A Note to Arjun Singh

We've read a lot of heavy stuff about the 27%reservation for OBCs. Here's my attempt at simplifying the case.


Do you think, Mr. Arjun,
That we can't see through your move?
We know there's an election,
And you're getting into the groove.

We're not against a campaign,
Not also against upliftment,
But not in the bargain,
Fuelling communal discontent.

Give them seats who need them most,
Who have no funds for education.
But please do not recall the ghost
Of the disastrous Mandal Commission.

Caste is no yardstick, sir,
To separate man from man.
Don't think the caste divide will blur,
It only will enhance.

Think about the poor brahmin,
Think about the wealthy OBC,
Which one needs the reservation, sir?
Wear lay glasses and see.

Screw-ups - Part III

Spoofing after a long time. Hope I haven't lost the old flair.


LAST FISH- GIRL DAMN

O Where O Where can my sardine be,
The waves took her away from me,
She was a big one and I wanted some food,
So I could feed my baby when I leave this shore.

I used worms as a bait and my daddy's bar,
We hadn't fished very far.
There was a load, out came a head,
The fish looked small and I thought it was dead,
It didn't squeal so I thought I was right,
I'll never forget that look of fright.
The hanging wire, the wooden bar,
The joyful sights that I saw last.

When I woke up the doc was staring down,
There were nurses standing all around,
Something white wrapped around my thighs,
Thank God was saved by Devi that night,
I shifted my legs, she looked at me and said,
'Saw you fooling with that hook and line',
'I held it close coz it was our last fish'
I found the grub that I knew I had missed,
But now it's gone, and though I pull with all my might,
I lost my grub, my line that night.

An Ode to Poetry

When thoughts overfill the brain,
And the man thinks himself expressive,
He hunts desperately for a drain,
And to this world does a poem give.

People often pen philosophy,
Sometimes indulge in humour.
The aim is to prevent atrophy,
And to thaw the painful tumour.

Wannabes act pseudo-intellectual
By praising poetry that seems abstract.
Even if their understanding is peripheral,
They pretend to have mastered the extract.

Some don’t rhyme style with smile,
Some stop writing 4-line verses.
They think it sounds too puerile,
They revel in confusing the masses.

Good poets use imagery
To illustrate their emotions.
Good poets pose many a query,
Eliciting many interpretations.

Good poetry might make us roll in laughter,
Or might rip our hearts to shreds.
Above all it should have comprehensible matter,
And not make us scratch our heads.