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.

The Muse

When with my wife and son, I first gazed down
At the beauty of Derwentwater in Keswick town
I was moved to awe, admiration and sheer reverence
For I was graced with beauty of such immense presence.

Such scenery, hitherto, I had only vicariously seen
On the artist’s canvas and the cinema screen
And of the awe, it could, in us mortals inspire
I had read of in many a poet’s quire.

No matter the angle, position or perspective
This was natural beauty, a landscape most emotive
Of verdant islands in a lake shimmering in the sun
And of shades of green, that did, to the horizon run.

Of majestic mountains masked by slivers of mist
And swans whose necks did gracefully twist
To the sounds and chirps that filled the air
As I simply continued to “stand and stare”

At flecks of white scattered all across the dale
Content to, in such beauty, ruminate and regale
As the sun shone down and the wind rapaciously blew
At the stream of tourists that steadily grew

Yes, this was nature in its grandeur and pomp
Through which man could at his leisure romp
And take in this theatre of such verdant green
That has for more than centuries been

An inspiration for “emotions oft recollected in tranquillity”
The muse for a simple and rustic school of poetry.

The Art in Life

'Tis an art to live
For the portrait of one's life
Is not easy to draw.

Your choice of canvas
You must discern
And the lens of subtlety
Prudently learn

The depths of emotion
You must tint and shade
Its vibrant colours
Passionately grade

The people around
You must artfully stroke
And in the correct oils
Your brushes soak

Traces of reality
With skill, reflect
Small strokes of meaning
At your peril, neglect

The vagaries of situations
With deliberation, you paint
Leave no negligent smudges
That, could, your canvas taint

Yet, expect no praise
From all around
And take the stings
Of criticism as they abound

For...

'Tis an art to live
And the portrait of one's life
Is not easy to draw.

The Invasion of Privacy

The invasion of privacy…

Is an assault on personal life
A public display
Of a private retreat

The invasion of privacy…

Is an intrusion on a closed conscience
A public magnification
Of a secluded soul

The invasion of privacy…

Is a foray into isolated territory
A public attack
On a silent psyche

The invasion of privacy…

Is the terrorism of individual emotion!

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A DAY MAKES

Like some of my poems, this was also written for a school assembly, but for a much younger age group. Each couplet referred to one distinctive global event that was displayed in a slideshow.

What a difference a day makes
A minute, a second is all it takes
To create history, to change the world
To embark on ventures, brave, new and bold

It takes a day for war to start
A day that will, for years, tear nations apart
It takes a day for life to begin
One that will, on another day, a new nation win

It takes a day to launch a new career
One that will, our lives, into a new era steer
It takes a day to realize the work of a lifetime
Work that will, one day, be praised in song and rhyme

It takes a day for a typhoon, tsunami or earthquake
A day, that will, millions of lives rudely shake
It takes a day for disaster to strike
Disaster that will take away the people and things we like

It takes a day for you and me
To be the people that we can be
It takes a day for you to grow
And the friend of a lifetime, get to know

What a difference a day makes
So, let us give it all it takes
To make this day, special and good
To be the people we can and should.

BEing HUMAN

BEing HUMAN

In order highlight our ability to go beyond race, sex and religion and succeed for our very humanity, I recited this poem at a school assembly.

I may be black, brown or white
I may be clever, or not very bright

I may be Indian, Chinese or Brit
I may be strong, or not very fit

I may be Hindu, Muslim or Jew
I may be popular, or have friends that are few

I may be a gentle lady, or a stoic gent
I may be young, or a life nearly spent

I may be very tall; or rather short
I may be wealthy; or be a ‘have not’

I may be…
Many things…

But ONE thing I know…

I AM

HUMAN

ONE of a kind, a very ‘rare’ breed
With the will to survive and the power to succeed.