Pens and Swords

White. Empty and untouched. That's what this page looks like,

Till my keystrokes register and a stain begins to spread,

Minute characters appear where just seconds before there was nothing,

Permutations and combinations occur, mathematics of words

A skeleton is dug up, it is given flesh

It's blood vessels are pumped up again,

It is told to jump into a pair of baggy jeans, don a jacket,

And it will do what I want it to,

I can send it to China, I can send it to Rome,

I can captivate you Reader in my yet to be published tome,

I find this funny, for all this manipulation

​Takes place in the comfort of my home,

I am not a writer, I am merely a boy,

With a passable vocabulary, doing something that brings him joy

And so I ask of anyone who might stop by to read this,

Tell me how it is that Writers manage to make us cry?

I guess that is why my mother once said to me,

"Son, the Pen is mightier than the Sword"

The Bilge Master

Have We Met?

I think I can describe the current part of my life as a transitional phase- one in which I realize that I actually CAN do stuff and then go on to do said stuff. Somehow, at first, such a transition seems scary. In time, however difficult the said transition is, it completes and leaves me feeling better. Sort of like a snake when it's shed it's skin.

I'm pretty sure that this is  a common phenomenon in the life of every young adult. The bit where your parents leave you alone to a large extent and you start seeing the world a wee bit more differently. When you've realized that everyone is NOT trying to killl you and there's really no need to go around flailing your arms about like a somewhat deranged lunatic on steroids. 

That being said, where's the fun in not being a lunatic? Studies, binges, the endless adda with your classmates and your seniors. Staying out late and having a blast even when the HOD is being a gigantic pain in your rear. Bring it on I say! 

And no matter what, you will always find that group of people or just that one person who is as bat shit crazy as you are. When you do, you might have this eiree feeling that you are looking into a mirror. The urge to ask "Have we met?" might overwhelm you.

Here's to you college \m/

The Bilge Master

The Whiteboard Song

My friend at JU, Arnab Chakraborty wrote this poem after I haggled at him for a considerable amount of time. He writes his own blog called Musings, which you can check out here.  Many thanks Arnab.

I see the Whiteboard behind you,

And words forming like images
On a canvas for failed limners of old;
Who found no means of entry
Into your heavy books

Of scholars, philosophers and thinkers bold.

The stellar cast of History’s Heroes,

They gather on your Whiteboard.

Then I wake up from the opium dreams

Of Mother Nature, my mistress

And Father God, the towel boy;

Who stood apart feeling shy,

As I played a nasty game of tennis

With the Demon Kings of the world

3-2 they said before the raindrops claimed my distant gaze

And I saw you staring, admiring that shimmering Whiteboard.

Then I noticed you were seeking

 Seeking that custard of spirit,

Seeking that pure imperfection, seeking

What does not lie on that great Whiteboard.

Then I feel old.

Growing older still with each silence

That does not escape your lips.

And your words erudite and strong

Growing younger with each boom.

While I grow older still, because wisdom

Comes with great loathing at men

And yet the greatest forgiveness

For all men are you as you are them;

Thus promoting a state of paradox,

Not unlike the ones you ignore

Forming between the names on that great Whiteboard.

But without a moment’s despair

We become lumps of flesh, You and I

On a rock spinning through endless nothing

Seeking answers from the cold Whiteboard.

And all our glorious theories that pale

In the presence of a thunderous night,

Or in the pains that make us fight;

Pains that you are blind to

And ones to which I only lend an ear

Till the howling makes my ears bleed

And then I am hiding in a corner somewhere

Storing private sobs for what I cannot cure away.

The practical clockwork suffering continues like a mechanized drone

And you still posit those questions,

While great names stare at me

From beyond the glorious Whiteboard.

Then I am arrogant

Then I am raw

Then I am all that eludes your grasp

While the carbon that makes you and I

Smiles in the bitter irony of long forgotten names

Names that you memorise at a moment’s touch

And names that are ornaments on famous gravestones

While the nameless pass by

Recurrent ant-like heroes of the world

In a giant black lump they pass

Greying the corners and the Heroes of your precious Whiteboard.

But alas! Me is the fool

Me is the repeating voice of many

Me is the fool for raindrops and dreams and lies colour my body

While you are the giant building of books

Me is the fool for trying to hold

What my fat fingers can never touch

Me the fool for chiding those more solid

Those more real in the thought-room of archives

You stand atop the mountain of all that has been

While hollow men like me survive on the morsels you leave behind

You, the Giant with raised voices in the crowd,

And I a fool on your Whiteboard.