A Tale of Two Cities

A busy congested road, and yet vehicles rush by

Lights blinding horns blaring, accidents preventing all try

Of frustrated and tired people, long queues there be

In tempos and trucks and buses and cars, as far the eye can see

In the midst of them all, drives in a car unseen

Windows rolled down, music blaring at volumes obscene

Singing to the beats of the tabla and the dhol

In a punjabi bad-boy ishtyle, listening to Gal mithi mithi bol

An exchange of money, some way ahead takes place

But the cold wind draws in, a chill on the face

So the windows roll up, and volume adjusted so softly down

As a sudden calmness falls, silent lies the town

The track shuffles through, and so plays Walk On

As I move from one city to the next, no longer blares the horn

A track apt, reminding me of all that I leave behind

Soothed are the senses, tranquil now lies the mind

A million different avatars flow, which one is truly mine

Home is where the heart is, that is all there is to pine

And so a daily swing of moods, the toll bridge signifies

Leaving Gurgaon, Welcome Delhi - a tale of two cities to surmise ...

The Butterfly Effect - Part 2

Butterflies in the stomach, butterflies in my mind

they bring back memories I cant seem to find

Of days gone by, and evenings so long

they float on the tunes of an old melancholy song

Patient in a cocoon, they germinate with none to hound

each event awaits, till on its own it wishes to be found

To transpire into an everlasting memory, bidding their time

till hell freezes over and clocks no more chime

Colored spots on wings, each holds a clue

some intense others fringed, a thought for every hue

One tiny flap, for each eon of memory wasted by

a million flaps for me, see how they fly

In a forest of dreams, they roam without concern

while in reality, their hearts within me burn

A ruse for the fickle minded, the butterflies are a ploy

with each memory now, they bring more sorrow than joy

I want them to stop, their beauty entrenched

what fear they arise, i fear with jaws clenched

And so their cocoon I shatter, well before they are born

lest i hurt them all, as victims of my scorn

Butterflies in the stomach, butterflies in my mind

they no more bring memories I do not wish to find

Of days gone by, and evenings so long

they wither away like the tunes of an old melancholy song

And Then There Were None ...

My tribute to the best nineteen folks i have worked with till date and the four best spent days of my life here at IIM-A

A cold winter month, a dog-day afternoon

Empty sights galore, silent lies the tune

No mortal awake, the golden sun passes me by

Am I anxious or elated, rather relieved with a sigh !

Standing here today, the 5th of November not forgot

I travel back in time, four days to the dot

And I see – teeming hundreds, thronging the hallowed hall

Three hundred of the bravest, responding to a recruiter’s call

Like Spartans they come, flocking to the Central field

All charged, some steady – a single resume, their naked shield

Closed doors await, a burden of forty minutes to bear

They are for that instant the foci, all that is they care

And the process repeats, but recruiters they all stay the same

The vanquished Spartan his death awaits – he feels it a mockery of the game

When hark, what is this he sees – an offer comes waltzing by

Unexpected, unseen – a windfall from the sky

The jubilation of glory for this one, it pains me to see

I think of the two hundred ninety nine, yet chained – waiting to be free

But then the day wears on, closer the evening draws

I see them all firm and resolute, none yet clutching at the straws

And it strengthens the resolve, like an oak amidst the greens

Of the twenty who lay hidden, working behind the scenes

For tomorrow will be another day, we know it would be great

Unto us the task is set, we carry this burden of fate

So when I wake up, the glaring sun in my eye

One more offer I say to me, I will not give in without a try

Finally this circle of life and death, it draws towards an end

The fourth day sets down, the last mile before the bend

And so it ends for us, victory approacheth nigh

The last Spartan gladly returns, we celebrate Christmas in July

We now know with all delight, that when the sun shall rise

The competition waits on the starting line, while we bag the prize

The heroics of a batch written in gold, adorn the institute shelves

Of 20 silent shrouds – their work done – they say, we did it ourselves

But for us the moments shared, are not too far and few

No person left unplaced, zero the length of the queue

It feels proud, when asked today – how good, the work was done

We started with three hundred, then in the end There Were None …

The 'SIN'ister Sisters

As i break the 'blog silence' in almost 10 months, I realize how wasted has this time been in under utilizing the space here. A feeling that sinks in when one realizes he/she has run dry of expressing their thoughts through a creative outlet !

Perhaps one of the few real reasons for picking up this course on Developing your Creative Self here at IIM-A is, as I have come to realize, that hidden desire to reignite a passion for writing which slumbers on.

And so follows a sojourn about the seven follies, sisters in crime, that I have indulged in my desire to be where I stand today, leaving behind some of the better times. I think Acedia will be my biggest concern.

Greed is good and Greed is right,

It cuts through, reinforces, and proves men’s might

Greed for life and Greed for love,

Greed in all its forms spread over a heathen cove

Is it a sign of status or simply a vice of mood,

This constant eating of delicacies and Gluttony of food

Withheld from the needy, rotund bellies bulge

The sin of excess, a temptation to over-indulge

A most potent cause of unhappiness, a harbinger it seems

The want of deep and dark desires in each of our dreams

My sorrow for another man’s good, insatiable none the same

A desire to deprive him of it, Envy – it be thy name

From invidiousness flows anger, an uncontrolled feeling of revenge

Not always external, our own inner demons it may avenge

Transgressions born of vengeance, the sin of Wrath breeds rage

Soothe it, appease it, and overcome it through the patience of a sage

The devil’s workshop it be, they say is an empty mind

To neglect and refuse joy, the sin of Sloth is unique in its kind

A willful refusal to work, an invitation to laze around

Aren’t we mortals through insufficiency of love truly bound

But for love to linger as an excess unrestrained

Adultery to incest, deviant thoughts no longer chained

Luxuria of sexual depravity they called it in times long ago

The sin of lechery, through Lust is how we know

Ultimately, a destroyer of men, a liberator of them all

It is Pride that finally goes before a fall

The sin of hubris, of the seven most vile

Transforming Lucifer to Satan, it makes mere mortals senile

Remember 25th December ...

Remember remember the 5th of November,

The gunpowder, treason and plot;

I can think of no reason why the gunpowder treason

should ever be forgot ...

So finally a blog that doesnt require much creativity - blatant bullet points and factual descriptions. And i am sure to some it might look better than the recent disaster of movies i have been subjecting myself to - which includes RNBDJ and Ghajini.

In fact, the overboard southie script to which AK has subjected himself has seriously led me to believe that the guy has become prone to senility and in fact when he signed on the dotted line, must have been deliriously suffering from Retrogade Amnesia - or was it Dyselexia - i forget which ... Ummm ... what was the name of that director again ???

I dont think it cost me much though to go and have a look at Ghajini in between my exams. There was supposedly not much to study anyways. My only repent is that i had to sacrifice my sleep by a couple of hours. I had to make up for the ghastly visions of this horrendous show and script massacre by re-watching Memento at 2am to soothe my thoughts. It was not until that time did i realize the miserable attempt to name the movie after John G. Atleast Johnny Gaddar was a more apt name than Ghajini.

The only key takeaway (as consultants in their analysis would say) was the gorgeous heroine Asin and the songs, which unfortunately were thrown around without a connect. Apart from that I was glad the inspector died a brutal death crushed under a bus and the director did us a favor by not letting him continue further into the movie. What dialogue delivery amma ! And the only reason why someone would have Jia Khan in the movie is to launch a new face parallely without having to bother about second glances at JK. The comparitive base line for Asin was way too low !

(Disclaimer - I will not entertain comments on how fat or flabby Asin looked and how big a butt she has - people just don't realize that there is so much more of her to love that way, both literally and figuratively)

Come to think of it, Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi suddenly seems a lot better - i atleast expected it to be rotten and it did not let down my expectations. With SRK you always know the kind of muddle a film will end up becoming. The best movie scene is undoubtedly the old songs medley and kajol in it. I am still trying to figure out how one fails to recognize one's spouse inspite the makeover - unless the spouse is wearing some voice modulating hardware provided by the CIA. And if falling in love required only but a visit to the Golden temple, I don't get the point of why the teeming millions with love's labour lost have still not made it there.

And so now i wait for the release of some of the better movies in hindi cinema. I will probably catch a late night movie run today of Slumdog Millionaire in the meanwhile. As my neighbour next door quipped - "All of us live the Slumdog Millionaire dream and are already halfway on the path to becoming one. We are all Slumdogs here at wimwi. Its only the millionaire part that is still missing ..."