HARMLESS

A harmless pen, with harmless ink,

On harmless paper, made us blink.

A harmless man, with a harmless pledge,

Sat harmlessly, on vision's edge.

Sat harmlessly, with harmless friends,

Sat day and night, set harmless trends,

Spoke harmlessly, to one and all,

Smiled harmlessly, with harmless gall!

Sat harmlessly, on a hunger strike,

For a harmless bill, which kings dislike.

Sat harmlessly, with harmless form;

Those naked kings - they felt the storm!

A harmless pen, with harmless ink,

On harmless paper, made us think.

A harmless man, with harmless a pledge,

Set a nation's soul on razor's edge.

WHY I AM A MARXIST

As you might have gathered from the title, I am a Marxist. I am proud to be one, but that goes without saying. I wasn’t born one, of course. In fact, like a proper human being I was born without the shackles of ‘isms’. Oh - what a delightful life that must have been, though I don’t remember any of it. What I do remember is going to school for several years. There, of course, I was more interested in marks than Marx, but over the years that interest waned somewhat. For that you can squarely lay the blame on my teachers, (wonderful creatures all) who seemed to believe that marks were something for them to hoard rather than to distribute.

Then after years and years of school, I finally reached college, where to my utter delight I discovered that marks were obsolete, grades were in vogue. I cannot even begin to tell you what a relief it was to be finally rid of marks. I celebrated, in style, and kept on celebrating until one fine spring morning I found, to my utmost chagrin, that grades were based on marks, and marks alone! What rot! It was nothing but a conspiracy! It seemed as if I was destined to a lifelong entanglement with marks.

At that point, as you might well imagine, I was a broken man. I would have done something desperate, but my friends suggested that I ought to visit our college library. It was, after all, supposed to be the best technical library in Asia in those days, and there (they affirmed) I might just about pick up the various techniques of upgrading my marks and thereby markedly improving my grades. I’m happy to say I followed their instructions – I finally visited the library.

That changed my life forever.

Our library, as I have already mentioned, was reputedly Asia’s finest technical library. However, once I was actually inside, I noticed that almost all corners of this fine library was filled with masses of Asia’s finest students. There was hardly a place to sit quietly and contemplate my next step. I was quite amazed to discover that there were so many people in my college, all apparently engaged in learnig techniques to improve their marks. ("Marks" was the opium of the masses, one might say in hindsight.)

And then I saw a large hall that was practically deserted. On inquiry I was told that this was the “Fiction Section”. A technical library with such a large fiction section? I was quite perplexed. The library assistant insisted that this was indeed the fact. So I walked up to a shelf and pulled out a book at random. I noticed that it was first published in 1959, which was the year I was born. It seemed like a sign. I flipped through the pages – one paragraph caught my eye. It started like this:

"Although it is generally known, I think it's about time to announce that I was born at a very early age."

Wow! Just like me! Wasn't that wonderful! I immediately got the book issued, took it to my room and read it from start to finish. I was hooked for life. The book was called "GROUCHO AND ME", written by Julius Henry Marx, generally known as Groucho Marx. When I returned the book to the library a few days later, I was a confirmed Marxist for life. I attach some of the statements he made during his lifetime. If you read them, you may understand why I am a true blue Marxist.

MARXISMS:

On life in general: Whatever it is, I'm against it!

On Politics: Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedies.

On being offered membership of a "prestigious" club: It is not exclusive enough. I do not want to belong to a club that will accept people like me as a member.

On friendship: No one is completely unhappy at the failure of his best friend.

Toast to women: Here's to our wives and girlfriends... may they never meet!

On aging: A man's only as old as the woman he feels.

More on aging: Age is not a particularly interesting subject. Anyone can get old. All you have to do is live long enough.

On living: I intend to live forever, or die trying.

On dying: I’m not interested in dying. Why, that's the last thing I'll do!

On posterity: Why should I care about posterity? What's posterity ever done for me?

On life: Do infants have as much fun in infancy as adults do in adultery?

On principles: Those are my principles. If you don't like them I have others.

On necking: Whoever named it necking was a poor student of anatomy.

On himself: If you want to see a comic strip, you should see me in the shower.

On success: The secret of success is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake those, you've got it made.

On the impact of television: I find television very educational. Every time someone switches it on I go into another room and read a good book.

To an irritating interviewer: I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception.

To a man who irked him: I bet your father spent the first year of your life throwing rocks at the stork.

On drinking: I drink to make other people interesting.

On women’s dresses: If women dressed for men, the stores wouldn't sell much – just an occasional sun visor.

On marriage: Marriage is a wonderful institution ... but who wants to live in an institution?

More on marriage: I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.

On Hollywood marriages: It looks as if Hollywood brides keep the bouquets and throw away the grooms.

On divorce: Marriage is the chief cause of divorce.

On alimony: Paying alimony is like feeding hay to a dead horse.

On poetry: My favourite poem is the one that starts "Thirty days hath September" because it actually tells you something.

On Woody Allen: That kid's so smart, he could be the fifth Marx Brother.

On Vietnam: We should pull out. Which is what Nixon’s father should have done.

On the military: Military intelligence is a contradiction in terms.

On dogs: Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.

On quotes: Quote me as saying I was misquoted.

His general philosophy in life: Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, and I'm going to be happy in it.

AMEN.

THE TIMES THEY ARE A CHANGED

.
Every time I venture out for a rock concert these days,
I find each band’s going through a funky ‘hip-hop’ phase,
I get sorely disappointed by the numbers that they choose,
They seem to prefer soulful rap to good old rhythm and blues,
I get to hear some ‘MNM’ when I crave for Jethro Tull;
.... Well, life’s like that these modern times, nary a moment dull!

Then, when I take the family out for a routine evening meal,
I look down at the menu card and it surely does reveal
No Tandoori, no Moghlai food, no Thai, nor English Raj,
It’s ‘fusion food’ that fill the card, from Flury’s to the Taj,
That simple, wholesome Chinese fare is all but void and null;
.... Well, life’s like that these modern times, nary a moment dull!

Then, when we go out for a movie, we’re seldom in a hall,
Instead we find our forlorn selves in a glitzy shopping mall,
And after spending useless cash on designer 'corn-flex'
We climb the escalator to some fancy ‘multi-plex’,
Jostling for our places, like that storm before the lull;
.... Well, life’s like that these modern times, nary a moment dull!
.

LET US DEVELOP

There's something about a chemical hub,
A buzz, that is quite pleasant,
Unless, of course, you happen to be
A farmer, or perhaps a peasant.

But indeed, if you happen to be
A peasant, or e'en a farmer,
Don't you think the time's quite ripe
For you to seek climes warmer?

So, move on, O ye rustic folk,
Why lay buried in your cloister?,
Migrate to some greener pasture,
The whole wide world's your oyster.

Go forth, vacate your humble land,
Big brother's all expectant.....
There's something about a chemical hub,
A buzz, that's really pleasant!!!

HOSTELS

Hostels are places with a large number of rooms, usually. People stay in some of those rooms. In other rooms they eat, shit, play games or spend time in pursuing such other meaningful activities. The room (or rooms) where they eat is called 'mess', which may or may not reflect upon the state of affairs therein. However, the fact remains that the inmates of a hostel have this uncanny ability to convert anything they touch into a mess.

People who stay in hostels are known as 'hostiles'. In general, hostel life is known as 'hostility'. It is a boisterous life, this hostility, and sometimes it leads to plenty of vigorous and violent activities. Then the most boisterous of the hostiles are transferred to borstals, but that is another story, and well beyond the scope of this discussion.

Meanwhile, every session a new batch of hostiles joins the hostel. These fresh hostiles are very useful to the senior hostiles. They are called freshers, these fresh hostiles, though the reason for such a nomenclature is lost in the mists of history. (Quite mysterious, you might say.) The freshers are thoughtfully shown the way to the various aspects of hostility. This unselfish act of hospitality is known as ragging. It breaks the ice, so that the drinks are cooler. However, some fresh hostiles lose their hostility due to the over-generous hospitality of the senior hostiles, though that’s yet another story.

Hostiles spend most of their active life playing games. At one time the most popular sport in hostility was Khatia Kabaddi, but soon there was a tug-of-war of sorts between the Indoor Games Secretary and the Small Area Games Secretary on jurisdiction. This led to the untimely death of this noble sport. However, that does not prevent the hostiles from participating in fun and games, at least as spectators.

Hostiles also participate in several literary activities, like quizzes, JAMs and debates. Hostiles possess this unique ability to debate both sides of a given issue with equal agility, leading to stalemate. Another favourite literary activity is "Gali Leo", which consists of shouting decorative and creative adjectives during the periods when the hostels are powerless. Most hostiles are adept in this activity.

Most hostels are attached to educational institutes. Thus the hostiles have to attend classes from time to time. This is the one truly mundane aspect of hostel life. However, hostiles soon learn to adapt to the situation. After all, only a small fraction of the hostel day is spent in classrooms. Otherwise hostility is sheer bliss, what with all those sporting and cultural activities.

The hostiles are meant to spend a certain number of years, at least, in a hostel. The proscribed number of years may vary from hostel to hostel, but in general these few years are known as the ‘Golden Years’. Once the hostiles leave the confines of hostels, some of them write books on these golden years, causing many ex-hostiles to squirm. Why this happens is not quite established, but that does not prevent the squirming.

Talking of ex-hostiles, for some strange reason they are collectively known as alumina, which is nothing but a compound of individual aluminiums. From time to time the alumina meet to recreate hostility.Then the aluminium gets married and gets attached to a host or a hostess, and the hostility is sidelined for ever.

Note: Khatia is the Indian for bed or cot, Kabaddi is a popular Indian sport, involving a lot of wrestling and jostling.

MEMORY

With age, my mem'ry hems and haws;
My past's no longer what it was.

Anyone for Tennis?

Tennis is a game, though Tenn is a state. Tennis is in fact a racket sport. It is played on a court, which makes it a royal game of sorts. Royal tennis, though, is a different game. Royal tennis is also called court tennis or real tennis. Tennis is different, though some people say real tennis is different. They call tennis the real tennis and sometimes call it lawn tennis to differentiate it from real tennis. If you find all this a bit confusing, well, never mind, there’s more to come.

As already mentioned, some people call tennis lawn tennis. Then they play it on red dirt (which they call clay) or artificial carpet and such. Only in the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club they still use lawns to play lawn tennis. Otherwise mostly they play lawn tennis away from lawns. To add to the confusion, they have sets within the game and games within the sets. These games within the game have points, which increase in a peculiar manner. During the Wimbledon fortnight, you often reach ‘fifteen all’, which in Paris they call ‘ganza’, which light up a few eyes. Sometimes ‘let’ is called and then they don’t let you play at all. A beginner has a deuce of a time understanding the advantage of the system, which leads to further confusion, but that’s the ‘real’ity of lawn tennis.

Tennis, as we have established, is a game. It is also a spectator sport. The spectators are usually known as ‘rubbernecks’, as opposed to ‘rednecks’ though you could easily become one after watching an afternoon game. These ‘rubbernecks’ spend lots of time (and money) to sit and watch the game unfold and grimly shake their heads from left to right in concert with breathtaking regularity. When they have shaken their heads a lot, they suddenly stop and applaud! The confusion continues.

What is abundantly clear amidst all this confusion is that tennis is a game. Some call it "Jesus’ Game", for it begins with the sombre announcement, "Love All." It is a racket sport, though for some former players like Ilie Nastase and John McEnroe, it was often more racket than sport. Some current players, especially among the women, also make quite a racket while serving. Yes, the game begins when one of the two players serves, while the other stands and waits. To pacify Milton, the player originally standing and waiting is later given the opportunity to serve. The game goes on.

The most disturbing thing about tennis is tennis elbow. This is a disease, a painful disease, made worse when doctors call it epicondilitis. It has become highly contagious – it is now rapidly spreading to other sports. One Indian cricket star’s career has been crippled, while another lost his captaincy and his place in the sun because of this fateful disease. In the good old days, however, tennis elbow only afflicted tennis player. One great champion of the past, Rod Laver, suffered from it until he got treated by a faith healer from the Philippines or thereabouts. Since then people have been known to try faithfully to cure this disease by using a rod as a lever.

Tennis is one game that has both an umpire and a referee. The umpire sits on a high chair and is required to call out the points. Players often dispute those calls. Sometimes the matter is referred to the referee. This is probably the least confusing thing about tennis. Then the umpire calls "Game, set and match" and the players shake hands and go home.

Time to go.

For God’s Sake

Once, long ago, in the dim and distant past, in a small house in a quiet little corner of Heaven, lived God, God’s mother and God’s father. God’s father had just retired, and he would sit around and read his newspaper or tend the garden or something, while God’s mother did the housework, as ever. Meanwhile, God was busy with His work. All in all it was a serene little household.

One day God had gone out to His workshop to do His creations. God’s father was sitting in his study with the crossword when he suddenly wanted to ask God something. So called his wife and said, "Dear, where’s God?"

"God knows," the mother replied.

"Well," said God’s father, "For God’s sake, call Him, I want to talk to Him."

So God’s mother went out to the porch and called, "God, God, Gaaaaaaaawd, where are you, your father wants to talk to you."

But God was busy with His work and in any case someone or the other was always calling Him. So He did not pay much attention and went on creating.

So God’s mother went back to her husband and said, "I called and I called and I called but He just won’t reply."

Hearing this, God’s father was livid. He threw down his paper and stormed up to the workshop where God was creating.

"God," said His father, "Didn’t you hear your mother calling you?"

"I think I did," replied God absently, "So it was mother who was calling, was it?"

God’s father became really angry then. He said, "You heard her calling you and yet you didn’t reply?" He stared at God, who just glanced up from His work and smiled.

God’s father shook with anger. He glared at God and said, "You heard you mother calling you and yet you didn’t bother to reply. Well, I’m telling you, from now on you shall hear many people calling you but you shall never able to answer a single call."

Like in all stories, the curse worked.

Today when people call God, He can hear them, but He is unable to answer. It is not His fault.

Or is it?

And why does He always get a capital H?

Despair

India my homeland, my nation,
The haven of religious proliferation.
The land of many a God, many a teacher,
Many a saint, among whom feature
Krishna and Rama, Buddha and Mahavira;
Ramakrishna, Nanak and Kabir in times nearer.
And today, in this land of the Maharishis
The girl child is one of the endangered species.

India, my country, my motherland,
Where great men were born once, I understand;
Men like Gandhi and Raman and Tagore,
And Netaji and Panditji and many more;
Sages, all, in some way or the other,
Sages, serving their Mother.
And today, in this land of the sages
Religion is the watchword of violent outrages.

Be Happy That You're Alive

Life is but a fight
From morning till night;
So what?
Would you rather be dead and interred
Than alive, albeit wed and splintered!

Love Me Do, But Carefully

Love thy neighbour,
Love with heat;
But, for God's sake
Be discreet.

Love is splendid,
Love pervades,
Yet at times love
Leads to AIDS.

True Love

I love your perfect complexion,
Your lovely molars suit me fine,
I love your beauty unashamedly;
Darling, darling, come be mine.

I love you when you encourage,
I love you when you undermine,
I love you when you tangle me
In you fingers, like a twine.

I love your smile, your breathless ‘ooh’,
I love your hair that’s serpentine,
I love your humour, spleen and bounce;
Just say ‘yes’ and I’ll be thine.

I love your lively acrobatics,
Your preference for sixty nine;
But above all I love your moolah;
Will you be my Valentine?


(Written on Valentine Day, 2006.)

Unique Occurence

This morning, 2 minutes and 3 seconds after one,
I had some fun;
Without too many tocks and ticks,
My digital clock read 01:02:03:04:05:06!

What a strange, delightful sequence;
Doesn't occur with much frequence,
In fact, this will never again be seen
Until we are all dead and disappeared from the scene.

Intelligent Buildings

Ever since the turn of the millennium, one is hearing and reading a lot about intelligent buildings. Over the last few years, quite a few seminars have been held in various parts of India on this subject. As an architect, I have attended one or two such seminars. In the IT-BUILT Seminar at IIT Kharagpur, for instance, one kept hearing about these amazing intelligent buildings. Several eminent speakers discussed how such "super intelligent buildings" are the only possible built forms of the future, gradually replacing the "stupid" buildings that architects have created over the centuries.

During the same period, actor Russell Crowe was nominated for the Best Actor Oscar for "his depiction of a maths professor whose brilliant mind succumbs to schizophrenia". He had earlier won a Golden Globe Best Actor's award for the same role. The movie, "A Beautiful Mind", is based on the life of Professor John Nash and explores the fine line between genius and insanity.

Adolf Hitler once wanted to eradicate all sub-intelligent human species from the face of the earth, leaving just the "super-intelligent pure" humans to rule the roost. His vision included a world inhabited only by the beautiful and intelligent supermen. We all know what happened to Hitler and his dreams.

What happens when we build only "intelligent" buildings? What do we do to all the existing "stupid" buildings all over the world? Do we send the Taj Mahal to a concentration camp? Do we gas-chamber the pyramids? It would take a long time, anyway, to round up all the idiotic architecture of the world.

Then, what happens when intelligent buildings turn insane and go berserk? Are we considering the possibility of living in a schizophrenic building? I’m sure it will be interesting, but is it safe for our children? Are we really ready for intelligent architecture?

Some answers, please, and soon. These thoughts are driving me intelligent.

The Party Animal

These days I often find myself in a party
With folk who are sexy or mundane or arty;
A few of these people are certainly older,
Though most are much younger and patently bolder.

There’s good food, generally, and plenty of booze;
Palates get duly sated, people tight, tongues loose.
Everybody speaks but no one listens at all,
Like Dylan laments in ‘A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall’.

There is a great deal of fun, frolic and laughter;
It all changes totally the morning after.
As I wake up my day is already half gone,
My head feels larger than that of a mastodon,

It throbs like the piston on a travel rep’s bike,
Or as if a few kids are inside with a mike.
My throat is drier than the summer Sahara,
I rush to the fridge for lime and lots of warra;

As evening progresses, I begin to regroup,
I pep myself up with a packet of Knorr soup,
I get to feel refreshingly hale and hearty;
Soon I find myself in a similar party!

High School Blues

The wheels keep moving round and round
Which makes the car move, I have found;
But the motion of the car, it's clear
Ain't round, confound it, but linear!
Which means my knowledge of Motion
Is a bundle of confusion.

In Geography once I was told
How rivers and mountains unfold;
It's force of gravity, my chum,
That adheres us to earth, not gum.
Otherwise all I ever found
Is that the world ain't flat, it's round.

And then we have blooming History,
A peek in darkness, a mystery!
You look back and see what had been
When you weren't e'en on the scene!
This flirting with dates that have passed
Leaves me most completely aghast.

Then Maths is one more puzzling chore;
Why, two plus two is always four!
All that Lambda, Mu, Pi, Delta
Makes me scamper helta skelta.
And then the square of x and y
Really makes me wonder, why?

And then comes dear old Chemistry;
Where atoms form the swirling tree
And water becomes H 2 O
And behaves odd at minus four;
The atomic table lays the rule.
You know now why I gave up school.

Heart-Brain By-Pass

If you let your heart decide,
Which road you have to take,
You might miss the rocking chair
And end up in a quake!

If you let your brain decide
Which way you have to turn,
You might have to spend your day
To balance what you earn.

But, if you let your soul decide,
You won’t ever be wrong,
You’ll perhaps discover soon
Life’s nothing but a song.

Yet, if you let the soul decide,
One advice you must mind,
Regrets make the errors grow;
In life there’s no rewind.

Do People Live in Dubai?

In a mail group I belong to a question was raised by Paul Varghese whether people live in Dubai. What an incredible question! Of course they do. Apart from plain knowledge, history and logic also suggest that people do live in Dubai. Let us examine the known facts, according to www dot freakipedia dot com.

Dubai was in fact established by two Indian brothers who went to live there, and Indians are people, of course they are, no matter their behaviour. Since it was first settled by these 2 brothers, it was named Dubhai, ‘du’ being the Indian for ‘two’ and ‘bhai’ being the Indian for ‘brother’. Later, for some reason, the 'h' fell off. (God knows why, must be the Arab pronunciation.) Still later other people joined these brothers in Dubai. Thus it became populated. Later it became popular.

Nowadays people who live in Dubai are called Dubyas. I heard from someone that one of them migrated to the US and became their president, though the source is suspicious. This same person (who gave me the Dubya info) once told me that people of Nepal are smallish fighters and they are called Napoleons, and that a few of them migrated to France to become dictators and brandys. (Or should I write brandies?) Anyway, I later discovered, to my chagrin, that this was not entirely true. So you may ignore this fact - as I already told you, the source is dubious.

Dubai has many interesting places nearby. One such place is Hatta. It is a valley in the Hajar Mountains. Of course, the Himalayas too have hajar mountains, but they are bigger. People live in Hatta, too. They are called Hattangadis. Some of them have migrated to Mum-bai, which is the sister city of Du-bai.

The Dubyas of Dubai have boats which they call Dhows. Dhow sailing is a popular sport there, especially on December 2. Nothing can be popular without people. That is another proof that people live in Dubai.

Then there is Bur Dubai. This is named after the elder of the two brothers. Here Bur means elder and nothing else, so don't smirk. Bastakia is in Bur Dubai. It answers the age old question, "Kya kia?" "Basta kia." What it means I'm not too sure. Perhaps it has something to do with the wonderful bus service of Dubai, 'bus' to 'bas' is understandable, especially to a Bengali. Anyway, the mere presence of a bus service proves that people live in Dubai, or at least they travel in Dubai.

Then of course the world famous Dubai World Cup is held annually in Dubai, as the name suggests. It is actually a horse race, supposedly the world's richest, held at the Nad al Sheba club. Would it have been held in Dubai if none lived there? Who would have organised it? Plus the very presence of a club suggests people.

QED.


Note: Hajar in Indian means thousand.

Daffy Deals

Or

My Love Ignores Me

(With due apologies to Willie Wordsworth)

I wondered madly as a clown
That turns cartwheels in crazy guise,
When all at once I saw a frown
On her forehead, above her eyes;
The more I try to primp and please,
The more we get like chalk and cheese.

Continuous as the tap that drips
Through sleepless night till rooster crows,
I keep trying to come to grips
With lyrical rhyme and candid prose;
Ten thousand words I bring to taste,
Yet my fervour goes to waste!

The others smile, but she, alas,
Looks uninterested, like Chappell Sir,
I fret, I worry, I beg and curse,
(I'll probably get peptic ulcer);
And there she sits like Buddha Jade,
Quite oblivious of my serenade.

Later, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
It flashes on my inward eye
That my chances are completely screwed;
And my heart goes roun' and roun' --
I'll end my days a lonely clown.

Ode to Winter

(With due apologies to Johnny Keats)

Season of feasts and fellow feeling-ness,
Close bosom-friends of the maturing age:
Conspiring with the gang how to load and bless
With food and wines around the river’s edge;

To bend with the intoxication of smoky haze,
And fill our extended bellies to the core;
To swell the coffers of our tinted gaze
With a sweet Black Forest; or a couple more,

And still more, until the cholesterol creaks,
And the stomach turns as the diarrhoea drips,
And the head swirls while the vision freaks;
No more, you say, until the summer’s trips.

Cause & Effect

Every time I have phuchka near Victoria
My soul gets inundated with euphoria;
Next day, as the feel-good factors soften
My bowels move violently, and often.

(Phuchka is the Bengali name for the North Indian Pani Puri and one of the most tasty Indian snacks. Hyegiene is the last word that one could ever associate with phuchka.)

Three Years Down The Line

Three years back on an April’s morn
In some jaded lives a spark was born –
This group was formed for e-mail chat,
To laugh or cry on this and that.
But lately all seems, oh, so bare,
Those lovely mails are hardly there,
Though we’d started bright and bold!
To think we’re all but three years old.

At first we had some fun and games,
Three score members, guys and dames,
Mail box full of memories,
Two line wonders, tall stories.
But somewhere some have lost the thread,
Perhaps busy earning bread.
At this rate this group will fold;
Alas! We’re only three years old!

A few souls still take precious time
To pen some lines in prose or rhyme
And keep us young and fresh and cool,
And form a sprightly cyber school
So hey, you silent childhood fren’
I want to hear from you again!
May we strive for silver, gold
And become more than three years old.

Today is one more April’s morn,
A sparkling time, when hopes are born,
So come on, pal, ignite that spark,
You can’t type? Well, simply bark!
Or boo or hiss or laugh or wail
But for God’s sake post a mail,
Do resurrect us from the cold
Though we’re only three years old.

(This one is about our school e-group, which started with much fanfare but is slowly dwindling into oblivion, or perhaps not!)

The Passage of One More Year

Another brand new year has come;
The previous year is past,
Greetings over cyber space
Fly furious and fast.
Alas, I just fail to see
What all is there to cheer!
To me, it just portends
The passage of one more year.

As the year comes to an end,
And we reach the thirty first,
Glasses are raised to merry cries,
And perhaps to quench the thirst.
The party’s on, crackers burst,
While I just smile, I fear,
To me, it just portends
The passage of one more year.

The dancers revel, the revellers dance,
The midnight masses roll,
The tumblers reveal bottoms up,
The senses take a stroll.
The food lies scarcely touched;
As the spirits disappear…
To me, it just portends
The passage of one more year.

Self Sacrifice

O George Bush!
I'm waiting for you to give the push.
When the push comes to the shove,
I shall be the bleeding white dove.


(Written after 9/11 but before the invasion of Iraq.)

Uppers & Downers

Every time I have some booze,
The main-screw in my brain turns loose;
But when I have some pot or hashish
I feel distinctly Ogden Nashish.

Ditty on D.T.

There was this guy, Samuel L Clemens,
Whom you may perhaps know as Mark Twain,
He suffered (I suppose) from delirium tremens,
For he gave up smoking time and time again.

When asked how he could do it so often,
He'd smile benignly, and cop a subtle feel,
His eyes would light up, his voice soften,
He'd say, "Giving up ain't such a big deal!"

"When your throat burns, and your eyes hurt,
And your stomach feels disgustingly queasy,
And you heart feels as if it’s being ripped apart,
Then giving up becomes remarkably easy."

"Of course, as the new day dawns
You feel refreshed, rejuvenated, without regret,
You stretch like a cat and stifle your yawns
And reach a lazy arm for another cig'rette."

"You have to do it, you know, to start again,
So another chance to give up comes along."
Thus spake Zarathustra … err … ummm … Mark Twain,
Or so I’m told, though I may have heard wrong.

The Birth of Religion

(This piece was developed from a mail I received a few years ago from a friend in Kerala.)

Religion today has become a major player in world politics. People are using the ‘Religion’ card everywhere to gain political advantage. From terrorists to local councillors, everyone is invoking religion to muster support. The actual role of religion in one’s life is gradually becoming irrelevant. Time is ripe, perhaps, to have a close look at religion in general, and history of religion in particular, to get a clear picture.

To understand religion, one must first understand legion. Before you ask why, let me remind you that everything has to have a root. Like beer. Or arrow. There is a school of thought that believes that legion is the root of religion. This is the school I attended once, albeit intermittently.

In Roman times soldiers were formed into legions. In those days men couldn't count too well. Thus ‘legions’ came to mean ‘many’, irrespective of the actual number of men in the Roman ‘Legion’. A ‘legionary’ was the leader of a ‘legion’. Why it would be so is one of those unsolved mysteries of history.

Legionnaire seems to be the French form of legionary, but it isn’t. It simply implies one belonging to a legion. The most famous Legionnaire of all times is of course Legionnaire Beau Peep. This little Beau Peep never had any sheep to lose. Thus when he lost sleep he couldn’t count sheep. Owing to his quaint French accent, one can imagine him saying "lost sheep" when referring to any vessel passing through the Bermuda triangle, but that is quite irrelevant to our serious discussion of today.

Legionnaires, too, sometimes had their legions to lead. They would lead until it was time to take French leave. Thus, as the French leaves piled up, a thorough record had to be maintained. This led to the birth of a study of legion in ancient Mesopotamia or thereabouts. All this study material was neatly stored in a folder marked Re: Legion. Needless to say, this led, albeit indirectly, to the birth of religion. Obviously, some scribe must have misspelled ‘Relegion’ when translating the folder from Latin. The rest, as they say, is history.

It is well known that Karl Marx described religion as the opiate of the masses. This assertion only reveals Marx’s pathetic lack of experience in the subtle nuances of opium based hallucinogens. In this respect one would do well to remember the not-so-famous saying of the other Marx, Groucho, "Legion is the Mass of the Opiates." There is no record of Groucho ever having said this, but who else could have made such a statement? This one small sentence draws at once a vivid and descriptive picture of the Roman Legion, the Chinese Opium War and Einstein’s Theory of Relative Mass Movement. If you ask how, well that’s another unsolved mystery.

Historically ‘hysteria’ is another word that can easily be linked to ‘mass’, ‘opium’ and ‘religion’. However no one has to date linked hysteria with legion. If we do so we get ‘stampede’ under Roman boots. That is not too significant by itself but if you only consider the undeniable fact that Roman cobblers made Roman boots then perhaps you see the light. If and when you do, you can explain it to me, I can’t make head or tail of all this.

Coming back to legions, legionnaires and legionaries, leghorn has absolutely nothing to do with legion. Yet legions had to be fed; as the well known adage states, you cannot fight on an empty stomach. So one can imagine legions of leghorns marching down the Roman trade routes, with their own legionaries perhaps, to be methodically converted to Chicken Sicilian. Until the advent of Bird Flu, at least.

Leg irons are another example of ancient Roman militarism. You have perhaps noticed that leg irons are nothing but legions with an ‘space’ and a ‘r’ within. Which is most interesting, to say the least. However all that is beyond the scope of our present discourse, so we shall move on to the next important item.

As we have already established, legions gave birth to religions, and thank God they did! Because religions gave birth to holidays. To think how many holidays would have been lost if it were not for religions, especially in India, makes one shudder in awe and bewilderment. And of course it goes without saying so I shall go without saying anything further.

Vanity Fare

One day, without trying too hard
I wrote some verses on humanity;
I thought, oho! I’m now a bard!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

One morning as I sat on the potty
I composed a ditty on insanity;
As a musician I could be a hottie!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

One afternoon, in a seminar in Silchar
I held forth on fertilisers and organity!
I’m now a Guru of agriculture!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

One evening, while chatting with my wife,
I analysed the virtues of monogamity;
Oi, oi! I’m an expert on life!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

The other day I met some lady friends
And discussed Pierre Cardin’s urbanity;
I do indeed keep up with the trends!
..... It’s a strange thing, vanity.

On line with an Al Qaida fanatist
I thrashed out Kashmir’s Pakistanity;
So I’m a great political analyst!
..... It’s a rum thing, vanity.