MY HUMANITY

A time machine
You took me to another day, another age
Where I mingled with kings and rode into battle
A time and place where the sun beat down
On jungles as yet unspoilt by man.

A stamp on my passport
You allowed me entry to diverse countries
Where I could trek mountains pristine with snow
To lands remote and neighbouring where the moon rose
To an ambiance of delicious delights.

A chord on my conscience
You played tunes I had never before heard
While I grappled with feelings that you slowly stirred
As the music of humanity passed me by
While I stood alone in a crowd of faces

And held you in my band
- The anthology of a humanity I despise -

A tutor to my intellect
You explored the contours of my mind
While I analysed tenets that you dared me question
As the messages of past generations beckoned me
While I stood in museums that told the story of man

And pored over your bounty
- The treasury of a humanity I admire –


And held you in my hand
And pored over your bounty

As I enjoyed the vicarious pleasures that only you can offer

A book

To which I owe my humanity.

Success...Failure

SUCCESS…
…FAILURE

Failure is not the lack of success
Instead, it is the effort of trying
But of not getting there.

Success is not the lack of failure
Instead, it is the efforts of overcoming
Hurdles placed along the way

Failure in not the face of defeat
It is, instead, a battle against
An opponent who we have yet to better.

Success is not the visage of victory
It is, instead, a conflict against
An opponent we have managed to overcome.

Failure is not the depths of despair
It is, instead, a lesson that has
Yet to teach us the meaning of success.

Success is not the zenith of achievement
It is, instead, an education in
The trappings of failure.

Failure is not always a foundering fiasco
Just as
Success is not always a triumphant tale

For, contrary to popular belief
Failure isn’t the opposite of success
They are , in fact, two sides of the same coin

For they go together, hand in hand
Mates from whom we should learn

That the greatest success
Can take root
In abysmal failure

Companions from whom we should learn

That the greatest fall
Can plummet
From the pinnacle of success.

The Pillar

THE PILLAR

Weak,
You burst into tears

Fragile,
You break into pieces

Faltering,
You stumble along.

Tottering,
You trip over yourself.

Yet,
When it matters most

You
Remain upight

The pillar
On which this world

Stands:
You,

Sturdy and Unrelenting:
The Human Spirit

Education

Education does not begin when one opens a book; nor does it end when one closes a book. Education is not gained simply because one enters a school or university; nor is it lost because one does not enter such an institution. Education is not mere academic instruction; it is instead the development of one's social, emotional, physical and cultural maturity so that one is fit enough and efficient enough to answer questions asked by the world's biggest governor and examining board: LIFE.

For, if education meant going to school, man would not have discovered fire, he would not have invented the wheel,he never would have dabbled in farming; one generation would not have passed on its collective ethos to another and, most importantly, we would not be enjoying the lifestyles that we have become so accustomed to today.

(Inspired by a thread of conversation I happened to read on Facebook last night.)

A Three-Dimensional Canvas

When with my class on a long trip I went
To the Hot Springs of Kapishya where we spent
Hours of fun as we hiked and we rafted
And many witty stories were happily crafted

Either on hilltop, river or beside the lake
Or under the stars where we lay awake
Around a fire that blazed, blew and bristled
“And this is Zambia?” a newcomer whistled.

This young lad, of course, on many trips had been
Much of the bush and the veldt he had seen
And this remark was exhaled in a spirit of awe
For this was as good as anything he ever did or saw.

He hadn’t expected to have so much fun
Whether under the stars or the blazing sun
And had to admit it was the “best trip I’ve had
For Zambia is great, it is not at all bad.”

This remark immediately took me back into the past
To a moment that will, in my memory, always last
When a friend asked me, “What on earth will you do?”
In Zambia, a land most of us hardly knew.

Palms over the fire, I now quietly mused and thought
The world’s ignorance of the wealth this land has got
For in the five summers that I have, on trips, been
My admiration has grown with each new locale I’ve seen

Of course, most obvious, is the mighty smoke that thunders
Zambia’s greatest export, one of the world’s natural wonders
Yet, there is much more to Zambia than the Victoria Falls
There are miles of beautiful bush, animals, birds whose wake-up calls

Chirp through the bush, in its crisp and refreshing air
As into glowing sunrises, one can only “stand and stare”
For in this world, yes, we have just enough time
To admire the rhythm of nature, each tune, each rhyme

There is the Kafue National, country of the Big Five
Where diverse animals, in unspoilt wilderness, still do thrive
Or the Luangwa Valley, where the leopard lithely leaps
While you enjoy a walking safari, with an experience for keeps

I remember ‘raucous ruffians’ on a prefect training camp
As their days they would record near a fire or a lamp
While the mighty Zambezi, it foamed and it roared
And its ferocious inmates, calmly slept and snored

I recall walking through bush that towered over my head
And in the hills of Mutinondo, making my fire and bed
In the midst of which, many new friends I had made
As with banter and chatter, our way, we’d waddle and wade

Singing songs, as we would, our own music make
And on some deserted hillock take a much needed break
Making plans for the rest of the arduous hike
And prepare a bushman’s dinner in a spot we like

Far from its crowded cities, we would have so much fun
Be it climbing baobabs or fishing under the Kafue’s sun
And in such a milieu, I learnt more of each lass and lad
Than anything they could write on an examination pad

Yes, this is Zambia, a land profuse in natural treasure
Of valleys, hills, plains and parks in equal measure
Ready to offer the intrepid explorer or the traveller new
A three dimensional canvas in its most natural hue.

Quirkily Chaotic

To the world, it is a

City of crowds, teeming with hustle and bustle
In every nook, alley, corner and vicinity
There is frenzy as a pulsating herd of humanity
Swarms onto its streets to begin its daily jostle

In organized chaos, as commuters in confusion
Forge – through anarchy – order of some sort
Shouting rules that have thus carefully wrought
The city’s growth amidst a populous profusion

Of an offspring whose demands are hard to meet.

City of sound, arena to a concert of cacophony
Whose orchestra has managed just the right measure
So that its sundry ensemble can derive much pleasure
In the melodious jingle of diverse disharmony

As they sway to the tunes that daily resonate
From vehicles, humans and assorted creatures
Whose spectacular show quite often features
An echo that does each second reverberate

From an offspring whose music is hard to beat.

Personally, it is a

City of memories, embellished by decades three
A journey back into the past each time I visit
For I recall how, on the train to ‘Madras’ I’d sit
Excited, for in Moore Market, I could wander in glee

A son of the soil, with dreams of places far and wide.

City of camaraderie, of the many friendships made
Of the many lessons learnt, in school and in college
An education that has helped me across many a bridge
Since those days, with friends, on St Bede’s fields I played

A son of the soil, who learnt to take things in his stride.

City of youth, of its many, crowded buses and trains
On which, in carefree abandon, did teenage risk
A life full of energy, a life at pace that was brisk
A life whose only proof is that tiny scar that remains

On a son of the soil, who did with much danger ride

In this city that does on the Bay of Bengal lie
A city of history, the quirkily chaotic City of Chennai

A Centurion Speaks

Over one hundred years, here, have I stood
One hundred years which have been great and good
And though I am old, I am not yet frail
Instead, my heart beats: loud, hearty and hale

Numerous friends I have, since, come to know
And our friendships still continue to grow
For they recall me each time they do re-unite
And remember the days we spent, sunny and bright

On my part, I oft remember those cheery young lads
Their whims, their fancies, their ever-changing fads
But, as constant as the sea that massages my back
For cheery pranks, laughter and music I never do lack

With me, these young boys, did many lessons learn
In their achievements, my heart with pleasure does burn
And I continue to swell with such joy and pride
For I hear tales of their success from corners wide

Those days, I remember, when on the sunny sports field
In competitive combat many ‘weapons’ they would wield
So that their team could,its flag, fly vibrantly high
As earnest enthusiasts would, loud support, vigorously cry

My memory is indeed a glittering treasure chest
For I remember many a vibrant, cultural fest
Of debates, drama and quizzes that I still admire
Of music, songs and a band that played with fire

Over one hundred years, here, still I live
One hundred years, with much more to give
Earnest young lads the tools with which to rule
A world of ambition that begins, with me, their school

That continues to stand, here, on Santhome High Road
To provide future learners with a lovely, warm abode
So that, they will, in their actions, words and deeds
Be true ambassadors of me - their school - St Bede’s.

Shades of Immortality

Mortal:
With shades of immortality

We live on
By having been the people we are.

Mortal:
With shades of immortality

Our presence lingers
For having done the things we have.

Mortal:
With shades of immortality

We are remembered
In the tales our children tell theirs.

Mortal:
With shades of immortality

We are:

Humans who have made a difference!

The Casino of LIfe

You now move on to the playing fields of life
Where every move you make is – with risk –rife
Where change boasts of being the only constant
A terrible tyrant , fickle in a capricious instant.

And, in this game, chances you will have to take
For with them, fortunes you can make or break.
Either with a single, quick sleight of hand
Or with poker-faced patience, your cards command

At times you will have to go all out on a limb
Even though that streak of luck seems rather dim
For it seems better to give it all you’ve got
Than to simply sit and wait on naught

There will also be times when your luck rides high
And the prospect of success draws well on nigh
Go ahead, then, and give it all your very best
Play your cards right, not too close to your chest

At times high risk, will with great charm invite
You to share its rewards so sparkling bright
Then, remember your options to wisely weigh
So that you get the chance to play another day.

At times, you will have to on the table throw
And to wily opponents , your cards, show
For the game then demands some transparency
Tricks up your sleeve, for the world to see.

Show no fear, but all your worth bravely stake
On playing a move that will surely make
People admire your spirit, your dash and dare
At the courage you show when your luck is bare.

Yet, at times, you might, a rather poor hand play
And the next round seems dull, depressingly grey
Stop, reflect, – so that, this error you will not make
When you do, a brand new deck, quietly break

Laugh, smile, enjoy every game that you play
Energetically revel in every risk-fraught day
So that you can proudly exclaim with a final sigh
“I leave the casino of life with my fortune riding high. “

DICHOTOMY

It travels paths rarely ventured
A pioneer of exploration and discovery

Yet,

It retraces roads already taken
A curator of nostalgia and reminiscence


It traverses peaks of persuasion
An ardent believer in its ability

Yet,

It plods deserts of depression
A sceptic of existence and experience

It bridges diverse landscapes
A diplomat with sense and sensitivity

Yet,

It forges chasms of conflict
An envoy of odious malice.


It flies on the wings of liberation
A cartographer of new towns and cities

Yet,

It stagnates in the cesspool of decay
The plunderer of houses and humanity


For,

Its uniqueness
Is
Its dichotomy

The natural polarity
Of
The human mind.

Collective Memory

I am?

I am
A tribute to human emotion
A stain pressed by time
A teardrop caught between the pages of a book
As one human emphasised with another.

I am
A trigger of human passion
An impression influenced by time
A debate that leaped from the pages of a book
As one human argued with another.

I am
A spark of human imagination
A fire kindled by time
An innovation created from the end of a book
As one human inspired another.

I am
An account of human history
A tale detailed by time
A saga collected in a library of books
As one human conversed with another.

I am?

I am
The question and the answer
The collective memory of our humanity.

I am
Literature.

A Spark

I lurk
In the shadows
Of history

I sweat
In the hotbed
Of politics

I throb
In the heart
Of journalism

I sashay
On the screens
Of showbiz

I feast
On the smorgasbord
Of gossip

I knock
On the doors
Of stealth

I am…
A minefield
Of passion

I am…
A lectern
For debate

I am…
Controversy

A spark
That determines
Human interest.

Chaos

When chaos ensues
Confusion reigns
Yet,
In the midst of it all
We still remain sane.

We rise above it
And restore order
To prove
In the midst of it all
That in our hearts, nerves and mind

We celebrate the spirit of our humanity.

I

I create...
Change.

In inspire...
Inventions.

I launch...
Careers.


I spark...
Love.


I preserve...
Decline.


I incite...
Riots.


I wreck...
Lives.


I stir...
Hatred.


I am...
A moment
That makes the difference.

Poetry

Poetry is…
The drama of our emotions
Spurred by the experiences of life
Recorded in words destined for posterity.

IT

It dares…
To dream.

It recognizes …
Possibilities.

It relishes…
Challenges.

It overcomes…
Obstacles.

It wants…
To be different.

It strives…
To achieve.

It fosters
Change.

It creates
History.

It is…

The Spirit of our Humanity
For it brings ideas to life.
And shapes this world
Into what we want it to be.

History

A phrase that transformed our race
A speech that took us to war

An act that broke down barriers
A declaration that divided nations

A shot that fired our imaginations
A shell that tore us apart

An entente that offered us hope
A pact that drove us to despair

History is

A moment that defines our world
The collective memory of our humanity.

Paradise

Paradise

We thrust ourselves on you
Greedily grabbing, ungraciously groping
Clamorously clawing, indiscriminately defiling
Every vestige of your dignity.


We hurl ourselves at you
Rudely ravaging, rowdily rummaging
Perspiring and panting, lusty and lecherous
To possess you in your entirety


Yet, we feel no shame

For

Raping the world we live in.

For

Being the architects of a ghetto

That once was

Paradise.

Nostalgia's Distant Plain

(To every Anglo-Indian band and to the days when railway institutes were filled with the joy and cheer of great music.)

As I sit in this corner and watch memories float by
I quietly let out a giggle, a chuckle or a sigh
For I recall the expression on every jovial face
Who were my companions in a distant time and place

I remember Sunday afternoons, when we spent a while
In song and dance, as we relaxed in style
And rendered tunes that came from country and the west
As we spent the day in much jovial vigour and zest

To Jim Reeves, we would pay tuneful tribute
And Hank Williams might soon follow suit
Or we’d “tie a yellow ribbon round an old-oak tree”
And spend friendly moments, with abandon free

I cannot help, but quietly pluck a string
As I remember those times when cheer would ring
As the institute was ‘decked with bells of holly’
And we celebrated with gusto, ‘the season to be jolly’

Memory urges me, now, to play a soft, little note
For I cannot help, but with much passion gloat
About the many times I had jived “round the clock”
To the quick and popular beat of “Jailhouse Rock.”

I remember the institute, in it every joyful wedding
As the groom twirled the bride to “she wears my ring”
Before the crowd could ramble under arch after arch
As the creaky floor weathered the energetic Grand March

Then, there were evenings when moods might quietly shift
And into fervently profound numbers soulfully drift
As “Rhinestone Cowboy” and “Rambling Man” would mourn
About missing the lovely “Green, green grass of home.”

As I sit in this corner and gaze across nostalgia’s distant plain
These fond memories, will – with me – always remain
For I will never forget those days when I was a certified star
In every Anglo-Indian home: the trusty, tuneful, box guitar.

Those Days of Yore

To every single person who drove a steam engine – especially the Anglo-Indian – and to two of the sturdiest men Arkonam knew: my grandfathers. This poem would not have been possible without the tales they told me when I was a wee lad.


I stand here in this quiet, desolate, railway shed
An ungainly mass of rusted iron and lead
And when I hear yet another engine whistle
My old worn-out chuffer begins to bristle
And I am taken back - in place and time
To the days of yore when I was in my prime

My day would begin, me being polished bright
As a mechanic prepared me for a journey that night
Carefully checking every nut, bolt and screw
So that I was prepared for yet another crew
Of fireman and engine driver who would begin
Another journey amidst a station’s bustling din.

At times it would be Corneille, Walker or White
Who’d control my power with pride and might
At times I’d chuff, puff and speed to a cruise
Under the hands of a Renaux, Marshall or D’cruz
For each of whom I was great pride and joy
And they treated me much like a nice little boy!

I remember the coal - burning in the hatch
As a motorman coupled to me yet another batch
Of bogies that would carry people of every ilk
As well as papers, mail and containers of milk
The whistle would go; the guard wave the flag
My trusting cargo, out of the station, I’d drag

I’d chug through the night, pass pastures green
Whistle into tunnels and climb mountains mean
Then the driver would take out ‘tiffin and flask’
In the smells of coal, coffee and curry I’d rosily bask
While he’d look out of the window and pat me on the door
And urge me, with a whisper, ‘to speed up a bit more’.

‘That’s my boy’, he’d say, in those days of yore
As I chugged my way from Madras to Bangalore
As I steamed past Pune on the Western Ghats
Connecting people from India’s many diverse parts
Yes, I did travel then on journeys many and far
Whistling past bridges from Calcutta to Agra.

When in the railway yard on the odd day of rest
I’d always be filled with so much fun, life and zest
For those group of workmen, no matter their shift
Would with banter and laughter huge jacks, spanners lift
And work on me with hands tough, strong and steady
That I might, for a new journey, be safe and ready.

On such a day, should one, across the tracks gaze
He’d see fireman, fitter and drivers happily laze
Under a tree, where two would soon then compete
In a contest of how many ‘Vadas’ each could ‘easily eat’
Yet, despite all the raucous laughter, mirth and fun
They would still go home with jobs well done!

Those were the days, those days of yore
When I watched a new industry steadily grow
Those days on a busy, lovely railway colony
That fill me today with some measure of glee
For how can I forget that we showed the way
An engine – and its drivers – for the Indian Railway.

A PRIVATE BATTLE

(Written in response to the number of deaths in war-torn Afghanistan, this poem is "designed" as a missile. Unfortunately, blogspot, does not allow me to centre align the same.)

The war is long past…
But the scars remain
Itching and hurting
Every day.

The war is long past…

But the nightmares haunt
Tormenting and terrifying
Every night.

The war is long past…

But the shrapnel tears
Burning and fragmenting
Every movement I make.

The war is long past…

But the gunfire resounds
Exploding and shelling
Every thought I take

The war is long gone…

But the wounds are fresh
Bursting and bleeding
Every day.

The war is long gone…

But the darkness is dank
Stifling and suffocating
Every night.


The war is long gone…

But the muscles are tired
Cramping and shackling
Every movement I make.

The war is long gone…

But the smoke is dense
Clouding and darkening
Every thought I take.

The war is long gone, for ages past
But its dark memories will always last
For however much I try to take pride
My tears of hurt and anguish I cannot hide

For which parent cannot, for a son he proudly sent
Pay for that piece of hatred with which a young life was spent?

Yes, the war is long past, into oblivion it has since gone
But, for me - a parent - a private battle begins each morn.

SOME TIMEWORN DAY

A Tribute to a Very Special Lady - Mum Mum

I sit on the verandah and slowly sip my tea
Remebering things that were and what they came to be
I can hear trains trundling down the railway track
And I picture those “chuggers” from few decades back

I look out of the trellis as I rock on my chair
As into the past I fondly, dearly stare
My hands hold a picture sent from Australia with love
But my eyes stare at one on the wall up above

My tea has run cold, but to me it matters not
For, in the warmth of my memories I am now caught
And in the loneliness of this hurried cup of char
I smell delicious spreads once rolled out by Ayah

With a sigh, I rise and walk to the window
As the sun tints the sky with a reddish glow
And as the evening cold makes me reach for my coat
It’s with the heat of an ancient engine that I now gloat

Smiling, I walk away, now ready to prepare
Some hastily made, but hopefully nourishing fare
And while into my sandwich I take a small bite
It’s the taste of chatty-cooked fish that’s on my tongue tonight

I am in the present, but my senses revel in the past
The memories they bring fill hours like the last
For, with some daughters and sons now so far away
Each moment for me is some timeworn day

In which the past seems to be much more alive
Than the next moment which is about to arrive
For as I look back at how things have come to be
I remember those young days on a bustling railway colony.

The Anglo-Indian Legacy

(A celebration of the Anglo-Indian's contribution to modern India, it is hoped that this poem makes every Anglo-Indian feel proud of our history and legacy.)

Five summers have I, now, in Zambia spent
Time in which I continually try to explain my descent
To people who consider me quite an interesting mystery
For they have heard little or nothing of Anglo-Indian history

In conversations with students, colleagues and friends
I repeatedly strive to make huge amends
For the paucity of knowledge of my people, my race
And in the context of Indian accord us our place

In classroom debates, my “Indianess” I strongly claim
To which students retort, “You can’t be, with your English name.”
And when I reply, “I am Anglo-Indian, don’t you know?”
That’s when their curiosity just begins to grow.

“What’s your native language?” is another that does arise
Smiling, I say “English” and there is that jolt of surprise
But the answer that now has them in quite a trance
Is my reply to, “Where did you learn ballroom dance?”

These questions in India were hardly ever posed
So my culture, my identity I naturally supposed
Was something that I could easily take for granted
Until now, of course, when with these queries I am haunted

India is diverse and its many cultures I respect
But now, when upon my personal identity I reflect
I would like the Anglo-Indian to be accorded his worth
In the annals of India, the country of his birth.

An Indian education is sound, its teachers it would seem
Are in Zambia, held in rather high esteem
So, in this verse, I’d like to place on record
The Anglo-Indian teacher whom I duly accord

The merit of pioneering Indian railway and convent schools
In days when the blackboard and chalk were her only tools
And with pride I swell when a successful manager does pay tribute
To the Anglo-Indian teacher whose achievements I now salute.

Trains span India, its entire breadth and its length
The reason for its ever-growing economic strength
And when I recall tales I was told as a little boy
The chest once again heaves with pride and joy

For if anything typifies the Anglo-Indian legacy
It’s the railway driver and the steamer he drove with glee
And if the Indian railways is the giant it is today
It’s to those pioneering loco-men to whom quiet tribute I pay

Communications, today, make this world go round
And without our mobile phones we’re hardly ever found
But in an era when a new nation was slowly taking form
Getting connected by telegraph was much the norm.

And here again the Anglo-Indian played his part
In helping a huge network with a little start
As he punched in code on the telegraph
Proud member of India’s pioneering postal staff

Of its global reach, sport can now lay claim
And even here did the Anglo-Indian make his name
Bringing to field hockey such vim and passion
As he wielded the stick with guile and fashion

And powered his country to eight medals of gold
As he tackled opponents within the Olympic fold
And with regal panache, did firmly hold fort
As he shaped field hockey into India’s national sport

To Anglo-Indians now scattered, in corners far and wide
This is your legacy; and in it, take immense pride
Your forefathers and mothers helped lay the foundation
For what is now a large, diverse and successful nation

We are not a footnote in the annals of history
But a community with a rich, proud and acclaimed legacy
One which we should proclaim with a passion dear
As the community that helped carve modern India.