Royal Flush

There once lived a painter, who was famous far and wide

There were several masterpieces, which he effortlessly connived

There were rumors in the villages that his brushes came alive

And that his enchanted paintings enabled dying men survive.

As days flew by his fame swept right across the land

And reached the fiery Queen where her capital would stand

The Queen was known for her temper, and her temperament was bland

Several who uttered to her dislike, had lost a vital gland.              

When she heard of the painter, she summoned him to court

This was one order, the painter could never dare revolt

On the very next morn he put step outside her fort

At every mention of the Queen, his visions would distort.

The entire court was in assembly, when the Queen summoned him

His last chances of survival were hastening to grim

As tears simmered in his eyes and reached up to the brim

The Queen gave a wicked smile and said the following words to him.

“My ministers tell me that you possess a rare gift

I have a delectable thought that can give your creativity a lift

I want a painting from you and it has to be swift.”

The painter’s heart sank to his stomach as he began getting the drift.

“By tomorrow dawn…’ the Queen continued to jive

“Such a painting for me you will have to connive:

When I look at it, it must come alive

You had better get this done, if you want to survive.

The stars stopped twinkling, and squirmed every rock

At such a queer request, the entire country was in shock

What was wrong with the Queen, was it a mental block?

The painter saw the approaching end, as he looked at the clock.

He picked up all his tools, and clutched the drawing board

He headed for the hill top and left behind the hoard

‘If I am unable to paint tonight …’ his thoughts began to soar

‘I would jump off the hilltop, than rather be gored.’

Black clouds started rumbling; looked like it will rain

He set up his canvas, crying in pain

Never would have an artist, wasted his life in such vain

Was the only thought that kept pounding his brain.

None knew where the painter disappeared into the dark night

They thought he had killed himself, and acknowledged his plight

To make a painting come alive was an impossible flight

But the stubborn painter would not give up, without a decent fight.

As their daily routine, the Queen’s court assembled the next day

They waited for the painter as if expecting a play

The Queen summoned for the painter in a thundering sway

And the court prepared in anticipation for the painter’s foray.

The painter emerged from the crowds, holding a frame

As if walking up to the ring in a sparring game

He stood before the Queen adjusting his mane

And he smiled inside when she called out his name.

“Your Majesty, embossed on this frame, behind this veil

Lies your gift which I have detailed

Which as per the instruction that you had entailed

Comes alive, when impaled.”

The Queen asked for the frame to be relieved of its giver

She unlocked the veil and it fell without a quiver

The universe stared like a stagnant river,

As the Queen found herself staring into a mirror.

For the first time ever, the Queen heartily smiled

And tossed her anklet at the painter like a playful child

Gifting him his life and a token mild

While the painter was euphoric with emotions wild.

This served to the Queen as an indication

And triggered in her a benevolent transformation:

To deal with compassion and not consternation

Cultivate empathy and be an inspiration.

The Last Commute

On reaching the edge, he took off his shirt
It fluttered into the air like a torn parachute
The moist winter wind embraced his fresh wounds
As the rocks watched him make the last commute.

His slender rib cage waivered in the wind
All gore in his sinews froze.
He gazed down the edge of the gigantic cliff
As the black waves at it’s feet arose.

It was a chilly night, morbid and suspecting
The violet sun was setting amongst the last flight of aves
The ferocious sea was roaring in mocking pride
As he prepared for his last submission to the waves.

The tender pink soles of his pale feet
Felt the ruggedness of the rock beneath.
Yet he stood, glaring at the cosmos
For fear wasn’t a legacy he bequeathed.

Ears frozen white, nose apple-red
His windy hair barely clung to his mane
For the final time he gazed at the growling black waves
And closed his eyes in pain.
—————————
5 July 2007, Nitin Varma.

Abhyudaya 2007 - See the Big Picture! Theme for IFMR's National Level Management Festival.

Unruffled by his friends’ malicious laughter,
The disciple pulled back the sling and took another aim.
What began as a pastime for plucking fruits from a tree,
Had transformed into a mocking game.

Six times he had tried, to bring down the fruit,
As it precariously hung at a branch on the tree.
While others had required a single attempt at similar fruits,
He had missed half a dozen times to the audience’s glee.

This time he was determined, to knock down the nasty fruit,
And glance back at the gang with a triumphant smile.
With a final prayer to God, he let go of the stone,
Hoping the rock would salvage his sinking profile.

The stone seared through the air, leaves and branches,
Rising higher and higher with determined spirit.
But on approaching the fruit, it suddenly stopped short,
Plummeting down the entire summit.

All the other disciples burst into peals of laughter,
As the belligerent stone touched the monastery floor.
The crowd gradually dispersed mocking at the disciple,
He felt a lump in his throat as his eyes turned sore.

Sitting at the tree embraced in loneliness,
The crumbled disciple pitifully cried.
He looked up at the heavens and shouted back to God,
“You have not blessed me, although I have tried?”

As he said these words he saw a hermit stand before him,
Looking down at him with smiling eyes.
Gently the old hermit pointed at the fruit,
Waiting for the disciple to soon realize.

As the disciple looked up into the tree’s foliage,
He saw a tiny fledgling nibbling at the fruit.
“By not dislodging the fruit from its position my son,
You have fed an innocent creature.” the hermit rebuked.

“We all get carried away by our own myopic perceptions,
Ignoring reality that looms at large.

We stay confined within a droplet of water,
When the gates of the dam have already discharged.”

“Always see the big picture my son!
That is one universal rule you must always comply.
Cause what the caterpillar calls the end of life
The Master calls a butterfly!”

--Nitin Varma

08 January 2007

Slow spinning Redemption...

Recumbent in his chamber, as God pondered over a chessboard
He heard angry noises from the palace doors
As the hounds growled and agitation spread
Sentries shouted till their voice turned hoarse.

God stepped into his verandah that faced the palace entrance
To see a battered man jostling at the gate
God signaled at the sentry allowing the man in
To pacify the commotion, the stranger did create.

Robed in silk God sat on his throne
As the battered intruder stumbled up to him
The man was haggard, old, restless and thirsty
And tears filled his eyes to the brim.

“What makes you bring yourself to my doorstep?” God asked,
“Why is it that you quake the tranquility of my abode”
As the man looked up at God’s dazzling persona
The tears in his eyes he could not behold.

“I am a miserable son of yours, o lord, o father.
I have committed grave sins throughout my life
In the process I have lost everything
My hearth, my happiness, my children and wife.”

“I repent my deeds, I lament my actions.
I am ashamed of the act that I have performed.
I beseech you to show me the path of redemption
My maligned soul, I want to reform.”

Having said this the sinner bitterly cried
Rubbing his head on the palace floor
God stared at the subject in dubious dilemma
How to resolve the riddle that lay before?

Struck by this silence, the sinner looked up
And looked into God’s smiling eyes
Time stood still and all worlds watched
As God opened his mouth to surmise.

“The entire purpose of human existence so to speak
Lies in benevolent service of fellow beings
To selflessly serve those who come to you
Be it angels, or be it fiends.

Serve your friend, serve your enemy
Compassionately serve your master and slave
Be a staff of life to all who approach you
From their cradle to your grave.

It is in this benign charity where salvation lies
Not in shunning the world or rattling script
It is these altruists, who find true peace,
People who resisted the materialistic drift.

Go repentant mortal, go to thy world
And redeem for the sins thou hath done
Cleanse thy wounds with the elixir of service
And wash away your sins one by one.”

Audience to this extempore, the heavens stood up in reverence,
Left speechless by the profound monologue
The fragrant zephyrs danced in euphoria
With the vitality the speech had invoked.

Having said this God departed to his chessboard
Leaving the man in his redemption groove
Dumbfounded by the stupendous sermon
Not even an eyelid, the man could move.

On his way out of the palace, he made God a promise
To enact his sermon in thought and deed
To dedicate every breath to the service of society
And stand by every man in his hour of need.

This soliloquy hence became the disciple’s mission
To selflessly serve humanity on His behalf
“A true altruist, compassionate and humane.”
Were finally, the words inscribed on his epitaph.


- Nitin Varma
04 September 2006

Granules of Sand

The sun comes out spraying light over the valley
The trees are all covered in mist
I sit here up on a hill
Observing in peace nature’s tryst

The sound of silence is truly melodious
Birds chirping around me
These barren rocks with dry grass
Nature here is absolutely free.

Free from waste, free from spoil
Free from all destruction, and,
Above all why it survives,
Is because it is free from man

Man is an animal, an animal of sorts
His mistakes he can only refute
With the largest brains in the universe
He has the smallest hands to contribute.

When every organism on this planet
Has something to give while it does take
But indefatigable man with his hands outstretched
Is always asking something for his sake

Nothing remains nothing at all
The paths of destruction tread so far by man
Despair sediments one by one
As in a glass of water with granules of sand

I am neither a poet nor an activist
I just realize the mistakes we have made
All we can do is waste no more
And preserve the foundations nature had laid.

At the Edge of Cognizance....For 'EDGE' the I.T. Club of IFMR

In this era of palmtops, mainframes and chips
One milestone where human faculty trips
Is the propagation of new technology to the common man
From the newspaper columns to his lips.

Though it is essential to evolve, seek and find
It is essential, for evolution, to grind the mind
It is even more imperative for technocrats like us
To light the flame of knowledge in the ignorant mind.

If we really want to progress, develop and grow
One rudimental fact that we must know
Is to pervade technology amongst kith and kin
Removing the dust of ignorance with every blow.

When we at IFMR realized this fact
We decided to unfurl technology from every bract
With the motive of banishing darkness with cognizance
The inception of ‘EDGE’ we did enact.

While propagating technology remains our primary aim
We tap new talent through ingenious games
Through presentations, quizzes, discussions et al
A youngsters’ belligerent imagination we happen to tame.

‘EDGE’ aims to give the students a new prerogative
‘EDGE’ puts science and society in a novel perspective
Through recognition of toil, tenacity and intellect
‘EDGE’ gives to the youngsters a golden incentive.

Having embarked on this journey of social refurbishment
We express our gratitude and profound sentiment
To the management, teachers, seniors and friends
For their advice, support, faith and encouragement.

If the essence of this club we have to summarize
As technocrats then, we must realize:
That evolution today is infected with ignorance
And for development this infection, must be cauterized.

Sparks of Desire

To think of life as a journey is a fault
To think of the world as a stage, a dream
To think of man as God’s piece, is a sin
A sin impossible to redeem

The lives of the twenty first century,
Are submerged under bolts and nuts
They have shifted to concrete jungle
Who once lived in simple clay huts.

People tell me, we have “modernized”,
We have “developed” they say
Little do they realize
The huge price they have to pay.

Every morning brings with it
A peculiar sweaty haste
Numerous people running in all directions
Rendering their lives in waste.

Is this the reason that justifies
Our omnipresence on earth
To chase junks of metal
As soon as we take birth.

A chase for wealth, a chase for power
A chase for absolute satisfaction
To achieve the stage of ultimate happiness
Is the dream of each man who resorts to action.

This chase now constitutes
An essential part of our daily lives
To keep running till we trip and fall
Unable to keep up with this strife.

We were sent on this planet
To spread affection all around
With the seeds of humanity
Sprout blossoms from the ground.

But the reverse has taken place since then
As the tragedy goes on
The motive of our birth as humans
Has been to tatters torn.

As one man falls exhausted
The other begins his eternal chase
It will be long before he stops
And his values he can trace.

In Retrospect...

The sun shines on my face
As the rays provoke my eyes to gleam
The chirping of birds and the sound of silence,
Lull this mortal body into a dream.

Who am I but a lump of flesh
Dominated by a heart and a brain
Why do I live when one day I’ll rot,
As each part of me is a perishable grain.

One day I know this flesh of mine
These vessels, skin, blood and veins
Will wither with time like an old, old oak
Suffering a loss it cannot refrain.

My life is a coincidence or was it planned?
Like an irritating crossword it puzzles me
Is death a coincidence or has it been thought of,
Or is t a process to set us free?

What is a soul, is another rider
Like a nagging thought it nips my brain
Is it the conscience that speaks to me,
Or as mythology suggests the holy flame?

What is it I wonder that binds us together?
In a united force during times of strife
Why is it that in every companion
We try to listen to the resonance of life?

Preamble for Abhydaya- Annual Management Fest of IFMR, Chennai

Abhyudaya- The Dawn of Wisdom

Gripped by the wrath of Kalinga’s disaster
A melancholic Ashoka remembered his master.
Into the dark woods he spurred his steed,
Crushing on its way every herb and weed.

Fresh human blood coated his armor,
His men had killed all, soldier to farmer.
Obnoxious questions filled his disquiet mind,
Had he left his humanity far behind?

If only he had thought before waging the battle,
Like a starved panther in a herd of cattle.
His mind plagued with sights of gory arrest,
He galloped on his horse through the ominous forest.

The trees finally gave way to a sunlit meadow,
As he halted his steed before the hermit’s ghetto.
When Ashoka dragged himself to the door of the hovel,
The hermit was tugging at a root with a broken shovel.

Looking up at the emperor the hermit sighed,
Ashoka fell to his feet and painfully cried.
“O Master I hath committed a sinful deed,
Plundered my values, manifested my greed.

Purge me, O father; purge me of my sin,
Relieve my conscience of this remorseful din.”
The sage lifted the raja with a gentle smile,
Wiped his tears and spoke for a while.

“Cheer up your highness today’s a glorious day,
After years of ignorance you’ve found your way.
A long night of prejudice comes to an end,
Your life stands on the verge of a sublime bend.

Abhyudaya it is called, the dawn of light,
A dawn of wisdom, of learning, of glory bright.
It is an Abhyudaya of realization in you life,
That puts an end to your incognizant strife.”

These words hence became Ashoka’s life and mission,
To adopt simplicity, and imbibe erudition.
The lifeline of existence, he had realized,
Was to be an Abhyudaya of wisdom in people’s lives.

Theme for Abhyudaya- The Annual Management Fest of IFMR, Chennai.

Abhyudaya-The Sunrise

Like a blazing comet through morbid space
A tragedy hit the mammoth empire
The heirless king lay breathless in bed
Not a cock crowed on the temple spire.

The palace gardens plagued with people
Stared at the throne in disbelief
Lifeless bodies, gruesome visages
Yet to accept tragedy’s grief.

“Mercy O- Heavens!” the empire plead
Shriveled faces, hands raised to the sky
Spare the king, our lord, our father
Was the woeful plea in each tearful eye.

No concoction, no weed, no potion
No leaf, no herb had worked
No mud…no root, no paste,
All medication his body shirked.

The court was mute, the ministers dumb
A blasphemic quiet suffused the limitless empire
No diagnosis cured the raja’s ailment
No prayer there was to make him respire.

Subjects mourned, villages cried
Was there nothing that could save the emperor fair?
Beyond the loss of the valiant monarch
Loomed the absence of a descendent heir.

It was a long night, moonless and gloomy
Of the sound of silence and pervading doubt
It was a sinister night of baleful suspicion
Not a fly knew what the dawn would sprout.

As the horizon turned crimson and the sky grew red
A footstep was heard in the emperor’s porch
The courtesans and doctors glanced at the doorway
They saw a sage and a kid with a flaming torch.

The kid draped in saffron walked up to the bed
Rubbed oil from the torch on the raja’s lips
The sage guarded the kid with a nonchalant smile
As the audience saw him administer the drips.

It was a strange night, a queer one indeed
The kid worked on the ruler amidst the mourning cries
As the first streak of sunlight entered the bedroom
The pale raja weakly fluttered his eyes.

The stupefied audience stared in disbelief
As the royal palace bathed in golden sunlight
The monarch had risen, from his bier
It was a sublime end to a satanic night.

“Your heir resurrects you,” muttered the hermit.
“The dead queen abandoned him a decade since.
He brings this morn into your life
Welcome Abhyudaya, the empire’s new prince.”

“It is the dawn of hope, dawn of light
To the rescue of doubt comes knowledge bright
From the chirping of birds to the smile of meadows
The sunrise rejuvenates every speck in sight.”

Having said this, the saffron hermit disappeared
Even today his last words pervade the empire’s air -
“Be an Abhyudaya of joy in people’s lives
Proliferate vitality, shun despair!”