The Great Game Resumes

Well, i am taking a break from all the rhyming and indulging my verses for once. A recharge as it were, for regular prose, lest i forget how to compose it.

I recall a quote i read somewhere, which said " Politicians are bullies who never grew up and Politics remains an extension of playground warfare". Which just about sums up my feelings as i read about Chinese incursions into Indian territory.

I have tremendous respect for the men and women in uniform, who stay awake so that we may sleep. The armed forces always command a sense of respect and gratitude in India. But their masters, our ministers seldom do so.

Far too often, our politics has used the might of our army for public display and bragging purposes. Remember the year long standoff that India and Pakistan indulged in, post the attacks on the Parliament? What purpose did that action serve, besides keeping soldiers on both sides on high alert, with tensed nerves? I can't stay in a nervous state for more than five minutes, so imagine what 13 months of "High Alert" mode can do to a person.

Those who bay for the blood of their enemies, all in the name of "national honor and pride" are seldom the ones facing enemy fire in the battlefield. It is this disconnect between the glamour and horrors of war, that result in inexplicable delays in procurement of equipment, revision of pay, and upgrade in post retirement benefits. While the babus themselves are busy in increasing their salaries and extending the reach of benefits doled out to them.

As far as Chinese incursions go, my gut feeling is that the Chinese authorities are playing mind games with our leadership, to gauge their reaction levels. In today's world, apart from USA, no country has the sanction to invade another in the name of "liberation and spread of democracy". But what can be tested, is the reaction times of foreign armies, as well as the strength(or the lack of) of their intelligence network. Officialese notwithstanding, the People's Army can add another feather into it's cap, with two successful exercises of incursions into hostile territories.

This "Bluff" game has made the Centre nervous and left them high strung. While our ministers spend their time in drafting the expression of outrage, General Ping and his boys must be patting themselves in the back, over a job well done. The scars of the lost war may have healed, but the wound festers within.

Hindi Chini Bhai Bhai. Just like the Ambanis.

Adrift

I bob gently, up and down,
nauseous and yet not.
Seldom does panic desert me,
the way to the shore, lost.

While i try to ponder and decide,
is it murder or suicide?
To waste your life as it goes by,
Always shrinking and shirking,
from a burden only you can feel.

Not an anchor on whom to fix,
my empty reserves of prayers. Bliss
which teases and never comes,
into my arms, efforts undone.

Am i alive? Am i dead?
Not a feeling left in my head.
A heart that pumps a blood so cold,
freezes love and blackens gold.

Where is the rope that will bind,
a person to what they hope to find?
What is this elusive hunger to live?
A shoulder to lend, a hand to give?

The kingdom of life, a paradise, an island,
on the ocean of eternal sleep.
As i bob up and down, i slowly part,
with all the memories that i keep.

The temples of Beauty, Love and Lust,
Affection, Sympathy, Hope and Trust.
Their flames burn a bright farewell, to those who travel
ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The silent sea all around me,
frothing and never still.
Impatient to claim me for itself,
moving in for the kill.

No regrets or unfulfilled wishes,
Stilled ambitions, lost kisses.
No remaining ties to my world,
nothing of note to remind.

As i bob up and down, I duck and sink
and leave the living world behind.

Flying to the Moon

I can hear her, when she comes calling.

The moon, when she croons.

The sweetest song, enthralling,

which she whispers, to us loons.

When she bathes the world at night,

our stage is flooded with her spotlight.

The dogs and cats let us know,

and await us, as their eyes do glow.

And the winds that rush through the trees,

bring noises and messages with the breeze.

A whole world ripe, ready for taking,

filled with chaos of our making.

The fools who term our freedom as madness,

shiver with fright, that we harness.

Your deepest fear, always thus,

that you too could be one of us.

Why bear one life, when you can be,

not one person, but rather three.

Why live chained by a moral code,

and not take a journey down our road?

To do as you please, live in the now.

Focus not on the why, but the how.

fearing death, why live so weak?

Stop the talk and start to speak.

See the world the way we do,

break the cages you're shackled into.

See reality, so mundane,

bland enough to turn one insane.

It's not too late, even for you.

Take not one life, spare not two.

Behind every circle lies a square,

happiness is a mask for despair.

It's not a thing entirely bad,

to be called a person mad.

It means that you don't conform,

like these idiots, from the day they're born.

The moon, she knows all this.

Smiling as she sees our bliss.

As long as she guides our flow,

our blessed tribe will continue to grow.

A Day At The Beach

The first image that “Chennai” brings to my mind, is the vast expanse of sand against which the Bay of Bengal introduces itself, gently. The beach has remained eternal and constant, while the city adjoining has undergone a 'sea' change.

As we so proudly proclaim, we are blessed with one of the longest coastlines in the world. The sight of the Marina beach on a Sunday evening can be a sobering reminder of the multitude that reside beyond it's shores. I've read in several books that one can smell the sea much before gazing upon it. Sadly, that remains another art that I've yet to master.

As you approach the water, you become aware of the noise of the city, slowly ebbing away until you reach that magical mid point, where neither the city nor the bay intrude upon the aural senses. A time where you can actually hear your inner voice, feel your heart beat, temples throb. Then you feel the caress of the wind, that welcomes you like a lover, long lost. You soak in the warmth of the sand as it slowly sinks, to accommodate the rude intrusion of your feet. And as you proceed, you hear the gentle grunt, not the mighty roar, of the water as it crashes upon the eastern shelf of the Indian subcontinental shelf.

Once you look back at where you came from, you realize that this is a city built around the shore. This becomes apparent as you gaze upon the several Victorian architectural splendors, each with a rich history, all along Kamaraj Salai. Then you look forward to the coast and notice the litter strewn across the shoreline, all the way from the light house to the harbor. Such callousness towards a natural wonder leaves one seething with anger.

That anger soon evaporates when a gust of sea breezes pushes you as you push against it, to reach the grayish muddy waters. Water that approaches discreetly, as if shy of it's coolness, in calm defiance of the scorching mid day sun. With each wave that laps your feet, you feel the tug of that ancient bond. The bond that we, children of the ocean (after all, life did take it's tottering steps in it's nurturing depths) can't deny, though our history of progress has made us forget.

And then the knick knack vendors, beggars, horse riders all clamor for your attention, breaking the idyll of the spell. It reminds you of the noisy bustling and ultimately soul sapping world that you must return to. Ever notice how one always “Rushes to the shore” but always “Trudges back to the land”?

As you return back to the mainland, and look back at the sea with longing, you also notice that your footprints are lost in the midst of a billion footprints of all shapes and sizes. Which will be replaced tomorrow by a million more footprints, all lost and swept away by the winds of change and time.

The only things that will remain eternal are the waves, still gently trying to reclaim and bring back the errant land, that ran away from it's fold, eons ago.