Passion…unbridled

Run, my dear, run!!
I know the day has just begun
But it will be over before you know
You might not have anything to show
For all those hours, think of the guilt
Gnawing at you as you duck under the quilt
That there is so much more left to do
Being productive is really important for you
So that you do not lag behind your peers
You cannot deny that competition is fierce..

This was my inner voice urging me on
To race constantly, go on and on
No achievement was enough, ever
Slowing down was not an option, never
Could I back out from any opportunity
That promised one-upmanship in the community

The constant running was wearing me down
My face was contorted in a permanent frown
Run, run, run- echoed through my mind
Though I was running through an alley blind
Was my raison de’tre this endless race?
This was a question that I had to face
What was I running from, and to what end?
I was being industrious, yes I could pretend
Whatever I needed I had already acquired
Other material objects I now hardly desired
All I wanted was a pace of life much slower
I needed to set the bar of expectations lower

So I tried to ignore the voice in my head
And concentrate on savoring moments instead
A new perspective on life I obtained
I am now more relaxed, that much I can claim!

Sitting in the waiting room, impatiently I
Watch the medical staff go milling by
The tables are turned, the other side I am on
Vulnerable I feel; like my patients, I reckon
Fidgeting in my seat, anxious to be seen
Upset about the wait, thinking I could have been
Far more productive if away from this place
Certain that annoyance is written on my face..
I look around, see others quite contented
Awaiting their turn, not one has commented
On the torture of waiting, I marvel at their patience
Simultaneously trying to find reasons for my impatience
I try to read magazines, but words have no meaning
I am scared, towards the divine I am leaning..

Being a patient when you are a physician
Is like a punishment sent from the heaven
Because the burden of knowledge is detrimental
To reasonable acceptance of illness- more sentimental
Am I when the doctor gives me my diagnosis
I envision the worst in terms of  my prognosis
Fearful scenarios play repeatedly in my mind
I cannot wait to hear what the doctor might find

All this while my blood pressure is shooting up high
My vital signs will be abnormal; and I know why
I take a deep breath; try to invoke some zen 
I calm down for maybe, ten seconds..
Finally I hear my name called out
My relief is visible to others, no doubt
This is the first step, there is more waiting to endure
I have conquered the first step at least, I am sure
I realize my patients are subjected to this wait every day
They rarely complain, almost never say
How they have lost time and productivity
Once again I am humbled by this reality!

This poem is for all folks with difficult and unique names that are mispronounced and misspelt, and those immigrants whose names are distorted

I saw it, I heard it yet again
Mutilated, distorted, bent
Once more I winced in pain
Though it was all inadvertent
My name- of my identity the bearer
Carelessly tossed on tongues foreign
Mispronounced, though I could not be clearer
On exactly how it was meant to be spoken
Also misspelt, misprinted, times innumerable
Double-checking my name second nature became
Never thought something so trivial could make me miserable
Did not know the power held within my name…
Many a times I did contemplate
Changing my name to something easier to pronounce
I struggled inwardly with this debate
My identity I was unwilling to renounce..

While I stayed conflicted, one fine day
I was interrupted at a conference
A long forgotten friend it was, and she did say
My name she had seen in a list; she had confidence
That no one but me could have possession
Of that unique name, she had never found
Anyone else with that name- in true confession
I would never have known she was around
By scanning the lists- she had a name short and sweet
But quite commonplace, I knew at least a dozen
Women by that name, I would have ignored it indeed..
For the first time, I gave my name ten on ten!Since then, over time I have made peace
With my name that is unique, but complicated
I’ve found my annoyance to decrease
On seeing deviations from the way it should be stated.

“We are all stories in the end. Just make it a good one.”

Unknown

Languishing at my parents’ home on a spring afternoon

Praying the schizophrenic weather would end soon

I rummaged through the attic, damp and cold,

Risking illness by coming in contact with mold

Searching for inspiration in objects hidden

In the folds of oblivion, including those forbidden

To my eyes when I was young, for some reason

My curiosity for them had dimmed with each season-

I found an old notebook, its pages dog-eared

Yellowed with age, with turmeric stains smeared

Filled with notes written in cursive writing elegant

Using a fountain pen, the kind that is no longer prevalent..

I need not explain that my curiosity was piqued 

The notebook was exciting, of juicy secrets it reeked

I turned the first page, to find out to who it belonged

It had to be a woman, I thought, I was not wrong

The name was old-fashioned, unfamiliar to me

It was someone from the turn of the last century

Dated early 1900s, a chronicle it appeared to be

Of my ancestors and their checkered history

The story started  several centuries before

Based on verbal anecdotes and family lore

As I read, I imagined, through ages, the tradition

Of grandmothers telling bedtime stories to grandchildren

Weaving fantasy and hyperbole in their narration

Of actual events, seamlessly merging fact with fiction

This is how the notebook read, with generous inclusion

Of superstitious beliefs and divine interventions

Skipping centuries, going back and forth in time

Written with a sense of humor, it captivated my mind..

Such a precious treasure I had never seen

The writer, my relative, had understanding keen

Of the vagaries of human nature, her opinion

Uncannily nailed the truth in every situation

I was beyond fascinated, I had not known

How the seeds of my family had been sown

I had to preserve this, so the diary I scanned

And saved to my computer; I could not stand

The thought of ever losing it, this would be the narrative

I would share with my progeny, as long as I live..

(This is completely imaginary, though I wish there was such a notebook)

In this world there is no action

That you can take without repercussion

Whatever path you happen to choose

You win some, and some you lose

So when I made a leap across the ocean

A mixed bag I got with immigration

There were many gains, I cannot deny

But some poignant losses darken my sky..

**

The sights, smells and sounds that were so unique

To India, close my throat so I can barely speak-

The much awaited first monsoon shower

Teasing the summer sun with its cooling power

The sensual smell of wet earth, the exhilaration

Of getting wet in the first rain of the season

Enjoying steaming tea and watching children float

Through rivulets of rainwater their paper boats..

Here it rains often, and I reminisce again

How I have lost the magic of monsoon rain

**

Strolling  through the gardens on summer nights

When the temperature for comfort was just right

Taking in the scent of jasmine, intoxicating-

I keep searching fragrant flowers in hopes of replicating

That strong and sweet odour- but in vain

Added that to my list of lost things again….

**

The palpable feeling of excitement in the air

Before Diwali; enthusiastic people everywhere

The aroma of sweetmeats, the communal celebration

Those fireworks and lights, lighting up the nation-

Though Diwali I celebrate with Indians settled here

That collective spirit I miss, it’s simply not there

**

I can go on and on, there are many more

Experiences I have lost, it’s hard to keep score

My solution to these losses is to revive

These memories is to spend time in person, live

In India during the seasons that I miss

The trials of travel are worth the feelings of bliss

That engulf me when my lost experiences I gain

If only once in few years; that lessens my pain. 

(This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.)

Browsing through art exhibits I found

I was always searching around

For the artist’s interpretation to comprehend

The painting, for many times I could not even pretend

To understand what the spread of colors signified

It appeared to be a secret code to which access was denied

Nor do I find abstract art visually appealing

Might be too deep for me, to fathom the artist’s feeling.

*

I feel similarly confused when I try to read

Poetry, which can be complex indeed

Sometimes the expression is so obscure

What the words strung together mean, I am not sure

Again such poetry might be highly appreciated

But my lack of comprehension just makes me frustrated

*

It appears that the superiority of creative expression

Derives from difficulty in comprehension

A piece meant to be esoteric and arcane

Gathers praise from critics, rest of us feign

To understand deeper layers and subtexts

While barely grasping the actual context..

*

Maybe I am ignorant, but I certainly prefer

Art that  can reality around me mirror

Elegant paintings with a subject that’s clear

Verses readable on putting in effort sincere

Maybe that’s the prejudice of my scientific mind

Where simplicity and elegance are intertwined!

On a steamy afternoon in the summer

Steeped in soporific languor

Sprawled on the bed, bored out of my mind

Searching for some inspiration, I did find

For healthy living, a unique recommendation-

For the body and the mind’s stimulation

Try something new everyday; move out

Of your comfort zone, and take a new route.

This idea, so elegant in its simplicity

Spurred me on to test its authenticity

*

Taking this idea for a spin the very first day

I decided to tackle fear that came in my way

So ignoring the mental block that popped its head

Telling me I could not bake, I baked cookies instead

The next day I decided to paint on a whim

The experience left me filled with joy to the brim

Then I tried my hand at writing a poem, you know

Leading to this blog, which has continued to grow-

Many such instances I can recount today

I feel much more accomplished, I have to say..

*

That summer afternoon that was supposed to be

The laziest part of the day, became suddenly

The catalyst for change in a positive way

I strive to do something new every day

I am now more adventurous and open-minded

Every day, of this mantra I am reminded.