The old man with the stick

Once there was an old man,

an old man with a stick.

seeing him the children ran,

or when they heard the tick, tick ,tick.

Loved by all he was,

parent and child alike.

Stories and poems he would pass,

of wars of swords and pikes.

Little by little as the children grew,

the stories fascinated them lesser than they used to.

Where once there were many ,now were few,

the old man with the stick knew exactly what to do.

For now the children had grown,

he had to leave.

Despite the parent's protests, his time had flown.

He left with none to grieve. 

As the autumn came every year,

the children also aged.

Now the old man was a memory mere,

somewhere in the subconscious, caged.

But he returned, the old man with the stick

when the children's hair was white.

One evening they heard the familiar tick,tick, tick,

they all ran to see the familiar sight.

It was an old man, an old man with a stick,

but not the old man they knew.

This was a comrade , he looked tired and sick.

He rested and spoke, although he still looked blue.

"I am the grandson of the man you all knew"

happy they all were when they heard him now.

"I wish to honour him and regale all of you"

The children along with their grandchildren heard him with wow.

Thus continued the legend,

of the old man with the stick,

more of a godsend,

to the children when they heard his tick , tick ,tick.

So Cute

She hadn't listened to him , so he shouted at her, but all she did was grin and mock him.He looked at her with the sternest gaze possible but this seemed to amaze her even more.Unable to tolerate this humiliation, he hit her, slowly first but firmly later, yet all she did was laugh and giggle at him. Giggle! He stood there perplexed for a moment, and was then distracted by the birds in the balcony. The mother lay on the ground having a hearty laugh at the antics of her little one after she seized the keys he was playing with. " oh he's so cute " she thought.

Rest in Peace

Rise we shall all,

From this slumber we are in,

Awaken we will be

From this dark land of dreams,

Where man is monster and monster is man,

Where love isn’t love but hate it is.

Fret not, for like all nightmares,

This too shall end,

Rejoice we will when we wake,

For this sleep will end and we shall rest in peace.

The Rebel

Sitting silently, hearing the lecturer talk,

A sense of alienation creeps over me

With gripping fear ,as his voice fades, I head into oblivion .

My hands often meandering to the back pages of my notebook.

 It is my haven , my escape , my pretence.

I write there.

No, not the empirical formulas and despot laws,

Whose existence though not unquestionable,

But , are a complication to prove.

I write about what I cannot speak of then,

My life , my love , my belief , my passion.

It is here , in the rear end of the notebook,

I melt my mask and spill out my inky soul .

Yet somehow I keep up the pretence of comprehending

Whatever it is , the educator is dictating,

his voice remains unheard to my ears.

Perhaps our masquerading is perpetual , 

Even when we are most vulnerable

We pour our heart out to some , yet repress it from others simultaneously.

Keeping up the act.

But , I digress from the epicentre of our dialogue.

I write in rebellion , to the tyranny around me.

Not of fascists or monarchs , but of savages,

Who though seemingly powerless are the most fearsome

They call themselves society.

Disappointed , no , disgusted rather I am

In the nurturing of the virgin minds by these oppressors.

Where Darwin is despicably forced down their throats

Not to live , but to survive

Ravaging the pillars of humanity,

To capitulate their sense of free will and maturity.

My revolt is against such autocracy of society,

Hypocrisy in the face of democracy, a fable of the years gone by.

This mutiny of mine is to rise for the end ,

Not with slogans but with ink,

Not with swords but with words

Not a mob , but a sole rebel

For revolution like fire needs a spark.

Nonconformist I am for I repudiate their principles,

My revolution is my escape

Through the pages to my haven,

Obliterating reality , phasing out whenever I face such tyranny.

My hands often meandering to the back pages of my notebook.

Bon Voyage , Sailor man

As the old man lay there,

undisturbed by the wailing of his grievers,

my father rubbed ghee on him.

On his stomach , hands , legs and face as father rubbed ,

Pray for his peace , he told me wisely.

He continued the rituals meticulously,

having gained unfortunate proficiency in them,

for he had done so twice in the past for his own parents

and was now doing it for the man who loved him as his own son.

I stood there quietly looking at the old man,

True I did not know him long, for I was born, not long ago,

But our bond was forged with love that could withstand generations.

Dadu , I called him but he preferred sailor man,

And captain he would call me.

A veteran of the seas for forty five years,

he would enthral us with tales beyond our wildest imaginations.

His adventures would make us laugh , curious and amaze us to great extents.

The mysteries of the Amazon , the beauties of Europe , the exotic islands of the Caribbean

We had seen them all by his words , a fact he took great pride in.

Not only would he tell us stories , but also educate us about different cultures

The tea ceremonies of China or the pinatas of Mexico , the sailor man told us about them all.

As my examinations would end , I would be found only at his house,

Play acting as the captain and him as my sailor man ,

Together we had so many adventures the world would never know about.

We can take on the world captain , he would often say,

Not anymore sailor man , for you have abandoned the ship,

Unable to mask it any further , I finally let my tears free.

As I sat crying in a corner , my father comforted me,

He will meet his relatives now , His parents , he told me.

As my tears ran abundant , I wondered

What if they did not recognise him , for they hadn’t seen him old

Would the sailor man be alone in his new quest,

My heart pondered in sorrow .

As the old man was lifted in the plane of the incinerator,

I noticed the same had been done in the one adjacent to us.

A smaller one , a younger one , lay peacefully with his eyes closed

As his relatives wailed him farewell in despair.

 I quietly slipped into there with no one noticing my presence

And whispered so that only he could hear.

Friend , I said , please look after my dadu , be his captain in his new adventure.

As both of them moved towards their final journeys , their final sails ,

I could only think of a phrase ,

The old man had learnt it when he was in France,

Bon Voyage,

Bon Voyage, sailor man.

To Friendship

Celebrations would be meaningless without you

As would be the victories.

Heartbreak would be impossible to overcome without you

As would be the failures.

For without you there would not be a difference

Between liquor and milk,

No difference

Between Mondays and Saturdays

Nor would living and existing vary.

A mechanical machine working without lubrication

That is life in your absence.

To you I raise my glass, my friend,

I raise my glass to our friendship.

Walking with you in the shadows is better

Than walking alone in the light.

For with you, problems become experiences,

Mistakes become wisdom,

Irrationality conquers the most rational minds,

While logic is forced upon the dullest by you.

For you truly are the blanket in the night

And the shade in the sun.

Protecting yet reminding of the harsh realities.

For your sympathy and empathy

Has been the boon that this life needed.

Yet you’re sarcasm and rudeness

Have been the greatest teachings.

I toast to you my friend , I toast to us

Not many are like us , it is a pity

How fortunate would we be all if there were.