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.

To Sleep

To Sleep

The past invites me
Knowingly
Opens a door
To a gallery of what has been
A collage of tears, smiles and laughter
With a veneer of regret, happiness and achievement

The future beckons
Tantalisingly
Offers a glimpse
Of a canvas that is yet to be
A delineation of ambition, toil and disappointment
Mounted on a frame of dreams and determination

While

The present buffets
Mockingly
Tossing me and turning me
As I am afflicted
By yet another bout
Of
Insomnia

An Act of Man

Stunted
Head bowed
He shuffles along
Scared he might stumble

Hesitant
Hands twitchy
He drags himself
Terrified of all around

Powerless
Eyes nervous
He glances erratically
Intimidated by people passing

Haunted
By memories
He turns around
Glancing back at time

Staring at an incident, an act of man
That crippled his emotions as only a human can.

A Holiday with a Difference

England 2009. No, it is not the name of any sport event that the popular culture of today can relate to. Nor is it the tagline to the recently concluded Ashes series that the host nation managed to win. Neither is it a global milestone in an era obsessed with landmarks.
No, England 2009 is a personal celebration for me simply because it has offered me an experience so thoroughly enjoyable. It has amalgamated the childhood dreams that were once shared over a decade ago by two individuals in deep discussion about the places they would like to visit and the literary giants and characters in whose footsteps they would literally like to follow. That Elizabeth and I can say those individual dreams have now become a couple’s shared experience is enough for me to celebrate England 2009 in the way I know best – through prose and poetry.
For someone who was first introduced to The Daffodils in Grade 7, for someone whose favourite college course was English Romantic Writing, for someone who would lapse into daydreaming about what it must have been for horse-riding Rob Roy or the dashing Ivanhoe, this holiday has been a personal vindication of the vicarious ramblings that were once inspired by literature. Now, having gazed down at Lake Derwentwater, having driven through the scenic Lake District, and having walked those cobblestones that provide “such alternation in height and depth”, those lyrics and conversations of two centuries magnify memory and immerse one even further into the past.
While Elizabeth can empathise with emotions recollected in literature, her leanings are more towards the artistic achievements that are contemporary to the era of Classical Romanticism. She always enjoys the serene beauty of an art gallery and on one afternoon, a little after we passed the Scott Monument and the National Gallery at Edinburgh, burst out, “Darling, do you know where I would like to spend all my life?” Assuming she was enraptured by the beauty of Edinburgh, I was about to say that we could create such a possibility, when she continued, “… in an art gallery.” Now, while such a desire may not be literally fulfilled, perhaps I can consider Galleria 2010 over the course of the next academic year. For the immediate moment, though, let’s shelve that. Let us just say that the three of us – let’s not forget Calvin – are living the dream that two individuals aspired to when parted at university over a decade ago.
Yet, that is not all. What makes England 2009 even more special and creates those twinkles that Eli notices in my eyes are my “conversations into the past.” Those who have been following the literary efforts of Ency Whyte should by now be familiar with my desire to place the Anglo-Indian identity in some reasonable perspective especially for those who still wonder why I do not speak Tamil at home. “An Unacknowledged Diaspora” does, to a reasonable degree, touch on a theme familiar to “the ones that got away” and the “ones that stayed behind”. For, in England 2009, I - part of a family that stayed behind – managed to bridge over forty-seven years of kindred(?) history with “the family that got away.”
Yes, just two evenings with relatives I had never meant before and one afternoon with a Grand-Uncle whose two or three visits to Arkonam offer vague memories have transported me back in time and placed years of nothingness into better perspective.
Last evening I met for the first time, my paternal grandmother’s brother-in-law, Uncle Denzil. An octogenarian who now lives on his own, he and his wife migrated to England in 1963 with an eight-year old boy and six-year-old daughter. His description of that three-week journey on a steamer from Bombay to Marseille via the Suez made me wonder what it must have been like for this couple who were venturing into a new land with much hope and “just pennies in their pockets and a lot to fear”. Simultaneously, I was transported back in time to my then ailing grandmother and could only wonder at the many thoughts and emotions that must have inundated her as two sisters (Aunt Noreen is the other relative I hadn’t met before.) bid their other three siblings good-bye.
Sadly, I did not get to know my paternal grandmother very well; she passed away when I was hardly four. My other grandparents did offer me many memories that are today a source of pride and joy, but I could not – as a teenager - have the type of conversations that I had, during this holiday, with Uncle Denzil, Aunt Noreen and Uncle Ted (my maternal grandfather’s cousin.) But, if I were to play a fantasy game of my own, I wish I could put them all around one table and host a little family chat show asking them reasons for staying behind or going away, their hopes and aspirations as they continued lives oceans apart, and – if they were given the chance to – revisit those days so many years ago and reconsider their decisions. I do not know whether the reader senses my amazement but whenever I try to picture the 50s and 60s in newly independent India, I cannot cease wondering about the spectra of emotions that different people of the same family felt.
While I do not regret being part of the family that stayed behind, (I will be an Arkonam-Madras boy at heart) I did manage to gain some insight into what Floss and Babs must have felt, I did smile at the fact that teenagers will always be the same no matter the era, I did observe Eli laugh when an idiosyncracy of Pat was delineated with heritage in perspective, I could not help but smile when yet another tale of Joe’s strength was narrated and I could only re-attest a childhood memory of Norman’s bravery.
I have been told that our visit to these three families in London will be replayed in conversation and recalled in individual memory for months after we have gone. I have been told that one cannot believe that “Floss ‘s grandson came to visit us all the way from Zambia”. I have been told – and I have seen – that our visit brought twinkles to the eyes of octogenarians and transported them to the days of their youth.
For here, while I painted them a picture of the Madras I have come to know, they painted me a picture of the Madras that was theirs. For while, Uncle Ted painted me a picture of the halcyon days of the Arkonam institute, I painted him one – sadly – of its decay and demise. While Aunt Noreen spoke of the last time she visited Bab’s house, I told her how I came to be with Babs when she died. And when, over the course of our conversation, Uncle Denzil came to hear that we were alumni of Loyola College, Madras, he gave us a piece of history that we did not know: Nungambakkam railway station was built because of Loyola College.
England 2009: nestled between visits to landmarks popular to many around the world were visits to little towns in the heart of England; in one small corner of a tourist who kept clicking photographs was a small girl celebrating a landscape that was once a dream; in between the mundane conversations of daily touring were moments that inspired the poet within; and complemented by visits to museums that celebrate the legacy of our humanity were visits to old relatives who helped instil pride in one’s personal history. Yes, this was a holiday with a difference – my most memorable yet.

A Modern Tribute to Antiquity

A bit I have travelled, in the cities of this world
Each with a history – a tale that can be told
Through the lens of the roving tourist’s eye
Who often does, with some wonder, sigh

As an ancient tableau in a busy modern street
He does - camera-ready – with much awe greet
Or into a monument with a stellar, glorious past
He might saunter and wonder about the cast

Of characters who had with much energy wrought
The fame and fortune that has become the city’s lot
Or from the imposing zenith of its top-most spire
A city view, its history and legacy admire.

But no town has moved me to so much awe
Than, when from Waverley first I saw
The pomp and grandeur of Edinburgh city
A modern tribute to antiquity.

And though it has moved along with the times
Through its buildings and festivals, history chimes
For each brick and cobblestone is filled with the lore
Of a Gaelic people in the days of yore.

Not a castle, but a city straddling many a precipice
For the architect, it most definitely is sheer bliss
To career down streets that plunge like ravines
And gaze up at spires that greet the heavens

From the castle, the artist, photographer or poet
Can never cease to admire this most splendid set
The numerous shades of brown, black, green and blue
As he gazes down at an all-embracing tableau

Of craggy rock way beyond the deep-blue firth
And architecture of immense historic worth
And meadows with vast blankets of green
That add to the city’s aura, its majestic sheen

‘Tis little wonder then, that simple, mere mortals
Were by this city inspired to open the portals
Of ideas, dictums and ambitions in depth incredible
That they have, on history, made marks indelible

As the ones this “alternation in height and depth” has made
On every visitor who has, at least for a brilliant day, stayed
And listened to piping bands tell many diverse stories
Of a city from which he will take away magnificent memories.