke,
amidst all this he stood tall akin to an oak.

The river was raging,
against the wind a war it was waging,
but he swam through the river,
and not once did his heart shiver.

The night grew cold,
but the traveler stood bold,
it was a battle of wills,
bringing forth all their skills.

The winds screamed louder,
and the lightning smote harder,
the wanderer’s heart grew darker,
and his steps seemed to falter.

Then the veil of clouds parted,
with a spear of light it was thwarted,
the spirits of the nature seemed uplifted,
and the gloom and the darkness departed.

The wanderer raised his head and looked heavenwards,
there was joy in his eyes and he was lost for words,
he fell to his knees, his mind no more misted,
and with peace in his heart, the tranquil morning his eyes feasted.