Sunday, September 9, 2012

Data Analyst, Fuck This Please

This lecture encasing mediocrity
It makes me retch in disgust.
Robots being trained tirelessly
On the path of being a data analyst.

Data analyst, fuck this please
I don't want to be a data analyst.
Frequency distributions, medians & what not
These robotic tasks for a human me.

No, I say no to this setup
This setup of perpetual desensitization.
Numbers & figures, data abound
Flickering figurines, ticking sound.

All that's achieved is nothing at all
All being lost, all dissolved.
What good is being good at calculation
"To help this nation", you may say.

I say it again, I won't contribute
No, not in this moronic way.
Tag me dumb, call me stupid
But not a data analyst.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

You're Fucked, My Dear

She looks at the world through her bubblegum lens
Says made-up words to you. 
And roams the streets in her flowery dress
Then through her eyes, the bubblegum sky loses its blue. 

The sun shines bright, blinds her unsure sight 
Can't tell false men from true. 
Happy as ever, flying her kite
Till a hawk tears it, she loses hue. 

She runs back home, crying big fat tears
She hits her bed, and weeps some more. 
She does get scared, first taste of fear
She felt a chill, numb to her core. 

Valium Pills and Popsicle Sticks 
Were her best friends, for evermore. 
Daddy told her, "don't be in a fix
I have meds for you in the store."

Day after day, and week after week
Month after month, year after year. 
She took those meds, and now she reeks 
You're fucked my dear, I hope you know.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

The Mumbai Local and the Companion Lost

The Bombay locals remind me of myself, albeit younger
A little younger in experience, immature in worldly ways.
I remember timidly asking a bespeckled man how far CST was
And if I’d have to change the train at Dadar.
So many helpful voices, no one seemed to care
But everyone seems kind, everyone selfish in their own right.

Old men and concerned women ask where you’re from
“What is your business here? Where are you headed?”
“I’m here to meet someone, new here.”
Not entirely new, always been passing through.
Does everyone feel alive when they get down at Victoria Terminus?
I was distraught when SRK blew up Victoria Terminus as a superhero.

I’m reminded of a Parsi couple sitting in the local
They seemed satisfied; I wonder what caused it.
This feeling of contentment, it spread through them to me
It’s infectious, every emotion felt in the local.
Because in the local everything spreads, like adrenalin in tired veins
And it hits you harder; it hits you sharper than any other shot.

“If you want to get down at Bandra then come closer to the exit.”
Wise words of advice from a helpful traveler, I got down safe.
But it wasn’t Bandra or Thane or Churchgate or anywhere else
It was always CST in Mumbai, VT if you feel more colonial than me.
Faint memories of finding my companion in alluring Colaba
I remember her dropping me back to CST, I did hug her goodbye.

Goodbye, farewell, it’s done and is near-forgotten
Though every trip to the Maximum City does refresh memories.
And every ride in the Mumbai Local makes me nostalgic
Of events that have transpired, that never may be.
The Mumbai Local is young love for me
It is sweat, and the glimpses of a companion lost.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Peace Be It.

Bespectacled man, greying hair betray age
Moustached minion of the law of the land.
Peer down, engrossed in flaccid work
Humble words, patient, tired tone.

This patience, it counts, it is required
Till when though, movements look tired.
And then he stands, begins to walk
And then he hesitates, he cannot trod.

Who knows what occurred, what incident
What weakened his back, his legs, his step.
He looks tired, he is tired, yes he is
Tired of fighting, defending nothingness.

'Cause nothingness is all this is
A void you jump in, a void you sink in.
And from this void attempt to escape
And from this void you comprehend.

You comprehend what one seemed right
Is now not just wrong, is entirely evil.
Why should you just pretend to aid
Why not stride forward with a limp.

Today he sits, listens, directs
Today there is a glimmer of peace.
And peace is at the end of the line
So peace be it, let there be peace.