[It is an old and silly poem- written on Dec 22, 2007; when I had to leave IISc. When I read it I feel as if being seen naked in public. But that was another young man, long ago. I wouldn't know him if he comes across me now.]
When we join don't we know that we are to leave
Then why is it always painful.
I thought I didn't like it - anything in IISc, I mean.
I thought I will leave, relieved, a happy man.
But then why is something bothering me-
a drop in the corner of eye,
a pang in the chest
a heavy heart.
Yes, I confess, confess shamelessly:
I loved that smell in front of juice shop.
Of that musky flowers in December, I mean.
I loved that violet patch in March, near Aswini.
And what to say about the red bougainvilleas.
Is it true that its time to leave ?
I loved, walking around the 'Amra marg';
under the benevolent tower of knowledge;
on moonlit nights, when everything quiet;
Saw and liked young maidens, engrossed in their thoughts;
Yes I thought it's nice to see
young men and girls, with their shining eyes;
confident that they will scale the unknown.
On moonlit nights, when everything quiet;
I stretched my ears to listen
a lonely female voice,
a deep voice full of life,
singing a Bangla song,
what it meant I don't know,
a song of youth I reckon.
I loved it all. It was mine.
Then I loved that endless chats.
In the dead of night- in my room at PD;
in Gym Cafe - facing the vast ground;
where we bitched our supervisors,
prayed we may never end up like that;
laughed over latest Calvin & Hobbes;
shared the excitement of our new results;
but often, lamented, why we came here.
We lamented over our wasting youths,
engrossed in our books day and night.
Writing papers which no one read;
lecturing to the sleeping dons.
We lamented over the ages we could have born;
In nineteen thirty s, for example,
doing physics with Dirac and Bohr.
Why weren't we in Italy, in fifteen hundred s;
In France in seventeen ninety s,
or in Russia in nineteen twenty s.
When the world was boiling,
with ideas, ideals, and revolt;
when men fought with pen and sword.
I was told, a man must make his own times,
there is path, there is light, make your way!
There's a world outside,
of fragrant flowers,
Its vast, (much, much bigger!)
and they sing, gosh, what a song!
Full of youth, full of love,
of ideas, ideals and revolt.
Is it there I belong.
Its time to move on; time to part.
But why this pain;
a drop in the corner of eye,
a pang in the chest
a heavy heart.
(Gosh, I even loved my supervisor!).
Then why is it always painful.
I thought I didn't like it - anything in IISc, I mean.
I thought I will leave, relieved, a happy man.
But then why is something bothering me-
a drop in the corner of eye,
a pang in the chest
a heavy heart.
Yes, I confess, confess shamelessly:
I loved that smell in front of juice shop.
Of that musky flowers in December, I mean.
I loved that violet patch in March, near Aswini.
And what to say about the red bougainvilleas.
Is it true that its time to leave ?
I loved, walking around the 'Amra marg';
under the benevolent tower of knowledge;
on moonlit nights, when everything quiet;
Saw and liked young maidens, engrossed in their thoughts;
Yes I thought it's nice to see
young men and girls, with their shining eyes;
confident that they will scale the unknown.
On moonlit nights, when everything quiet;
I stretched my ears to listen
a lonely female voice,
a deep voice full of life,
singing a Bangla song,
what it meant I don't know,
a song of youth I reckon.
I loved it all. It was mine.
Then I loved that endless chats.
In the dead of night- in my room at PD;
in Gym Cafe - facing the vast ground;
where we bitched our supervisors,
prayed we may never end up like that;
laughed over latest Calvin & Hobbes;
shared the excitement of our new results;
but often, lamented, why we came here.
We lamented over our wasting youths,
engrossed in our books day and night.
Writing papers which no one read;
lecturing to the sleeping dons.
We lamented over the ages we could have born;
In nineteen thirty s, for example,
doing physics with Dirac and Bohr.
Why weren't we in Italy, in fifteen hundred s;
In France in seventeen ninety s,
or in Russia in nineteen twenty s.
When the world was boiling,
with ideas, ideals, and revolt;
when men fought with pen and sword.
I was told, a man must make his own times,
there is path, there is light, make your way!
There's a world outside,
of fragrant flowers,
Time to Say Good Bye ?
white, red and violet.Its vast, (much, much bigger!)
and they sing, gosh, what a song!
Full of youth, full of love,
of ideas, ideals and revolt.
Is it there I belong.
Its time to move on; time to part.
But why this pain;
a drop in the corner of eye,
a pang in the chest
a heavy heart.
(Gosh, I even loved my supervisor!).
