The moving finger writes.............

You stand there, By my side, Across space and time, Helping me to survive This enigma of life. Your touch Is like the caress of the breeze That rejuvenates my body. Your smile Is my strength. I live because You help me to. Like the sun that rises Every morning, Your presence is a reassurance That all is well. The whirlwinds of life May surround us, But I know That peace will be found In this oasis That we have built for ourselves, And that you will be with me Forever.  

The rains have hit Pune, not with a gale yet, but with a drizzle. The weather has become cool, the air is laden with moisture, greenery has multiplied, pools of water have started collecting, and on the hilltops surrounding this city, the clouds have started accumulating, to form that unique monsoon phenomenon. Monsoons bring a lot to the mind. The memory of choked roads in Calcutta. Incessant rains and floods in 1986, when our house became an island in the middle of a sea of water. Rain-soaked journeys to school, including an occasion when the school gates were flooded and we had to wade in with trousers rolled up! Playing football in the rains, in the mud. Listening to Raga Meghamallar on the old LP Record player at home .Further on, torrential rains in my college days, at Mangalore. Impromptu rain dances on the hostel roof. Getting wet on my bike. Rain-swept sea beaches. Further on, monsoon romances. And the not so enjoyable aspects like getting drenched from head to toe ...

I have been following the Rajat Gupta trial rather closely, over the past few days. What shocked me was not the fact that a widely respected business head was convicted of insider trading, but the fact that a person who had everything going for him, and had everything he could ask for, chose to chuck it all up, in return for dubious  business benefits . I mean, this gentleman had everything he could ask for. An IIT – Harvard education, the NRI dream, managing partnership of McKinsey (the first non- American born to be so), a financially secure life that many people in the US and India would die for.  He was on the UN advisory panel, and connected to the powers- that-be. Then, why this greed? Two key words in the newspaper report gave it away. Envy. Greed. He was envious of younger people earning more than him , during his stint on the Goldman Sachs board, and in the words of Raj Rajaratnam, his associate in crime ( who was similarly convicted  last year)...

The cool wind blows, The white globe lights up The night-sky. The distant hills are silent; Lights on the hill-tops. The air is quiet With expectation. Moonlight shines through The silhouettes of trees. On nights such as these, I would lie on the terrace And just be; Was that really so long ago? The dark outlines of the hills Carve out the horizon In shades of black and grey. The wind that caresses my hair Touches me deep inside, And also heals. I feel at peace With myself and this world. Amongst these dark distant hills, Punctuated by specks of sky- light , And bathed in the moonlight, I find myself Once again.

Last night was a full-moon night.  The full moon means many things to different people. It is presumed to bring on the poetic spirit in some, cause insanity in others, and instigate both in still others. Some believe it can herald vampires and werewolves. One of Bengal’s most distinguished poets, Kabi Sukanta, compared the full moon to a “full-cooked roti”, symbolizing the state of hunger and deprivation that the State was going through, in the pre-independence era.  The poet , P.B.Shelley, had depicted it as a picture of solitude, “Wandering companionless, among the stars that have a different birth”. Well, to each person his own depiction. It is beyond 11 pm, and having had dinner, accompanied by some excellent Chardonnay wine, with a few friends, it seems like the ideal night to take a ride on my bike. The weather seems ideal, and though it is quite late, the comforting fact of a leave on the coming day makes me stick to my plan. The city streets look dif...

I fear the tempest, It threatens to unleash itself Every solitary morning Like a beast waiting to be released. Every morning when the sun comes up And the skies are grey, The tempest hovers around the horizon, Like unseen clouds Which can unleash their torrential wrath. Voices from near and far- Fleeting images, Flicker and pass by. The skies were blue And the fields were green Not so long ago. Late at night, Before dreams invade, The tempest is still around the horizon, Beyond the flash of the neon lights, Far beyond the reach Of redemption. It goes to sleep, And so do I, Till the  coming dawn.

To speak, or not to speak, That is the question; Whether ‘tis better to suffer fools and their babble, Or to use the acid tongue and end them all. Whither is the right way- Tact or forthrightness, Mindless snides and chatter, Or opinions that mean what they say? I much prefer the latter; But then, I do so at my own risk. To speak, perchance to scream, Ay, that’s the rub, For, at the height of screams, What solitude may come, When we have shrugged off this mental toil. (Thanks, William Shakespeare, and my apologies for twisting your words)