…Thoughts in rhyme and out of reason,
Comfortably numb, strolled the deserted beach, before tourist season
Since daybreak I’ve bin a-desultorily typing,
Whilst the surf is ceaselessly breaking,
Fora batch-reunion is a time of great rejoicing!
Let us go then, you and I,
The evening is spread out against the October sky
Like an AFMC-ite plastered, upon a rickety table;
Let us go then, if we are able
Through half-forgotten bylanes,
The muttering refrains
Of restless nights at Old Insti socials,
Tepid punch, the treading on egg-shells:
Paths that follow like an arterial arcade
Still dubiously patent,
Lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “Am I sozzled? Is this it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the clinics, medical cadets come and go,
Lamenting the skewed gender ratio.
The powdery rain rubs its back upon the smudged window-panes,
The powdery rain that umbrellas disdain,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the boys’ hostel,
Lingered upon the puddles that stand in football field,
Let fall upon its back the ash that breaks off half-smoked rolled cigarettes,
Slipped by the GH, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the empty lecture-halls, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the powdery rain that slips and slides along Main Street,
Rubbing its back upon Kayanis and Latif’s;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare answers for the examiners that you will meet;
There will be time to bunk and berate,
And time for all those trips to Khandala,
That lift and drop vada-pao on your plate;
Time for chai and time for tea,
And time yet for a hundred non-decisions,
For herb-assisted visions and fevered before-exam revisions,
Before the taking of concentrated black coffee.
In the clinics, medical cadets come and go,
Lamenting the skewed gender ratio.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Was I there?” and, “Was I ever really there?”
Time to scan old faded photographs and stare,
With a balding pate covered by a few wisps of hair —
(They will say: “He once used to be thin!”)
O my bulging middle, my doubling chin,
My middling prosperity well filled-out, but restless within —
(They will say: “Isn’t he the one, who once used to be slim?”)
So those reading, Beware!
As I verbigerate in verse
Adiposity is but the one single truth
That unites the universe.
We knew it already, when the rigid cadavers in formalin stank:
When lamp-black coated drums spun and frogs were slaughtered in the afternoons,
We measured powders from mortar and pestle, with coffee spoons;
We learned of mysterious murmurs dying with crescendo or trill,
The myriad characteristics of a palpated lump; but still,
Uncertainties remained…
We gazed into ophthalmoscopes and black abyss stared right back—
Brows of examiners receded in utter surprise, sometimes mirth,
And when we looked askance at petri dishes of lurid colour,
Thoughts raced “The horror, the horror!”,
Ruminating on the structure of eicosapentaenoic acid and sphingomyelin,
As we calculated doses of Warfarin.
Uncertainties still remained…
And we had known the exact doses, known them all—
But the correct one, during exams, was bloody impossible to recall.
(Only to return later, sharp in the lamplight, perhaps aided by a glass or two!)
Is it the company of batch-mates,
That makes me so digress?
Who now lie sprawled by the pool, or trundle along the beach.
Who should I then beseech?
I have watched blue skies darkening over slate-coloured seas
Seen mottled smoke rise lazily over grey misbegotten towns
Waited all night, for the sun to paint scraggly mountains gold...
I should have kept a diary,
While scuttling across shores, sundry.
In the late afternoon, the evening, everyone drowses so peacefully!
Smoothed by tall glasses of beer or gin,
Asleep ... tired ... or is it nostalgia that lingers,
Stretched out on the sand, here beside you and me.
And after tea and pakodas and ices,
Shall we now talk of global eradication of poverty, fractured societies, ISIS?
Last night we listened to rock, chatted and danced,
Some old sparks flickered, some chanced,
“A batch-mate is worse than a spouse” intoned one prophet, but that’s no great matter;
In getting together at fifty, we’ve seen the days of our youth again flicker,
We’ve mourned friends departed, also laughed and snickered,
And in short, had a whale of a time!
It would have been nice if everyone could have made it, all.
But children’s exams, operational exigencies…they heard the call.
Among the lobsters, Pork Xacuti and the cranberry breezers,
We talked of how it has all been worthwhile,
And now it’s time to give back, go the extra mile.
To contribute towards a legacy,
That helped make you you, and me me.
Then we lapsed back to chatter
About things inconsequential, those that hardly matter,
Lazing, navel-gazing, settling a soft cushion by the head,
We all agreed: “Kumbhakarna is the ultimate role model;
So what, if he did not yodel.”
And it was such great fun yet,
Comparing effects of tanning and SPF, among ebony and jet,
After sunset, the dancing and Fisherman’s Wharf,
The attempts at haute couture, the trailing dappled scarf.
All this, and so much more —
Took me to the place where I was once before,
As if a kaleidoscope threw those days in broken patterns on a screen:
Days gone by shimmered and refracted, almost as they once had been.
A word here, there a snatch of song,
Turned stout citizens maudlin, as they stumbled along:
“That is a shared bond, forged in blacks and whites,
A companionship across time, continents and fading light.”
No! I am not a versifier, nor was ever meant to be;
Am maintaining something of a record, not necessarily true,
Documenting days and nights, tweaking a scene or two,
Supervising the grub; getting the daru,
Though beer-averse, am glad to be of use,
Late-sleeping, often hungry, and raucous;
Spouting verse, generally a bit obscure;
At times, indeed, almost outrageous—
Most often, found around the Pool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
Did I once wear the bottom of my bell-bottoms rolled?
Shall we all turn somersaults like Malay?
Do I dare karaoke or inevitably shall I screech?
I shall wear tattered khaki shorts, and stagger upon the beach.
I have heard Rochan and Samar singing, harmonising each to each.
I think the next time when they sing to you and to me,
We’ll be cruising the Med, or will it be Bali?
I have seen joy riding on the waves
Combing greying strands of hair into bottled black
When Amita proctored the painting and the wine.
When we have lingered by the buffet tables,
By memories wreathed with flowers, food and drink,
Till other voices awaken us, and we return.
Comfortably numb, strolled the deserted beach, before tourist season
Since daybreak I’ve bin a-desultorily typing,
Whilst the surf is ceaselessly breaking,
Fora batch-reunion is a time of great rejoicing!
Let us go then, you and I,
The evening is spread out against the October sky
Like an AFMC-ite plastered, upon a rickety table;
Let us go then, if we are able
Through half-forgotten bylanes,
The muttering refrains
Of restless nights at Old Insti socials,
Tepid punch, the treading on egg-shells:
Paths that follow like an arterial arcade
Still dubiously patent,
Lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “Am I sozzled? Is this it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the clinics, medical cadets come and go,
Lamenting the skewed gender ratio.
The powdery rain rubs its back upon the smudged window-panes,
The powdery rain that umbrellas disdain,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the boys’ hostel,
Lingered upon the puddles that stand in football field,
Let fall upon its back the ash that breaks off half-smoked rolled cigarettes,
Slipped by the GH, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the empty lecture-halls, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the powdery rain that slips and slides along Main Street,
Rubbing its back upon Kayanis and Latif’s;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare answers for the examiners that you will meet;
There will be time to bunk and berate,
And time for all those trips to Khandala,
That lift and drop vada-pao on your plate;
Time for chai and time for tea,
And time yet for a hundred non-decisions,
For herb-assisted visions and fevered before-exam revisions,
Before the taking of concentrated black coffee.
In the clinics, medical cadets come and go,
Lamenting the skewed gender ratio.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Was I there?” and, “Was I ever really there?”
Time to scan old faded photographs and stare,
With a balding pate covered by a few wisps of hair —
(They will say: “He once used to be thin!”)
O my bulging middle, my doubling chin,
My middling prosperity well filled-out, but restless within —
(They will say: “Isn’t he the one, who once used to be slim?”)
So those reading, Beware!
As I verbigerate in verse
Adiposity is but the one single truth
That unites the universe.
We knew it already, when the rigid cadavers in formalin stank:
When lamp-black coated drums spun and frogs were slaughtered in the afternoons,
We measured powders from mortar and pestle, with coffee spoons;
We learned of mysterious murmurs dying with crescendo or trill,
The myriad characteristics of a palpated lump; but still,
Uncertainties remained…
We gazed into ophthalmoscopes and black abyss stared right back—
Brows of examiners receded in utter surprise, sometimes mirth,
And when we looked askance at petri dishes of lurid colour,
Thoughts raced “The horror, the horror!”,
Ruminating on the structure of eicosapentaenoic acid and sphingomyelin,
As we calculated doses of Warfarin.
Uncertainties still remained…
And we had known the exact doses, known them all—
But the correct one, during exams, was bloody impossible to recall.
(Only to return later, sharp in the lamplight, perhaps aided by a glass or two!)
Is it the company of batch-mates,
That makes me so digress?
Who now lie sprawled by the pool, or trundle along the beach.
Who should I then beseech?
I have watched blue skies darkening over slate-coloured seas
Seen mottled smoke rise lazily over grey misbegotten towns
Waited all night, for the sun to paint scraggly mountains gold...
I should have kept a diary,
While scuttling across shores, sundry.
In the late afternoon, the evening, everyone drowses so peacefully!
Smoothed by tall glasses of beer or gin,
Asleep ... tired ... or is it nostalgia that lingers,
Stretched out on the sand, here beside you and me.
And after tea and pakodas and ices,
Shall we now talk of global eradication of poverty, fractured societies, ISIS?
Last night we listened to rock, chatted and danced,
Some old sparks flickered, some chanced,
“A batch-mate is worse than a spouse” intoned one prophet, but that’s no great matter;
In getting together at fifty, we’ve seen the days of our youth again flicker,
We’ve mourned friends departed, also laughed and snickered,
And in short, had a whale of a time!
It would have been nice if everyone could have made it, all.
But children’s exams, operational exigencies…they heard the call.
Among the lobsters, Pork Xacuti and the cranberry breezers,
We talked of how it has all been worthwhile,
And now it’s time to give back, go the extra mile.
To contribute towards a legacy,
That helped make you you, and me me.
Then we lapsed back to chatter
About things inconsequential, those that hardly matter,
Lazing, navel-gazing, settling a soft cushion by the head,
We all agreed: “Kumbhakarna is the ultimate role model;
So what, if he did not yodel.”
And it was such great fun yet,
Comparing effects of tanning and SPF, among ebony and jet,
After sunset, the dancing and Fisherman’s Wharf,
The attempts at haute couture, the trailing dappled scarf.
All this, and so much more —
Took me to the place where I was once before,
As if a kaleidoscope threw those days in broken patterns on a screen:
Days gone by shimmered and refracted, almost as they once had been.
A word here, there a snatch of song,
Turned stout citizens maudlin, as they stumbled along:
“That is a shared bond, forged in blacks and whites,
A companionship across time, continents and fading light.”
No! I am not a versifier, nor was ever meant to be;
Am maintaining something of a record, not necessarily true,
Documenting days and nights, tweaking a scene or two,
Supervising the grub; getting the daru,
Though beer-averse, am glad to be of use,
Late-sleeping, often hungry, and raucous;
Spouting verse, generally a bit obscure;
At times, indeed, almost outrageous—
Most often, found around the Pool.
I grow old ... I grow old ...
Did I once wear the bottom of my bell-bottoms rolled?
Shall we all turn somersaults like Malay?
Do I dare karaoke or inevitably shall I screech?
I shall wear tattered khaki shorts, and stagger upon the beach.
I have heard Rochan and Samar singing, harmonising each to each.
I think the next time when they sing to you and to me,
We’ll be cruising the Med, or will it be Bali?
I have seen joy riding on the waves
Combing greying strands of hair into bottled black
When Amita proctored the painting and the wine.
When we have lingered by the buffet tables,
By memories wreathed with flowers, food and drink,
Till other voices awaken us, and we return.
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