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.