Lesson for an Entrepreneur Part 0

When the Gods are done

Though the fires rage,
And though the gods roar,
And waves mighty big
Prevail upon my shore,
And though the grounds howl,
And though the quakes come ..

.. The most beautiful flowers,
After the snow, .. blossom.

And when the Gods are done,
And when the lands lay bare,
When beasts stay hidden -
It's the Humans who dare.
And when the earth needs help
And the burden is "to create" ..

.. The Great only Human
Can lift the mighty weight.

Across the fields of yesterday

I remember a poem, that has always touched my heart. It's by Thomas Jones Jr.

Sometimes

Across the fields of yesterday
He sometimes comes to me,
A little lad just back from play -
The lad I used to be.

And yet he smiles to wistfully
Once he has crept within,
I wonder if he hopes to see
The man I might have been.

Nice things to say

I hope to add a happy ending to this piece sometime.


In a world,
Where it is difficult to find
nice things to say

Where it is easy to blame
other ppl for my faults,
their vices for my shame,
their rise for my falls;

Where it is easy to find
shelter from conscience;
And it is easier to be blind
to grudge, anger, vengeance;

Where it is impossible to say
a single nice thing to my friend,
cuz I'm busy planning the next day:
how to get offended, and offend.

I am no fool and I very well know,
Less of hatred could make things right.
But as I know - "It is all I have", so,
I save my bitterness with all my might.

[Update: Although I never got around to a happy ending for this piece, I did write a related poem: Choice things to say]

There are no strangers

Rarely, have I used the word disgusting, if ever, to describe something.

Things are beautiful, sometimes ugly; people are interesting, sometimes boring; movies are good, sometimes vulgar, at times gory; performances are superb, sometimes mediocre, at times even pathetic; but disgust - now that's not a feeling one normally gets; even my friends, who seem to be quite fond of the word, I don't suppose really feel disgusted so often.

How about conversations? Can a conversation be disgusting? Without making up a story, without making you listen to a long prelude of sad / angry music, without a page long passionate preface, can a simple down-to-earth conversation make you feel disgusted? Can it make you want to cry out loud? Want to tear the walls of your room apart? Can it make you reconsider if you should've been in army? Can it make you cry? For strangers? Can it make you pray? Even if you are an atheist, like me? Can it make you tremble with anger? Can it make you forget values like 'forgiveness' and 'compassion'? Can it make you want to kill? For things strangers did to strangers?

Yes, it can. Have a look.

And who is a stranger? To the guys who put bombs in Mumbai trains, to the guys who planned & executed the 9/11 attacks, the businessmen working inside WTC were nomore stranger than the accountants going back home on 7/11. There are no strangers. There are no Indians; there are no Americans. There are no strangers.

There are people, and there're terrorists. It's "us" and "them". And it doesn't matter if some of us don't want to to be counted in the "us". We already are "us", courtesy "them".

Amol Palekar - English version

Previous poem, translated in English.

in my middle-class colony, there lies a middle class lawn

twenty five feet broad
about forty in length
with dull green grass, it's not really garish

often i wonder, "isn't the world round,
then how does every evening, it manages to get found
in a shape so squarish?"

Amol Palekar

This poem reminds me of Amol Palekar movies. Hence the title.

मेरी छोटी सी कालोनी में एक छोटा सा लॉन है

पच्चीस फ़ीट चौड़ा
कुछ चालीस फ़ीट लम्बा
ज़्यादा बड़ा नहीं विस्तार में

अक्सर मैं सोचा करता हूँ, "दुनिया तो गोल है,
हर शाम फिर कैसे आ सिमटती है,
इस चौकोर से आकार में?"

[Update: I translated this poem into English and it is available as the next post. ]

I

I wish, and I get;
I control, and I win;
I imagine, and I create;
I ask and they do.

I am God
and I hate my job.

The Wall

a new genre - Heart Break
title - shamelessly copied from Pink Floyd
text -

The Wall

don't let go of the wall
don't show them the flesh
they only like tender flesh
when it's stuck in their claws

the joys they promise
the songs they sing
the worlds they create
: all illusions they bring

the best of their baits,
is the dance they fake

u turn they follow,
u part they whole
u press they move,
u fall they hold

u miss they shoot,
u give they take

and the music takes over
and u melt in their arms
love dance they call it
it's the height of their charm

and u let go of the wall
like a fool, u let go of the wall

like a fool, u let go of the wall
while they laugh the winning laugh
and like a true fool, u only feel the pain
when ur flesh is teared off

the dance all broken, the music all stopped
fool! it was a deathwish, to let the wall fall

Remember don't let go of the wall
don't show them the flesh

u keep it all wrapped, its the only one u got
u keep it very safe, after-all its ur heart

but if u've done the unforgivable
and let the wall fall down
and if u see in their smile,
blood glistening around

don't waste another moment, hurry

gather the wall's pieces, brick it up fast
bless it with a kiss, seal it with the past
and never let go of the wall again
never show them the flesh ...

don't let go of the wall
don't show them the flesh
they only like tender flesh
when its stuck in their claws

In latin style - the forgotten who

When you have fever, you tend to write sad poems. So did I, in the last 4 days.

While reviewing it, a friend passionately advocates getting them published. He emailed me in latin to make the effect more dramatic, arguing how unfair it is to the world.

Well, as I cannot write in latin (I don't know latin), I sent the reply in latin style. Hope it doesn't have any obvious grammer mistakes.

The world doth not fully comprehend

The world of a poet: a world so diverse.

It might rejoice but never can find the recces

Of her thought, or the drama in her verse.

The world only thinks: "this she speaks"

For there can be, no innocence in its view

& They that have the gift of understanding

Silent, indifferent, busy, distant; they are far and few

The world doth know numbers it sees; The world doth not know

That she is more than one, and she is more than two.

Words betray, and rhymes mislead. And the world fails to see

That when she writes, she writes as the forgotten who.

The first four lines, that the poet inks, cometh from her heart.

And the next four lines - two are just rhymes, two designed by art;

The rest of the lines - to her only one belongs, rest to someone new,

But the world doth not see, this 'someone new' and her apart

So shall I keep it hidden, deeming my art too high;

Lest the world finds and bids my 'sweet pretext' adieu.

Some hide in their skins, some in their worlds;

I hide in my words, and here shall I stay, as the forgotten who.

The angel of everything

What if there really IS an angel of everything?
and what if he asked you some day .. what do you want?
Imagine, u cud ask anything at all. What will u ask for.

My guess is everyone at such a stage will discover his altruistic genes and will end up asking for peace in the world, or enough food for everyone, or somethign else equally selfless.

But keeping that aside, what if you had to ask for something for urself - what will that be?
External beauty? The truth about the universe & the God? The truth about death? Inner Peace? Money? Fame? The ability to make a lot of money? The ability to become famous? The ability to invent Xerox machine?

And wudn't everytime the angel smile and give the same answer :)
YOU already have it, dumbo!

Even for the ability to become invisible! All you got to do, is discover it.