Friday, 19 January 2018

Are all ends means to an end?

Ends are absurd.
An end
Is a little like being dead.
One day, you’re alive.
The very next, you’re not.
Ends are absurd.
And beginnings, too.
A beginning
Is a little like being born.
One day, you never were.
The very next, you are.

Does an infant miss not being born?
Maybe not.
It doesn’t remember being unborn anyway.
Do the dead miss being alive?
Maybe not.
They don’t remember being alive anyway.

The unborn
And the dead
Know nothing about
Out of sight, out of mind.

The unborn
And the dead
Do not have
Vivid memories.

But a sentient person,
Attached to what they’re leaving behind,
Uncertain about what’s to come,
Will agree that
Ends are absurd
And beginnings, too.

               Because moving from one team to another warrants a romantic account.
               Which is not surprising considering my two-step approach to dealing/coping with things that stir/affect me:
1. Head rant
2. Write
               Well, I proved to myself today, that not all poems need rhyme to resonate.
               Until the next visit from the elusive creative muse, ciao.

Sunday, 10 December 2017

The man he killed

               Fans of poetry, read this spin-off at your own risk.

Had she and I but met
By some quaint, themed café,
We should have sat us down to get
Coffee or even a buffet.

But ranged as superior-subordinate,
And staring face to face,
We took turns spewing hate,
Forgetting it’s a workplace.

I fought her claim because-
Because it wasn’t making sense,
And was full of flaws;
’course, no offense.

She thought she’d work, probably,
Off-hand like – just as I –
Was looking to make money;
No other reason why.

Yes; strange and curious work is!
You bear someone ill will;
Though you’d chum up with the Miss;
And do nothing but chill.

Sunday, 17 September 2017

Testing times

              Too bad the creative muse has been elusive for a while now. So here's something I wrote when I was young and foolish and full of hope. (Edited for length. Rants retained.)

             “Cut-off” – So popular is the Indian context of the word that if you look it up on the internet, only two results give the actual meaning of the phrasal verb. For those who do not know, cut-off is the term referring to the aggregate marks scored in 'core' subjects (excluding languages).

              The Board-exam season is also the time when a good number of students attempt to commit suicide. Debating the morality of suicide is failing to address the core issue - the perils of high-stakes testing.

              So passĂ©, but the current system of education tests nothing but memory. It doesn’t even demand complete knowledge of the topics dealt with. If your answer sheet is a photocopy of your textbook, you get to sail past everything and land in a reputed college. Else, you’re doomed - or that’s what it's made out to be. A three-hour memory test to decide on a child’s potential - bright idea!

             ‘Practicals' do form part of the syllabus, but observations and inferences are written long before the experiments are actually performed. We actually go about memorizing the procedure, observations and, hold your breath, even readings! Not to mention the common accusation - schools teach nothing about practical skills like financial management.

              The textbook prescribed by the Government is addled with mistakes and is outdated. The Class XII Chemistry textbook, the first edition of which came out in 2006 (and is still in use) states that India ‘recently’ launched SLV-3. India has launched a lot of other space vehicles after this one. Maybe this is one reason why students from the region find it difficult to fare well in competitive exams.

              Compounding the misery of rote mugging, there's this notion that Medicine and Engineering are the only two fields that are lucrative. All parents want is for their kids to settle. Well-meaning as they might be, they kill and bury their kids' dreams (especially artistic ones) and allow themselves the liberty of making decisions on their behalf. They either don't want their kid to fail at all (which is impossible) or they want their kids to achieve all that they themselves couldn't.

              Lucky are those whose passion (which, apparently, by its very nature, is non-profitable) is their profession. I do not wish to live the same year sixty times over and call it a life.

              I really wish that some day, someone reads this and wonders, “Looks like a piece of fiction!”

Sunday, 27 August 2017

Features of a client contract brought to you by CIK Corp. in association with MC Inc.

               Some gossip. Some swear. I write. If not anything else, creative expression is a way to vent and cope. And those who work for CIK Corporations that work for MC Incorporateds most definitely need to vent while coping.

A couple of bad pictures - I am still Photoshop-illiterate.

If I manage to keep my job after this post, who knows, a few years from now, I'd write about this from other positions on the spectrum. Life is scary.

Sunday, 9 July 2017

Oh, puh-lease

               Policing seems to be all the rage now, what with the self-appointed protectors of <insert anything of perceived cultural value> and all their gallantry. Though the following lynch-at-sight aggressors differ in their expression, they have a unifying spirit - one of oppression.

Gestapo - Gestures:
               The Gestapo have applied themselves to defining, adopting and forcefully imposing on fellow humans, gestures they deem appropriate to express <insert anything of perceived cultural value>. (Think standing up when the national anthem is played and the like.) While the Gestapo is free to define and adopt arbitrary gestures, is it not presumptuous to impose those gestures on those with differing sentiments? Anyone who is tempted to exclaim 'What will you lose by standing up for a bit?' is missing the point.
My pet peeve: the Gestapo's laughable claim that the gestures they hold so dear somehow translate to love or respect for <insert anything of perceived cultural value>.

Pork Mince Police - Food:
                 The Pork Mince police go about butchering anyone who is seen consuming or is suspected to have consumed food items that have failed their 'allowable for ingestion' test. I might be okay with such imposition if the test didn't have such dubious parameters - animals with perceived cultural value disallowed. (Sorry, I lied; any form/degree of dictation is anathema to me).
My pet peeve: mobs asking dissenters - who reply with 'No, thanks. I'll have <redacted item>' when the 'allowable for ingestion'  menu is shoved at them - to leave the country.

Climax Police - Pleasure:
                  The climax police take policing to unthought of heights - dictating sexuality, shaming non-conformists and even deciding which gender deserves more coital pleasure. To think that genital mutilation was carried out under the pretext of curing lesbianism!
'But there are women who choose to undergo clitoridectomy.'
'For fear of ostracism? Hardly counts as free choice.'
'What about cosmetic clitoridectomy?'
'You mean elective surgery? Elective being the key word?'

                   Forced veneration is like canned laughter - it kills the spirit.

                   I plead guilty to thoughtcrime.