Remember, remember.

Looking back on the years that have passed,

There are several memories scattered;

Some of euphoria, and some quite sour,

Yet all of them equally mattered,

In making the trip through the varied land;

At time lush green and teeming with life,

And later regions of barrenness like a desert

Representing all our successes and strife.

A mixed feeling engulfs when we think of the time,

We will separate to follow stars of our own;

Excitement in facing an unknown world ahead

And fear of leaving a comfortably numb zone.

But most of all to find that the days may be empty,

Of filled to the brim with things to do;

Either way there may no longer be company,

That will comfort and help you pull through.

The joy that we shared, the laughs that we had,

And the outrageous stories that raged;

Of people and events; some so unbelievable,

That it’s possible they were all staged.

Gossip and tips and all the knick-knacks,

On things that mattered, or didn’t;

Bring wide smiles, and probably sly grins,

For things we did, but quite shouldn’t.

Moments of truth, perhaps quite unpleasant,

That brought us to tears or frustration;

Yet we trudged on, like soldiers in fog,

Towards a road, either to success or perdition.

Times like these may never return,

Bottled and stored, fresh long after the present;

It seems like yesterday, we arrived at these gates,

Many years it has been, so short: as a moment.

Sreedevi

Stephen Fry 'twinterview'

Here's a transcript (of sorts) of the "twinterview" [interview via twitter] conducted by Johann Hari (johannhari101) with Mr. Stephen Fry (stephenfry), for the benefit of anyone who missed it.

As always, Mr. Fry, it has been a pleasure.

Please find the .pdf file here.

Let me know if anyone has any problems with it.

Regards,
Sreedevi.

Wanderers by moon

Darkness falls and shrouds our world,

And long slumbering beasts awaken;

With raised heads, and claws uncurled,

They wait with infinite patience,

For the moment they can, readily escape,

From shadows where light be forbidden;

And sniff the air for unconscious prey,

Within reach, unfortunate and unbidden.

Long they have hungered, and hoped in vain,

Till night o’er them hath befallen;

And with moon and stars, they rise again,

The beasts to beauty, wretched and forgotten.

By howl of wind and wolf alike,

Prepared to hunt, unencumbered;

For rules by day, are hidden and ground

Into stardust, till dawn be remembered.

Nothing remains, not bone nor decay

For nothing is left, worthy of remains;

Nothing is heard, or pretended be heard,

Screams of terror, lost forever in pain.

A hat, a coat, a scarf, that once belonged

Thievery struck, a beggar in want

No sign of a struggle, no need for a lie

For those who are lost, never survive.

Sreedevi Jagannath.

Dreams in the summer sky.

Its one thing that I wake in the morning to see that it’s a rainy day.

It’s entirely another to wake up most mornings and simply feel that way.

Most mornings I just wake up, admiring the way the light plays with the sky blue of my walls, blurring the edges of the walls into a generous summer sky, irrespective of the weather outside. I further the feeling by drawing curtains, the colour of a stormy sky; where the clouds are thickening, but not thick as to sport the grey uniforms of somber soldiers.

It lends a pattern to the summer sky around me, patches of golden interspersing the faultless expanse. In the quiet gloom of the morning hours, it gives my dream addled brain a little longer to hold on to the fantastical images that lend extraordinary depth to pre-dawn dreams.

And then the waking dream has to end, as all dreams must.

It is not the end I fear, but the dream itself. For if there is no dream then there will be nothing to end.

A quote for the Romantic

"Romance to the sensitive soul, is as water to the gentlest flower - nourished by enough, withered by too little and smothered in too much."

Sreedevi.

Of Fleeting Fancies

With what words shall I write to you?
Shall I use those precise and refined
So clean, so crisp and pure?
Or shall I let dignity go blind,
And utter words, no church can cure?
Tell me, how shall I write to you?

How shall I say the words?
Forming in my very soul, in tears
Failing and drowning inside,
Too adhered to pride and fears;
Till quivering lips make no sound,
Except for a breath expelled in clear
Resignation, acknowledging my cowardliness;
How shall I say the words?

How shall you hear the truth?
In halting, ambiguous sentences,
Or prose in high, crystal tone;
Half false, half untrue, full verses?
Or should I leave sight to converse alone,
In hope that the message gets through?
Pray, how shall you hear the truth?

How shall I confess to you?
That nights no longer hold sleep,
And days are fogged over in a haze,
While I contemplate a dream;
Thoughts follow lost paths in a maze,
Fretting over consequences
Of events that have not yet come to pass;
It is madness: I hear, I see, I do.
How shall I blame this madness on you?

Sreedevi

A scar to tell...

Scars abound; pink, white and brown,
Each with a tale to tell;
Some in anguish, many in sorrow,
A few in happiness as well.
A story to each, from scrapes on knees,
To stretches across a plane;
Perhaps our tricks and climbing trees,
Or rough-housing, when games remain, not games.
A sharpened blade, a broken glass,
Edges unnoticed by the eye;
A clenching fist, with digging nails,
Efforts to see through a lie.
The need to feel a thing besides,
A broken heart, ripped from its place;
Hope withdrawn and pain derived,
With salten rain in call to disgrace.

Sreedevi.

Night, the Illusionist

What emotions we find within us,
Are magnified greatly at night;
The cool lust of the daytime,
Turns to warm love by candlelight.
How leers and lewd whispers,
Feel akin to passion, by light of moon;
And oft, those unknown strangers,
Prove lovers by fall of the gloom.
Soft, it does make, darkness,
A master of disguise;
Many weakness does it gather,
Masking with pleasant lies.
Blind as we are in shadows,
To faults of souls, that dwell;
Light is too sharp to appease us,
Night, with caresses, does quell.

Sreedevi

Whatever shall we see?

A shudder, sigh;
My Kingdom for a breeze;
Anything that might defy,
This stillness and unease;
A wish for wings,
Tonight it might be,
The end of dreaming,
And the beginning of peace.

Sreedevi.

No shred of dignity in the world of IT

All things are a flowing,
Sage Heracleitus says;
But a tawdry cheapness
Shall reign throughout our days.

-- Ezra Pound “Hugh Selwyn Mauberly”

In my limited experience working within the IT Industry, it has come to my notice that there are mostly people who find quite a bit of benefit, just by making a scene.

By “making a scene,” I don’t mean the messy liaisons of an emotional nature - Hades knows we have far too many of them – but that wherein a circumstance is subjected to mountain making. As with many people in the IT industry, I would feel more comfortable, if we stripped them of any technical titles, and instead re-christened them as Bards of Dogtown.

In days of old, Bards had but one function; travel around the land, involve in a goodly amount of scriptwriting (and mangling), and tell their stories with a presence, all for the sake of a few coins, food and shelter, till they moved on to the next village. These modern day Bards have but little difference, except they tell stories to make profits, garner benefits of travel and cash, or simply save their veritable backsides.

I have seen several such Bards, and they do little but spend their time making it look as if the world would end if the company-sponsored perks were not unduly credited to them. With a flair for the dramatics, they announce their resignation, and reluctantly (not to mention, nobly) accept the considerable pay raise, and promotion. It stands to be seen if they really would leave if someone called their bluff.

There is no such thing as idealism, and professional courtesy is a thing of the past. Sadly, I see my eyes being opened to face the real world; people would employ cut-throat techniques, and use the corpses of the meek as their steps, rising in the corporation with little to no shame. Clichéd as it seems, rat-race is apropos, for the current corporate world.

Do people feel no remorse in compromising their integrity, to get a free ticket? Is there no shame in taking ruthless advantage of benefits offered? It would be clearly a class of the least level to salivate over small time gains, but as I see it, people care less about being professional, or classy, and more about those extra pennies they can squeeze out of an organisation. It is truly a blow to we, who proudly claim to be white collared.

My next line of thought is, “why is no one stepping up and asking these questions?” To which, I fear the answer will be, “because no one cares enough.” Shocking, yes, but what can a lowly last rung employee do? Give up a job because of righteous indignation? Not likely!

I cannot help but feel pity for those who work diligently, doing right by themselves, when it comes to moving up in the organisation. I feel disdain for those who think less of appearing like a money-grubbing leech, than they do over filing reimbursements over ten dollars. I also feel sorry for the state of affairs. As I implied before, Professionalism is truly dead, and honour was knocked over in a joust with money.

Pathetic, Indeed.

He walks in Darkness

He walks in darkness.

Beneath his feet, not a sound,

No rustle as his cloak

sweeps the icy ground.

He walks in darkness

It is no shield to him

For none but the moon

Dare lay eyes on this form

Gliding through the forest

In the dead of the night

No different than mere mortals

In the harmless light

For it is with the setting of the sun

That life leaves his veins

And he hungers to feed

In attempt to be whole again.

It is a half life, this being

Has not a shred of repent

When hunger is sated, deed is done

He knows he will never be rid

Of stains that mar his own

Of red that flows, to burgundy deep

Promises to revive him, it does keep.

Too long has he been dead this way

For life is meaningless to him

Yet in the time between the fading sun

And the rise of the chariots each day

A fire burns within his body

Longing to decay, in vain.

For he walks in darkness

And what little shall it show

He watches and waits, in shadows

Sreedevi

The Last Breath

The dust has settled; silence resounds,
I'm unsure if I'm flying or aground;
Unaware of anything but the cold,
Wrapping itself around, like a lover of old.
Who am I? Where am I? This I cannot recall,
There's nothing to think of this moment, at all.
I hope, against everything, there's comfort ahead,
These rocks at my back, make not warm a bed.
Something flows out of these things I call eyes,
Tears or blood? reminiscent of lies;
Promises I made when I said I would return,
To the smile of a child, it makes my chest burn.
I see them before me, reach out my fingers,
Nothing happens, no movement lingers.
Blackness is calling, why did I come here?
Ill fated decisions, there's unguarded fear;
Hope has left me, there's nothing to try,
I welcome the stillness, and the grey afterlife.

Sreedevi