Battle Class

[Everyday's commute is a battle in itself..
and they call it the 'lifeline' of the city !]

Before she even decides to halt,
They jump out and jump in, and trample and fall:
In this city, where time
Is of importance prime-
I wonder why the local train halts at all ?

Bird's Eye View II

[Idea credit: Ms. Richa Savla, who abhors playing Holi, but loves it after.]

“Mummy, why are those people spraying each other

with toxic colours, and misbehaving with those women?”

“They’re celebrating Holi, dear- the advent of Spring-

and this is a chance for some banter..”

“But they’re falling sick of lead poisoning, and those

            women are feeling miserable?”

“The Indians are celebrating Life, dear..”

“Mummy, why are those people dumping those idols

            into the sea, and littering those beaches?”

“They’re celebrating Ganeshotsav, dear- the birth of Lord Ganesha-

            and this is a time to mingle..”

“But the water’s getting polluted, and the

            idols dismembered?”

“The Indians are celebrating Life, dear..”

“Mummy, why are those people making so much noise,

            dancing away in the dead of night?”

“They’re celebrating Navratri, dear- the battle of Durga with a demon-

            and this is a way to socialise..”

“But they’re playing loud songs, disturbing students, and robbing

            many of nine nights of sleep?”

“The Indians are celebrating Life, dear..”

“Mummy, why are those people burning those effigies,

            and bursting so many crackers?”

“They’re celebrating Diwali, dear- the victory of Good over Evil-

            and this is an occasion to revel in..”

“But they’re employing children to make the fireworks, and they’re

            polluting the air?”

“The Indians are celebrating Life, dear..”

“And the day we died, Mummy, and the string slit our throats,

            What were they celebrating then?”

“They were celebrating Sankranti, dear..”

“Do the Indians celebrate death too, Mummy?”

A Pan-India Problem

Paan pellets
hit the ground
and Mother India bleeds

[The (roseate) solution is a preparation of betel leaf, areca nut, tobacco, slaked lime and catechu, masticated in the munh and spat out with a thoo! - SH]

Bird's Eye View I

Every night,
I am unwilling witness
to a gruesome massacre:
A Dance of Death, I watch
from the confines of my cell.
I cannot tell
which one of us
will be executed tonight.
The uncertainty is already killing me.

The executioner treads in,
dressed entirely in black plus a mask-
He knows it's going to be a messy task.
He has a scythe in one hand, and
a gun in another. He looks
like the Reaper Himself.
I close my eyes, praying
it would make him disappear;
but I can still hear
his menacing footsteps near.
I close my ears- still,
I can smell
the blood from last night's kill,
and I know-
he's bang in front of my cell.

The cell door opened with a clang;
He grabbed my cellmate by his scruff
and slammed the door back shut.
I opened my eyes: I'd had enough
of escaping Reality.
Tonight, I'd see the execution for myself.

He was fed one last meal,
So he wouldn't die hungry-
So his weight increased.
His legs were tied,
So he wouldn't struggle-
Not too much, at least.
And then he was stunned
by an electric gun,
and next moment, the scythe came down
and slashed his carotid arteries open.
With one dexterous motion, he was turned
from a chicken to just chicken.

Then his lifeless body was hung up
with my other butchered brethren,
Up on the wall for display,
like prized game-prey, for the next day,
the carnivores would come
and buy my brothers' corpses
for 100 rupees a kilo


[You guessed it: I'm vegetarian. I won't bite your head off for not being one.]

Riot mind

[Facebook always asks me what's on my mind. I usually don't answer, for this is what it looks like..]

Don’t try to read my mind,

It’s a riot in there.

My dreams are bleeding;

My dreams

are pleading Reality

for a sliver of hope.

My conscience held captive

by my Greed:

blindfolded, gagged, bound;

My ethics lie around,

slain by Compromises-

My feelings lay emotionless

due to False Promises.

Don’t try to read my mind,

It’s not quiet in there.

Dark dirges play, pay alms

to my Loneliness.

My Anger and my Hatred hold spears

to pierce
the mental voodoo dolls of my foes;

My ideas and imagination

raped by my Lust-

And all that I’ve learnt,

Lazily gathering dust.

Don’t dare to read my mind,

and I won’t scare you;

I’ll behave Human, and fit in

your beautiful World.

The Last Exorcism

[Remember, you're just the sucker.]

I linger on your lips, a while:
Tantalising. Fantasising
of what's in store.
I let you smell my breath
till you can take it no more.
I enter you like a ghost
and fill you to your core;
Possessing, Caressing your within.

You like it at the start, you want it
to last longer.
But then you feel the hurt
of me killing some part of you.

Now you want me to leave, and
leave you alone. But I won't
go so easily.
I'll hurt you some, and I'll
hurt you some more,
and then one day, I'll finally go,
leaving behind a Pain
and a Void that's begging to be filled.
You look for me, but I'm gone-
Vanished into the air.

You know I'm not good for you, and yet
you come back to me.
Over. And over again.
Repentant. Dependent.
You can't live with me.
You can't live without me.
You want me to hurt you until Pain
Becomes the Way of your Life.

But you should know, my dear,
I'm the Way of your Death,
for you shall soon- thanks to me-
go up in a cloud of Smoke
And we shall be One.

Swings attached

© Scott Branine

Till a few nights back

we were two strings-

Two cables, holding up

Two adjacent swings. The playground

was crowded in the evenings: Kids

all around, playing- creating

Memories.

And when the gates were closed

for night,

we were juxtaposed in the breeze, swinging

with different frequencies: You,

loaded with tension, swung more,

and i less. Nevertheless,

we kept each other

Company, in light as well as darkness.

Until last night, when lightning

struck, and the Heavens burst,

and poured down a Storm

much worse than the worst.

And you swung violently, and you cried, while i tried

to remain still. You swung

and swung and swung until

You clung onto me, and we

got Entangled, and Intertwined

From top to bottom- from toe to mind.

So now we be but one string, from

Swing-seat to point of suspension

swinging with same frequency and tension.

And whether we like it or not, we've grown

Into one of each other's own.

And if ever a wind should shake us

Or if ever a storm should break us,

Two parts of one string, we both would be

Each, half of you, and half of me.

The Death Note

[This post I titled for one of my favourite mangas seems to be fetching my blog a lot of misdirected hits. I apologize if that happened to you, but now that you're here, you may as well read it ;]

Darren was sick.

He was sick of all the noise.

Floating around in the name of music. Vilifying the very word.

He was sick, of ‘artists’ without a shred of talent belting out ‘songs’ without the slightest creativity.

Sick of the audience who let alone endure, but loved this torture and deified the guitarists and vocalists, called them Gods and ‘Rock Stars’.

So the audience filled their ears with mediocrity and the artists, their coffers.

Darren was sick of it all.

He was sick of his family, who didn’t recognize his genius. Called him a fool for trying to make a career out of music. Perhaps it was such parents that dragged down music from what it used to be. Those who were musically bent- those who had talent- were turned into bankers and engineers. And the ones who weren’t any good at anything were the ones who defined the music of a generation.

Darren was sick.

And now, as he sat in a corner of his room on the first floor, he decided to treat himself.

_

Officer Mahone kicked open the door. He was greeted by a horrific stench and an even more horrific sight: The body was lying with the head falling awkwardly from the edge of a pillow. The electric guitar was still plugged into the amplifier and a needle still plugged into the left arm of the corpse.

Officer Mahone took a long look at the corpse. There were no signs of struggle. All the other instruments in the room- the bass, the acoustic, the drums, the harmonica and keyboard were all in what seemed their usual resting places. Near the corpse lay a near-empty packet, with a trail of an off-whitish powder leaving the packet where it had been ripped open, and ending at a small piece of paper. Mahone picked it up. It contained only seven words. It said:

The Death Note. It’s on the piano.

_

Darren decided to treat himself. He tied the tourniquet tight on his arm till it was throbbing and ready. He heated the silver spoon and in a moment, he was in ecstasy. All his worries behind him- he was floating on a cloud where no one could bother him. For a short while.

He was wondering why this feeling wouldn’t last forever. This light-mindedness, this euphoria. Until he heard the doorknob click and his bassist Cliff walked in.

Cliff, apart from being incredible with the bass, was a very creative composer and an important member of the band and a friend. He greeted Darren with their usual fist-thump and growling, but noticed a reduced vigour in Darren.

“What’s the matter, bro?” he said, “I see you’ve already gotten high without me, man. Yet you seem low. What’s up?”

“Cliff, I’m  just so fed up of all this mediocrity- floating around in the name of music, you know? Beat some drums, pluck some strings and there you have it- a No.1 chartbuster. Makes me want to throw up, seriously. People don’t know what music is. How soothing, how powerful, just how transcendental it can be. And let’s face it, our music’s doing nothing to change that. It’s too damn frustrating.”

“We’re not that bad, you know-”

“Not that bad? Are you kidding me? We suck man! We suck and I’m sick of it. You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna crank up our music a few notches and show the world what music really is. I wanna come up with that one song- that one song that is the most beautiful song anyone’s ever heard. I don’t know how but I’m gonna do it.”

“Hey,” Cliff said, “This might sound downright crazy but I’d read somewhere that when you’re dying- just before you die- you can hear the most beautiful melody ever. I don’t know how far it’s true, but it’s supposed to be magical, divine, out-of-this-world. But that’s the problem. You only hear it when you’re going out of this world. So no one knows how it goes and no soul’s ever recorded it. No puns-”

“We’ll do it.” Darren said, unmoving.

“Are you crazy?! How?”

“I know exactly how,” Darren said calmly. “But first we need to call up Steve and Rick. Tell them to get here pronto. In the meanwhile I’ll write down some lyrics to go with the tune.”

_

Officer Mahone spent a considerable amount of time trying to open the battery housing of the keyboard looking for a suicide note. He didn’t notice a piano on the ground floor when he came up, so a suicide note, if there was one, had to be somewhere near the corpse.

Officer Mahone found another packet filled with the powder where the battery usually is and another piece of paper. Some lines were scribbled on it.

It was written in stanzas and looked like the lyrics to a song. Mahone started to read it and a shudder ran through his spine.

The band had gathered,

The Pain had spread,

They were to perform

The Song of the Dead.

“So you’re adding a new dimension to the term ‘Death Metal’ huh Darren?!”

Steve was sitting at his seat behind the drums and Rick was tuning up the acoustic.

“Cliff told us what you were trying to do and we had to come over man! So how’re planning to do this thing?”

“Well,” said Darren, “From what Cliff has to say, the song can be heard only when you’re on the brink of death. When you’re neither fully dead nor wholly alive either. Neither here, nor there. The living dead. So I figured, what if we brought ourselves into that condition? Would we then be able to hear it?”

He suddenly overturned the keyboard.

And as surprisingly quickly, he opened the battery housing and out tumbled a packet of the white junk. He carelessly tore one open and said, “And this, my friends, is how we get there.”

A Song they would hear

At the end of their lives;

They prayed to the Lord

And sharpened their knives.

“No way man!” This was Rick. “No way am I risking ODing for a stupid stunt like this one.”

“Stupid, huh?” Darren said, “Why don’t you admit you’re chicken? In fact, why don’t you walk away from here right now, and join another mediocre band that plays f-ing mediocre songs and mints a lot of money? Why don’t you join them and see how much satisfaction you get out of that? Conforming to other people’s definition of excellence. Never once questioning it, never once trying to surpass it. How much longer will you let others decide what you should do to be called excellent? Why can’t you extract yourself from the purview of the worldly definition of excellence? Why can’t you- why shouldn’t you define excellence yourself? Why?” Darren was shaking.

“Yes,” Rick protested, “But I don’t want to lose my life doing it..”

“What is life?” Darren asked, “But an illusion? An illusion in which everyone is expected to do the same things over and over again. Achieve the same objectives. Get educated, get a job, get married, have children, die. I mean, why? Why be born if your life doesn’t change a thing about this world?

Why be caught in this web- a web in which once you’re trapped, you HAVE to go through a certain sequence of events without the slightest deviation. An illusion, in which you are never your own master, but a mere servant of your emotions and needs- your hunger, your greed, your feeling of wanting to be loved and cared for. But most of all, the fake contentment you subject yourself to when you know you’ve reached your limit, and can go no further or do no better.

“It is this illusion which limits us, which we must break, so we truly know what we are capable of. To forget life as we know it and do something that transcends the earthly definitions of excellence.

“You are free to leave, Ricky. But know that an honourable death is far better than a dishonourable life.”

And Rick knew, whether he willed it or not, that he would be with Darren all the way.

Steel entered skin,

And blood began to run,

And slowly but surely,

The Death Note had begun.

 “Yes! I can feel it! I can hear it! The cymbals, Steve!”

Darren’s frenzy had started.

“Okay, everybody distinguish the sounds and try playing it by ear! Cliff, you’re getting the bass wrong. You’re not hearing it clear enough. You need more stuff in your blood man! Quick, push the plunger deeper! We need to try and memorize the tune while we can hear it! And we’ll stop injecting when we’re near the end, alright and we’ll snap right out of it. Into consciousness!”

The players were in pain,

Their heads went round and round.

But the deeper went the knives,

The sweeter was the Sound.

Darren was playing the guitar like no man had ever played it. The bass and the rhythm guitars accompanied him beautifully. The beat on the drums resonated within the body and touched the very core of existence. The tune itself was such. It was trying to wrench out life, like a tree is uprooted, from the body. For the soul was too pure, too delicate to be allowed to rest in the body. To deteriorate further in this vile world. The tune was drawing the veil separating mortal life from a higher existence, a higher consciousness.

The tune was beautiful and overwhelming. Darren was trying his very best to keep up with it. Suddenly his body felt an enormous twitch like someone had tried to yank him with a hook. He closed his eyes, his skin became white and it looked like a light was emanating from his body. The veins near his temples were on the verge of exploding. And in this condition, Darren assumed full control of his Energy and took the song to an amazing solo. His fingers glided, floated over the fretboard, and created heavenly sounds, at such a frantic pace, the other three could only look on in amazement. Darren played like a person possessed. Like he was the instrument, for the song to gush out, and not the guitar.

The Song entered their souls,

The knives went deeper still;

The Song was going to die

So it went in for the Kill.

The solo was about to end and everything was fading to black; when Darren finally heard it. It was indescribable. His hands were shaking violently. He had to tell somebody. He managed to clutch a piece of paper and wrote down seven words on it. He had barely managed to write down the last word when the pen slipped out of his trembling fingers, and made for the floor below.

_

The song seemed incomplete.

Mahone read it over and instinctively knew a stanza was missing- One last verse. Where it all ends. Poetic Justice meted out. But what bothered him more was the mention of the Death Note again. Did it mean a note existed? If yes, where was it? Many more questions intrigued him. Surely the boy’s mother could help him with those?

He went downstairs where the mother was being consoled and condoled by a gathering of neighbours.

“Mrs. Dyskin, prima facie your son died of an overdose of a prohibited psychoactive substance. Did he not portray any signs that he may been a regular user?”

Mrs. Dyskin looked too shocked to respond.

“Ma’am, I found a note in his room saying the death note was on the piano. Would you know which piano he may be alluding to?”

“No, Officer. We have no piano here.”

“It’s quite likely the substance caused him to hallucinate about a piano. I also found lyrics to a song he’d written. I’d like to know more about it. Could you help me with the names and contact numbers of his band-mates?”

“But he didn’t have a band, Officer. Darren liked his solitude. In fact, he never even brought home any friends from college either.”

“But he has so many instruments, and no band?”

“No band, Officer. Darren had learnt to play all those instruments on his own. He was very possessive about them. He never even allowed me to touch them. He would be up in his room playing music all night. I’ve sometimes had a difficult time convincing him to go to his classes.” Mrs. Dyskin sobbed.

“A few weeks back, I had decided to stop pestering him. To let him pursue what his passion was. I had had dreams for him as a kid. But of late, I’d only dreamt of my son playing his music onstage, in front of a large crowd..like he always wanted to..” Mrs. Dyskin broke down in a storm of tears.

The sound of her wailing stayed with Officer Mahone as he drove away in his car.

_

The pen fell to the ground. It made a tick-tick-tick sound. But Darren couldn’t hear it. He could only hear the Death Note. The Song of the Dead. The Music that was beyond the scope of human excellence. Music that made Time stand still and everything else seem worthless. Money, power, looks- they were all so useless in that one Moment. When the Song played, and the Illusion broke, and the Curtain parted.

Now as the final strains of the Song played out, Darren felt light.

This euphoria- he knew- would last forever.

He had had an inkling long ago. The Death Note was on the piano.

Since you left my sight..

Mine eyes are a glass half-empty,
They're parched for a sight of you;
Mine eyes are a glass half-full, for they've been
Crying all night for you.

My thirst doesn't dry my tears, and
My tears don't quench my thirst-
Since you left my sight, my dear,
Mine eyes have been accursed.

[I wrote this in ten minutes during the Creative Writing contest at Mood Indigo '09. The jury did not weep.]

The Dream of Mirrors

[For the record, reverie is my favourite English word. Is it the sound or is it the meaning? Both.]

That dream I saw in your eyes that day-
Of that place somewhere away-
I thought that dream was what you wanted;
So I kept my own aside,
I toiled and toiled, and toiled and tried-
I tried so hard to get it granted.

That dream of a place, I saw in your eyes,
Wasn’t yours, I then realize:
My own reverie it was, it seems;
Your lovely eyes did my dream mirror,
Your lovely, dreamy eyes did spur
Me on to chase my dream.

How naïve was I to not have known?
It wasn’t yours or mine alone-
We’d seen that dream together;
Our different dreams came near, converged,
And cuddled, kissed, and then they merged,
Fulfilling one another.

You’d dreamt of a place with quiet and peace,
Just you and me, and some cool breeze.
We’ve come, at long last to that spot,
That’s perfect, but, completely, not-
The peace is spoiled by my heart apace,
And the breeze is soiled by my breath on your face.

A Little Longer

[It's confirmed...Everybody here's got somebody to lean upon.
Like this... EverybodySomebody. Well, that was corny :]

Where do our smiles go
When we are sad?
Where do the whiles go
That we have had?
Where do surprises go
Once they are sprung?
And where do our verses go
Once they are sung?

Tell me where they go,
And pray do tell me how;
Tell me so I know, for
I need to go there now.
You break into a smile
And then you break into a song
And you make my day, and make me
Stay a little long.

Investments

Love me not
for the man I be
Love me for what I can be

Love me so
that I can be
The man that is that I can be

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]