Why Poetry?

When someone asked me – Why do people write poems? Why do we need poems? I do not read any? I read lots of novels. I listen to music, songs, hip hop, rock, even rap. But never a poem. The last time was during my early school days when I was taught a few.

I told him – Sane enough. Poetry is never meant to be read in any case. It is written as a means of expressing one’s own deep feelings of love, of hatred, of victory, of failure, of elation, of depression, of betrayal, of fear. Poetry is a private affair. It is a love between the creator and the medium of recording. They make love and out of that wedlock emerges a creation. For some it is music, for some prose, for a few others poetry. They remain sometimes as timeless pebbles underneath the ocean, sometimes discovered, shone light, to bloom and on its flowers the bees sit, sing and get drunk, carry a few pollen along with them spreading the song, new plants are sown and new flowers are born, by when the one which bloomed first might have wilted and gone, the fragrance still linger on the stone, only to be washed away by an angry river, later picked up again by a curious kid in another land, in another era, to be felt, smelt and reborn. Its …

He interrupted- You are mad!

I guess I am. But, wait, mister, I had not finished…!

Swami and his IT Friends

Of course a bit inspired from Swami and Friends.. 😛 and in no competition to the original!


Part 1 – Monday Blues

It was Monday morning. Swaminathan was reluctant to open his eyes. He had swatted the bedside alarm three-four times before considering to get up. Monday’s were unpleasant. What if there was no Monday in the calendar, he wondered. After the freedom of TGIF, freak-out Saturday and careless Sunday, it was difficult to get into the moody Monday mood of work and discipline. He shuddered at the very thought of office: that dismal glass building on the outer ring road; the fire-eyed Praveen, his manager; the lead architect wielding his thin iPhone in his hand. At times, the phone in Praveen’s hands felt like a 18th century Tipu’s sword swooshing from left and right cutting the thick armour in the battleground. But here it was the hapless us, his teammates.

By eight Swami was at his desk in his ‘room’, which was only a corner in his modest 2 BHK (Bedroom-Hall-Kitchen) abode in BTM layout that he shares with four other unfortunate folks. He had a small table on which all his belongings – his ID card, secureID, Laptop, phone, and some C++ books were thrown into a confused heap. Jumping on to the bean bag, he shut his eyes to recollect the work he had for the day: first of course there was weekly Team meeting—those mundane updates from last week and the forecasting for this next week; then there was agile team meeting in the afternoon – where he had to give status updates, roadblocks and way forward will be discussed; and then there was work to do. The most important item was of course “the girl”. He had only two hours to finish the spill over work from Friday when he had left early for the weekend bash at Bak Baj Bar off Koramangala. All that he had was 30 mins to get ready for office in time to board the bus. He did a quick check for the neatly pressed shirt, pants, a tie and shoes. Thanks to his friends, they had collected his clothes from the laundry and kept it safely inside the cupboard.

Fiery-eyed Praveen was presiding over the meeting with his back to the long glass window overlooking the “mushroom” buildings in Marathahalli and the landing pad of old airport road when Swami slipped into the meeting room quietly.  Through those huge transparent window panes, one saw a bit of the deserted basketball court and the lively food court of the IT Park, behind that lay the Beloor Lake and the coconut fields.Swami’s mind darted off in a tangent wandering about in his hometown, beside the crystal clear river and the soothing water, the numerous football matches drenched in rain, the cycle races to the tuition classes and back chasing the speeding train. Those memories were all passing before his eyes like an award winning viral short film clip when Praveen’s shrill voice interrupted him.

“Swamy, your updates?”

Praveen, with his thin frail figure attired in business formals, a reading spec precariously perched on the bridge of the nose, two sharp, piercing eyes glaring from above the lenses like an owl on diet, is generally a nice man whom you can easily mistake for an industrious university student. Much to swami’s displeasure, his boss liked running his hands through his remarkably black, proud and full hair on his rather large head at regular intervals. Otherwise his hands would be tapping the keyboards of a Dell Laptop feverishly. He would crack occasional jokes and laugh wholeheartedly quite uncommon of a manager. He wouldn’t normally tense up except when some critical deadlines are missed. But once angry, he would do a “Hulk”– violent and uncontrollable, the other guy bursts out from the thin figure – at least in Swami’s vivid imagination!

Swami’s turn was the last since everyone agreed that the bad shows should come after the good shows.  “I am almost through. Just the last bit is pending. I have a function redesign which should be over in an hour.” Swami fumbled for a few intelligent words.

Praveen was irritated and frustrated. “But that was supposed to be over on Friday itself. What about today’s work? This is the nth time you are making this mistake. I think I should give you a “Needs improvement” rating this year so that you will look into your estimation issues.”

His voice increased in volume like the mobile phone wake up alarms!

Swami braced up for the “The Hulk”! But luckily the storm abated and the hulk didn’t come out. Praveen became his old self again and left the room in a jiffy, mumbling – get it done soon.

Kavitha, the south Indian “Iyer” damsel, born and brought up in Delhi, was enjoying the morning fun. Swami obviously had a thing or two going for her from the very first day. She was the magic glue for the entire team. Their productivity, attitude, attrition and the like had a close tie to Kavitha being around. Swami’s patchy Malayalam accented English amuses her so much that she would hang out with him whenever they go out in a group. His “awffice” and “zimply egxiting stuffa” makes her laugh till her eyes wet around the corner. Swami was never completely sure when she was making fun of him and when she was enjoying the conversations about the random things in life like the government’s bias towards defense policy, demonetization, office politics, gossips and all the other random stuff.

The only time Swami felt envious and furious at her was when she had got her promotions last month. Swami recalled helping her with her coding and then letting manager know that he had assisted her in completing her tasks. Despite that, she was considered for promotion when poor Swami was overlooked.

“Life is cruel.” Swami solaced himself. He is senior to her by at least 18 months and obviously seen the world, rather the insides of the office more than she had. Swami strongly felt that she somehow influenced the director. Manager seems incorruptible from the outside. But I don’t believe bloody Rahul. He suggests she would have stooped down one level and got cosy with our director Koshy. Scoundrel, how can he speak ill about her without any details. All office gossip, only.

Nevertheless, the grudge was short-lived. Swami didn’t have lunch with her on that day. That evening, she came to his desk, bent low enough that her body supported by her sharp elbows made an architectural marvel at his desk. He could vividly recall her perfume. Looking directly into his eyes, she said, “Swami, ..ssup? Fruit Juice?” He melted like a cone ice-cream on a really hot day! His purse would melt in exactly 30 minutes from then.



Venus, Venus; Venus, Venus,
Shining bright in the evening sky.

Venus, Venus
You watched us
Walking by hand in hand,
With love in our eyes.

Venus, Venus,
You watched us
As we ran in rain,
Around the blue lake.

Venus, Venus; Venus, Venus.

* * *

Nee illaamal naan illai,
Naan illaamal nee illai.

Yen vazkkai oru kanavu pol,
Athu ninaithalae pani thuli pol
Yen nenjil vidiyuthae.

Mannil podiyum puthu mazhai thuli pol,
Uyiril kalarum kaathal kavithai pol,
Yen ullam kuliruthae.

Venus,Venus, Venus, Venus.


  • New lyric – English + Tamil – tuned with a G chord – C add 9 progression. Still a work in progress in terms of arrangement.

Stitch your life

Your life’s so broken

Scattered pieces over the years.

Remember the words spoken,

Fractured moments and the hours?

Start the clock,

Mend your life

Before you turn

Mentally sick.

There’s no time to waste.

Nothing to contemplate.

Stitch your life,

Back to size.

It’ll never be same,

The way you claim

What’s left is best,

For that’s what you get when you hit next!

~Trilok R~

Written as a song. Sometime might get this tuned 🙂



Three cotton handkerchiefs,
Stitched in your failed beliefs
Lay beside your pillow.
Drenched in your tears,
From those painful years,
Your past, it’s so hollow.

Stars, millions of them,
When behind the rain-clouds they hide
Memories, myriads of them,
When in your mind they flood,
Can you still see with your mind and listen with your heart,
This life of yours breaking apart?


Very short stories – Summer Rains

When it rains in Bangalore on a hot caustic summer evening, you smell the wet trees, their flowers now smashed to pulp, you see the sodium vapour lamps highlighting the drops, the running people, escaping bikes and the kid walking ever slowly. Ah summer rains, reminds me of home and then Pilani and the myriads of beautiful moments. I am just a grown up kid decorated with beard!

The Meat Shop


A black wall – Credits

A hot humid room. Incandescant light. 100W bulb may be. There is a song playing in the background on a cheap speaker, probably a mobile speaker or a cheap FM radio. It is an Ilayaraja song (or aadukalam song). It is not loud but faintly audible. It is unnaturally quiet. Broken only by the speaker’s noise.

Nondescript chatter begins…

The wall shown is dirty. Paint peeling off here and there. There are blood stains on the wall. A few palm impressions in blood on the wall.

As we look to the right, a calendar with a big picture of Jesus Christ, Shiva and Muslim scripture hangs. Ajanta lamps is written in the bottom of the small calendar. Days are crossed out till January 23rd, 2014. A blinking array of serial lights decorate the wall above the calendar.

Nondescript chatter slowly becomes clear…

Voice 1 – A 45 some voice commands, “Do it correctly. We have to drain every last drop of blood before the heart stops beating. That is proper halal cut. A little bit to the right.”

Voice 2 – A 30-35 voice – “ok” (with a nodding head)

Our eyes move ahead. There is a plug point and a charger is connected. Our eyes move down to a mobile phone FM in loudspeaker mode with headphones connected. Our eyes move ahead to a set of knives used for butchering. Our eyes move ahead to the light source above the knives.

Voice 1 – “Recall the last time? One customer brought back the stuff. I gave him a new one and a discount. What was it – mutton or chicken?”

Voice 2 – “I remember. Mutton.”

Exhaust fan is off but rotating with the faint wind. There is a morning sunshine outside. Faint light.

Song stops. Power goes off.

Voice 2 grumbles. Voice 1 no response. Heavy breathing. May be there is a third person in the room!

Light comes back. Chicken crying noise!

Our eyes moves to the right. We see mutton, chicken and other non vegetarian items hanging upside down. Light blinks.

Our eyes continue moving. We see a a pair of human legs tied upside down. Our eyes move forward. Another set of mutton and chicken limbs.

We are shocked and eyes pan back to the legs. It struggles once and becomes still.

Light goes off.



Scene 1:

Single shot sequence. Long Take. Single person POV.

Inside a minimally lit single butcher shop. Most probably has a 100W bulb in the center of the room. Early morning hours.

Camera is placed in the entry of the room placed in the center turned at 90 degrees to its left.

FM Radio running. Nondescript chatter.


Exhaust fan (rotating due to natural wind and pressure difference) on the right side of the screen.

Credits rolling out on the left side of screen. Credit ends and shot starts panning.

Panning speed slow – define frames per second.

Exhaust fan connected to power to a plug board.

Panning starts

Camera traces exhaust fan cable to the switch board. It has 3 plug points.

First one is connected to fan.

Second one connected to a mobile phone adapter.

Third one to serial lights.

We trace second one down to mobile phone.

FM is playing on it.

Panning continues at that level

There are couple of butcher knives with blood a few feet to the right.

Voice 1 – A 45 some voice commands, “Do it correctly. We have to drain every last drop of blood before the heart stops beating. That is proper halal cut. A little bit to the right.”

Voice 2 – A 30-35 voice – “ok” (with a nodding head)

Camera starts moving up the light source on the wall which is a serial light.

We find a calendar with days crossed out till January 2014.

A calendar with a picture of Jesus Christ, Shiva and a Muslim scripture hangs. Ajanta lamps is written in the top of the small calendar. The blinking array of serial lights decorate the wall above the calendar and goes to the left of the screen.

Panning continues at that level – head level.

We continue at that level to the right.

We see mutton, chicken and other non vegetarian items hanging upside down.

Power off

Voice 2 grumbles. Voice 1 no response. Heavy breathing. May be there is a third person in the room!

Light flickers and our eyes continue moving. We see a a pair of human legs tied upside down. Our camera / eyes move right as if nothing happened. Another set of mutton and chicken limbs.

After a second eyes pan back quickly to the human legs. The hung human legs struggles (wriggles) once more and goes still.

Light goes off completely.

Last shot:

Melting painting on left side with credits rolling on the right.

~ Trilok ~