Information

Birds in
          formation
                       inspired
                                  these Words
                         in formation
            and reminded me
   of You.



[I'd promised my brother I would maintain a poetry blog if he regularly updated his photo blog, so neither of us would lose touch with our avocations.
I'm keeping up my side of the deal. Here is his:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rao_anirudh/4157698554/

Check out all the other pics as well. Totally worth it!]

Mistress of my Nights

[More than a year has gone by: I have been meeting my mistress a minimum of once a month. It has been a good year; but now I must walk away from these verse pursuits, and pursue better ones. So, until my mistress beckons again, and I must inevitably run to her- so long and thanks for visiting!]


"Let go, my Love! the dawn is breaking-"
She held me back in vain;
"I must be now my leave taking
Till we meet again."

She my hand did harder press,
"Pray let me go away.
I never meant you as mistress,
Nor this to be this way.

"I spend my days in those pursuits
Yet I swear I love you more
Than being choked by business suits
And jailed by office doors.

"And so, this is just how I live,
Not how I wanted to;
Oh Poetry, were you lucrative
I'd spend my life with you."

Bliss!

[The result of a very lovely evening spent in very lovely company at a very lovely place. All so lovely that none could you replace.]

Some poems are best unwritten,
Some more best unread;
Apples, some are best unbitten,
You let them hang instead.

Some sights - they're best unseen,
Some facets best unshown;
Some facts are worse uncovered and
Some truths are better unknown.

Some flowers are best unnoticed
And some more best unsmelt;
Some voices better unheard and
Some touches best unfelt.

Some eyes are best unlooked into,
Some lips are best unkissed,
For if they all are unperceived
You will them never miss.

Some words remain best unsaid,
But you say them all the same,
Some friends are better not to have loved-
But then, who's to blame?

Rise! Above Them All - II

['Look around you, take a good look, at the faces you see.
Are you sure this is really where you want to be??'
...A tribute to Sir David Gilmour, who truly took his music and song-writing to the next level, and elevated all those who listened to him make love to his guitar. Sir, one day, I will learn to fly, and  it would be because of you.]

In this fish-eat-fish world,

No sooner have you spawned,

Than you're picked up and you're hurled

Into a kindergarten pond.

You eat, you eat- you soon outgrow

Your friends in the kiddies’ pool;

That's when they pick you up and throw

You into a bigger school.

In school, they feed you so much stuff

That your stomach’s about to burst;

And no matter however tough,

You’re expected to come first.

So you ingest, you swallow, cram

More than your belly can contain,

And puke it all out in your exam

And come out tops again.

And now, the time, it has come close

To leave your schooling lake;

But you don’t know which one of those

Many tributaries to take.

Before you have the time to think,

You’re thrust into one of them;

And unlike in the lake, you sink,

For in current, you cannot swim.

We drift to a destination

Known not to any in our stream;

We drift along in a direction

Away from our dreams.

They all crowd around the money,

Like fish do around food;

And if there’s less, (oh, it’s so funny,)

They eat each other too.

To be in another tributary,

Oh, everyday I wish!

But each of them has the selfsame misery-

I wish I wasn’t a fish!

And then, of food, a little morsel

Drops into the river,

Dangles above my fin, dorsal:

I know it is a sliver;

It’s been lowered by men who'll
Eat you, fry and cut you into pieces.

But if you don’t catch it, then you'll

End up eaten by your own species.

I take the risk, I grab the line,

Send a tugging through the string;

The very next moment, I’m sent flying

As if on a wing-

I rise, ascend and then I wait

Till I break the water’s surface,

And when I do, I release the bait,

Flap my fins at a frantic pace.

In life, you can achieve a number of things

If only you do try;

I learn to use my fins as wings-

With them I learn to fly,

Far above the madding crowd

And the pointless competition.

Now I'm floating amidst the clouds-

There’s truly no sensation

To compare with this:

Suspended animation, a state of bliss.

Can’t keep my eyes from the circling sky,

Above all of them, now risen have I.

Many Mothers

[An elegy on the death of a city.]

In faith, I am the offspring of

Not one, but many mothers:

Each one of whom helped in my upbringing

One way or the other.

I used to live in several parts,

One mother made me whole;

One mother gave me a beating heart,

Another gave me a soul.

One mother, she educated me,

She taught me all I know;

One mother more, she fed me so

I did healthy grow.

One other set up businesses,

So I could be employed;

And yet another built houses, so

Of homes, I wasn’t devoid.

They made me who I am, through

Contributions big and small;

I love my mothers, I love them

Equally, I love them all.

My mothers love me back, but they don’t

Love my other mothers;

They all cling on tight to me like

I were only hers.

Two mothers catch my legs, and

Two others grab my hair-

They all pull me towards themselves

As if I were only theirs.

My mothers, they all bicker, trying

To prise the others’ hand;

They send their wrists and their fists flying,

Of which many on me land.

They riot, and they hurl abuses,

They fight over my name-

I die not because of my bruises,

Oh, I die of shame.

The Universal Donor

[Blood of the enemy ... forcibly taken ... you will ... resurrect your foe!] 

"Doctor! He needs blood!

urgently!"

I heard the nurse say

faintly,

fervently, as I lay

motionless on the bed;

only my stirring eyes

betrayed I wasn't dead.

I tried to cling onto every word,

I tried

not to cease to live,

but I was failing:

"And we have run out of stock

of O-negative."

"Well, then, his blood group, check

and give him what you can,

and Nurse, do make it quick!

for his life is in your hands."

"It's my responsibility,"

said the nurse,

"That this man here should live.

I checked his blood, but

Doctor it's..."

"It is?" "O-negative."

_

"O-negative - the noblest

of all bloods, the most

selfless, benevolent;

O-negative, yet

the universal donor,

is a poor recipient:

It gives à tout le monde

whether O, A, B

or AB, whether

rhesus positive or negative;

but O-negative is the blood

without which you cannot live.

For if you were to get knocked down,

if you were to bleed,

you can take the blood of only

someone from your breed."

_

Déjà vu

overwhelmed me,

took me to

the charity of my blood.

Déjà vu reminded me

of the rarity of my blood.

"How much does he need?" "About

half a litre, Doctor.

Else, we'll lose all touch

with him. Where, oh Doctor, where

are we to get that much?"

"Yes, this is a terrible time,

I'll call up Xavier's College.

I hardly think they'll have the blood

in this day and age,

when blood donors, they are a-dwindling,

they're becoming less and less."

And that was the last I heard before

losing consciousness.

_

I woke up, got off

off the train

and was walking along to work,

when I saw a bunch of students

gathered on the curb

outside Xavier's College-

encouraging,

urging people

to donate blood:

'SPARE FIFTEEN MINUTES OF YOUR LIFE,

AND SAVE ANOTHER LIFE.'

I looked at my watch.

Five-to-nine.

If I were a minute late,

I would in trouble land

with my boss, who did me hate.

I felt a paper in my hand:

Form to be filled

before blood-donating

held by a boy, who

before me stood waiting-

very young, he could have

barely been sixteen;

but most of all-

cherubic face

as I had never seen.

"Sir, would you please donate your blood?

I would have, but

I'm underage.

Sir, if you would just fill this page?"

"I'm sorry son,

I have to hurry;

To my office, have to scurry."

Saying this, I, on my way proceeded.

"That's alright, Sir, but Sir, someday,

someone close to you might need it."

The teenager went out of sight,

but he was still in mind;

his innocent voice pricked like conscience,

and made me look behind

to see the queue of would-be donors.

The hour-hand came to nine.

I could not see the angel face

as I stood in line.

_

Just a little pinprick;

Just five minutes and it was over,

they really made it quick.

The blood, it did come gushing in

it came

rushing through my veins;

it mixed with my own, my own

life-giver

like the pouring rain

that rises from the river, and

falls to it again.

_

The pouch

was nearly full, it held

how much it could hold;

The doctor pulled

the needle out

slowly as he told

me, "Do you know

how special you are?

How much it is an honour?

to be able to call yourself

the universal donor.

You happen to have

O-negative, the noblest

of all bloods, the most

selfless, benevolent-

You possess a power bestowed

on only seven percent

of the world's population,

who can donate to anyone

regardless of creed.

Your blood can be given

in an emergency

without paying heed

to- nor wasting time in checking

the blood group of those in need.

It is indeed a miracle

there exists such a blood,

the ultimate life-giver,

given to you by God."

My watch showed half past nine, when

towards my work, I walked;

'A doctor who believes in miracles!' my

agnostic laughter mocked.

_

26/11.

I was at CST

boarding the train back home

leaving in three

minutes, when I heard

the gunshots fired:

people running helter-skelter

people searching for some shelter.

I turned around. A bullet

hit me; I fell down to the ground

in an instant.

Everything was blacking out;

the last thing that I heard

was a distant shout-

a moan

seething with pain

I recognised as my own.

Until:

"Doctor! He needs blood!

urgently!"

The gunmen would have done better...

"About half a litre, Doctor."

...to kill me...

"...think they'll have the blood..."

...than to give me so much...

"...becoming less and less."

...pain, and here

I passed out yet again.

_

Life came rushing in,

it came gushing through my veins;

I felt as full of life as a

peacock in the rains.

Though I had been battling death

only yesterday,

now the suffering and the misery

seemed so far away!

I got up, thanked

the Doctor, Nurse

for keeping me alive;

The doctor told me I was very

lucky to survive:

"We called up Xavier's College,

they'd had

a blood donation drive.

It was a miracle,"

the doctor said,

"This would you believe?

Just a single person, yesterday

gave O-negative.

The half-litre they had collected

did only just suffice

for you, else we would have been

spectators to your demise!"

_

I walked through the door

and then I sprinted

across the corridor

past the green-tinted

windows of the hospital

wards, past nurses carrying vials, past

a man on a stretcher and a boy in a plaster;

I ran fast

but what ran faster

was the conversation, last,

I’d had with the nurse,

running through my mind;

and then I remembered the angel-face

and my thoughts began to grind..

"Donate your blood..," the boy had said,

"...someone close to you might need it."

"Donate your blood,"

said the voice in my head,

which somehow I had heeded.

"Only one person donated O-negative

yesterday..

Where are you going?”

"Nurse, I’m going to meet Him

and my gratitude pay."

"But how will you know who he

is? You do not know his name,

nor have you seen his face.

He could be anywhere in this city.

How do you plan to trace

such an entity?" said the nurse.

"We just look within, for He is

inside all of us."

The One who gives to everyone

regardless of creed.

The One who always helps you out

in your hour of need.

The One who is the noblest, the most

selfless, benevolent.

I ran, I ran, and then to an

open space I went.

I looked up, saw the sky, it was

a magnificent colour;

I closed my eyes in reverence to

the Universal Donor.

_

[The Universal Donor was published in the annual magazine of Grant Medical College, 2011]

wake up k!d

[A haiku on waking up and taking stock.]

Procrastination:
makes you want to let loose, while it's
tightening your noose.

Hey You!

[Yours Absolutely is outraged. Pissed off at how people always play to the gallery. At how they project only that part of themselves, they want others to see. I had a mind not to post this rant, but then, wouldn't I be as guilty of what I'm accusing others of doing?]

you fill your iPod with all kinds of stuff
do you listen to it?
or keep it just to show off
your ‘impeccable’ taste in music?
random noises they call melodic?
and what happened to your acne
on your display pic?
was it also Photoshopped?
like the ones in your album
with the ugly parts cropped?
and how come your tweets are so happy and humorous?
how come your failures never feature on your status?
and why do you wear photochromatic lenses?
to see better
or look better?
it’s all pretenses
like the clothes you wear- unmindful
of your frivolous expenses-
uncomfortable, loud;
not to stand apart,
but to gel in with the crowd.

you hide a part of yourself
behind a veil- a curtain
like smoke from the hookah
you don’t really want to smoke
but you do, lest they poke fun
brand you a lukkha
so you suck it through your mouth
and then pay through your nose.
and why do you say you didn’t study last night?
why? O why do you lie outright?
is it because that if you speak
the truth, they would refuse
to hang out with you, you seek
to seek refuge in subterfuge?

oh, but the subterfuge won’t last!
you come back home when the day has passed
the first thing you do is take off your mask
then throw off your fancy clothes
and your iPod too, with the songs you loathe;
you then put on some Kishore Kumar
you can finally be what you really are-
you are a lukkha, you are a nerd,
now that all the smoke has cleared,
(and so have the pimples from your face;
but you won’t tweet about it,
‘cause you didn’t have them to begin with
in the first place.)

When you live in a world, this full of pretense,
You aren’t what you are when you’re with friends;
You aren’t what you are when you’re Facebooking-
You are what you are when nobody’s looking.

Telepathy

[That's when you know you've found somebody really special...when you finish each other's ... :]

I wish to forget you every morning,
You forget to wish me each day;
It's been so long since you last did ring-
Since you threw my ring away.

And then, I sense your message come through
On channel telepathy:
"If the phone rings, someone's remembering you-
If it doesn't, must be me."

The Lotus Sutra

[I quote: "You cannot make someone fall in love with you. All you can do is be a really good friend; and it's upto them to realise your worth."
I was trying an Onegin stanza, but try as I might, I just couldn't get the last couplet right. So here it is, minus the couplet ]:

The raindrop loved the lotus pink,
It fell on the flower's petal;
But lest the drop, the lotus sink,
It wasn't allowed to settle.

Nothing did the drop's love lack,
Yet 'twas thrown off the petal's back;
And just another drop in the pond,
The lotus's lover itself found.

Still it kept on with its strife:
This drop did beat the rest of them,
Entered the lotus through its stem,
And now became its life.

The Coming of Age

[A haiku on turning twenty.]

You said, I followed:
You fed, I swallowed..of yore.
Ah! not any more!

The Last Few Leaves

[Somewhere in this vast city of Bombay, lies a street- running parallel to the railway track near Grant Road station. It is a quiet, peace-loving neighbourhood, away from the dirt and grime of vehicular traffic.
Towards the Tardeo end of the street, almost hidden from view, is a tree: a drumstick tree that's truly magical..]

When I wake up every morning,
The first things that I see
Are the leaves- the lush green leaves
Of a drumstick tree.

It has been there at that same spot,
Ever since I’ve known;
Under each other’s watchful eyes,
We both up have grown.

The tree was there, I remember, when
I first, my bike, did ride;
And every game of hide-and-seek,
Behind the tree, I’d hide.

The tree, it served as a football post,
When the leaves, they turned to chrome;
Below it, we would sit and chat,
‘Til ‘twas time to go back home.

The tree, it has been privy to many a
Childhood conspiracy;
And though we went and told the others,
It maintained its secrecy.

The drumstick tree, it knew it when I
Had my very first crush;
And during the heat of that first kiss, it
Blew down a cooling gush!

The drumstick tree was always there, when I wanted
Company to study,
To collect my thoughts, or read a book,
Or write my poetry.
_

I could not see the drumstick tree, when I
Woke up on this day:
The tree’s still there- it’s not been chopped-
It’s me who’s moved away.

The trees outside my house now have
Such colourful flowers and fruits;
Yet, I think of the drumstick tree,
For that’s where lie my roots.

Between the Lines

[Of all Russian reversals, the one that rings truest is: You do not consume alcohol; alcohol consumes you.]

The door fell open.
He stepped in.
He stumbled.
With four others.
Alone.
With an air of apprehension.

Silence greeted him.
Dancing lights hit him.
Darkness engulfed him.
And music, deafeningly loud.

He looked around for her.
He surveyed the scene.
He couldn’t find her anywhere.
The same sight everywhere.

He called out her name.
Greetings were made.
She still did not come.
The party had started.

He felt hungry.
He felt angry.
Since he hadn’t eaten since noon.
Since he saw glasses being emptied.

He went into the bedroom.
He walked into a corner.
Where she lay asleep.
Away from it all.

She slept there with her son.
They drew nearer.
They were jolted awake.
They jostled towards him.

The young boy stood up.
They now encircled him.
He knew what would happen.
He didn’t want it to happen.

“Where’s the food?”
“The drinks are good!”
The man demanded.
In an agitative voice.

“I haven’t made any for you.”
“I didn’t come for this.”
“And why may I know is that?”
“I just came to wish him.”

“I’m fed up your habit.”
“At least try it once!”
“Don’t compel me to beat you.”
“Please don’t force me to.”

She stood firm tonight.
He stood resolute.
“Well, you asked for it.”
“You think we’d let you go?”

The man removed his belt.
He tried to run away.
The young boy fled the room.
They didn’t allow him to escape.

He raised it o’er his head.
They caught hold of his hands.
And brought it down in a flash.
He tried to wriggle free.

The scream was curdling.
Someone was pouring it in.
He went to go again.
The bile-like bitterness.

Blood was spat out.
He spat it all out.
The chain of belting recurred.
Some more, in, was poured.

She held her screeching back.
Maniacal laughter.
Unbearable pain.
Too much alcohol in their blood system.
Too little blood in his alcohol system.
He didn’t let it down his throat.

The gun-shot was sudden.
He felt the grip slacken.
The body doubled over.
He dashed away to freedom.

The little boy held the gun.
He ran all the way home.
Cleaned it of finger-prints.
Clean of any pints.

He fell on his mother’s feet,
And saw the scars still on her shins;
Her bittersweet tears fell on him
And cleansed him of his sins.

Rise! Above Them All!

[I have always wondered how nirvana is attained, and how many people have attained it without our knowing it. Why do those who have attained that state not come down from their plane of existence and enlighten others?
...My first genuine attempt at taking my poetry to the next level.]

Rise above guns and missiles and war-
Countries against, and the countries for.

Rise above the ones headlining non-news-
And above the ones bickering on non-issues.

Rise, my friends, above votebank politics-
They can form a full blood-bank, oh these bloody ticks!

Rise above these petty things and small-
You need to rise above them all.

Rise above the culture of casual dating-
The flirting, upskirting, and then the hating.

Rise above cigarettes, drugs and drinking-
You're making a hole in your own boat and sinking!

Rise above relations with ulterior motives-
Who suck the flower dry, so long as it gives.

Rise above these petty things and small-
You need to rise above them all.

Rise above jealousy, greed and gluttony-
Rise above slaughter for meat and muttony.

Rise above your working for only paychecks-
It feels like you're having passionless sex!

Unshackle yourself from mediocrity,
Rise! and tackle problems right at the nitty-gritty.

Rise above these petty things and small-
You need to rise above them all.

Rise yourself, and others raise,
Above them all, for one of these days,
So high above, you will have risen,
You'll laugh at the ones still in this prison.

The Black Cat

[Inspired (now that's a bad word to use here:) by the attacks Down Under, and the movie American History X. If you like this poem, make sure you give the film a watch. It'll set your heart racing.]

"Black cats are unlucky,"
His grandmother said
To Derek, who sat listening
On his grandmother's bed;
"Nothing good comes about them." "But
That's just superstition," he told
Her. He was quite smart
For a nine year old.

"Black cats are unlucky,"
His teacher warned,
"They're a menace to society."
'Lil Derek scorned
Her warning, and to himself thought:
'That is a misconception.'
He wasn't ready to believe all her
Words without question.

"Black cats are unlucky,"
His friends advised,
"They're bound to bring harm."
And Derek surmised
They were saying this because
They were trained to say this,
By their biased parents
Blinded by prejudice.

On his way back from school,
Derek saw a black cat-
Alone- with such innocence
In his eyes that
They could have been friends
On any other day;
But what happened next
Wouldn't make it that way:

Around the cat, a dozen
Odd people gathered,
Showered him with blows- with
Sticks and kicks smothered;
The cat got beaten even
After he died
For the crowd stayed on
Till all were satisfied.

Derek wanted to run,
But on a whim,
He looked at his hands
And knew they wouldn't hurt him.
He also knew what they'd been
Saying was right:
"The black cat was unlucky." He'd got
Killed for not being white.

Below: The Poverty Lines

© Keegan Crasto

[Rape is a heinous crime. But what is more horrendous is the thought that for every rape case coming to light, there might be nine others going unreported. Which just goes to tell, what a vile world this is, with vilest worms to dwell.]

She came hobbling,

Toward me,

In a crowded train compartment;

Baby in a sling,

And poverty

Clung to her. She went

About asking for alms.

They looked to the side,

And spurned-

Her empty pleading palms,

And a rupee denied,

Though they in thousands earned.

Which made me wonder if her outstretchéd

Arms were, or the world more wretched.

I looked across the aisle

At the boy;

His happy eyes, unblinking,

Made me smile.

But his joy

Also set me thinking:

Why beggars have babies at all?

They don't deserve it-

Sleeping on a station,

After a 'meal' at a stall,

After a day of begging for it.

She drew near; I asked her this question-

"When your own stomach, by poverty, is torn,

Don't you think the baby was better left unborn??"

She spoke in such a voice

At this,

As I'd never heard before,

"I don't know who the boy's

Father is,

Of those fucking four,

Who performed this beastly deed.

Lost have I all faith

In this vile world, and still,

I beg, I plead

Till I'm out of breath,

So my son can have his fill."

Saying this, she moved away from me, and then the baby cried;

My purse-strings remained taut, and yet my heartstrings flew untied.

Strange Love

[Have a lover who lives yonder?
Tell me if your heart grew fonder.]

It's a strange love we share, my dear:
I sleep through your days, and you through mine;
And yet when I think of the times we were near,
I spend your days in reposeless recline.

It's a strange love we share - so strange
That when I call you to set things right
On such days, the elements arrange
For you to be asleep after a restless night.

The Religion of Success

[I do not practise religion as most others do. Not that I'm an atheist..I just believe in a different God.]

A match 'tween Australia and India,
Of cricket was being played;
I joined my hands- along with me a
Billion others prayed.

Australia, a nation of 20 million,
Mouthed lesser prayers:
But on that day, the Australians-
They were the better players.

Requiem for a Dream

[I penned this after watching an exceptionally brilliant PAF at IIT Bombay. I have always been averse to vers libre; however, I wrote this as the words came to me, and there was no other way I could write it.
Dedicated to Anirudh Rao, an IITB 2008 silver medallist ~ my elder brother. Only he knows how much he misses his alma mater.]

I miss IIT.

I miss waking up at 8:15 for an 8:30 lecture; and that too, after my door is nearly brought down by a wing-mate continually banging on it, and screaming my name- my early morning wake-up call, without snooze.

I miss opening my closet, putting on whatever smells fine, stuffing my books in a satchel, scurrying to the mess, grabbing a couple bananas, a glass of milk, and hitching a bicycle ride to the main building- with 5 minutes to spare.

I miss the professors.
I miss the lectures, and miss missing them.
The courses, the labs, assignments, deadlines.
And yeah, I miss missing the deadlines too!

I miss competing with the 9-pointer muggoos.
I miss competing with the 5-pointer huggoos.

I miss studying alone, in groups; the end-sem stress busters, night tea; the night-outs- last ditch efforts to save semesters.
I miss the oddly-timed exams: In the afty, at twilight, Sunday morning, midnight: No bad time for a bad paper.

I miss the results, which very shockingly were announced the very next day.
I miss scoring AB’s in subjects I loved.
I miss scoring BC’s in subjects I didn’t.

Oh! How I miss the acads at IIT!

I miss the PAF’s.
I miss the acting- the emoting; the cheering, the jeering- the anti-cheering.
The plots, the prod, the music, the lights, voice-overs.

I miss Mood Indigo.
The events, the pro-nites, the after-nites.
I miss organising it, and learning more about management than an MBA could.

TechFest, e-cell and Zephyr as well.
I miss InsIghT. I miss reading it, heeding it, contributing to it. I miss the Valfis!

I miss the Inter-IIT badminton matches. Basketball. Cricket, and tennis too.
I miss swimming about the Insti pool, and jogging about the Insti campus. I miss the campus!
The main building, the lawn; trekking up Sameer and watching the dawn.
Main gate, market gate, YP gate, the grounds.
Infinite corridor, semi-; seminar hall, convo.

And how can I forget the ubiquitous lingo?
The enthu, the fundoo, the fart, the fight?
Dayaa, junta, God, give-up?
Arbit, breaker, nbd, pain?
The pondy. The scope. The sorry rahega dost !

Oh! I miss-max the lingo at IIT!

I miss my room- my home away from home.
The mess in my room.
I miss the mess, the food; the TV, TT.

I miss my wing, and everything
about it: Wingies, anti-wingies, with their under-thingies, hung out to dry.
Bathrooms with banners- propaganda for posts. Gen Secy,
Hostel, Soc, Lit, Sports,
Canteen, Maint, Mess.

And yes,
Nine different rooms playing nine different songs.
Nine different people trying to sing along.
And yet when a wingie plays his guitar,
They all gather ‘round him, enthralled as they are.

DC++, the LAN, the LAN-ban.
All the wing,
in an all-night
movie-viewing.
Naruto. Downloads. CS.

The kick-ass
Birthdays, when you get your greets
From your friends’ feet. The wing treats
At Shera’s, Domino’s, BTC, Smokin’ Joes.
Goldflakes, Marlboros, smoking away the woes.
Whiskey, vodka, beer, talli.
Oh! I miss the chaddi-phaad holi!

Standing outside H10, looking at my watch;
A daily dose of coffee and sometimes butterscotch;
Canteen, shack, juice centre- Bhawani;
Huma, Kanjur, Hiranandani.

Oh! How I miss the life at IIT!

I see Padma reading this over my shoulder,
I see, in her eyes, some feelings do smoulder.
She reads it again, and when she hath read,
She tells me- bewildered, and shaking her head:
“But you weren’t in IIT- now just wait a minute.”
I nod my head, “And that’s why I miss it.”

They roll down my cheeks, they are her tears;
Of all that I’ve missed, I miss those four years.

I should have known

[ah! but how could i!]

I should have known, I should have known,
From the start - oh! from the start:
You have a stone, you have a stone
For a heart - oh! for your heart!