Fox

O fox! Lovely little fox,

My sweet innocuous animal!

Cunning! Which orthodox

Sketched you the title?

O fox! For fables’ sake, pardon us.

My innocent bestial, please note,

To picture our meanness and mistrusts,

In were you framed; made a scapegoat.

Eagle

An eagle

A success-symbol

Flying high

But never looking at the sky

A lone eagle

Just another beautiful bird

Beyond the human herd

Let it enjoy and fly

Organisation zone

This article is in response to numerous posts on LinkedIn blaming the managers as incompetent, as people who are the very cause of disengagement amongst the team members of their respective projects. The posts also say that organisations are recruiting wrong people as managers.

While I understand that these posts stem out of frustrations, I find them laughable, just as laughable would find the recruiters of managers! Please understand that all organisations are recruiting right kind of managers, as their representatives, their porte-parole. I don’t know if it would be unfair to draw out a similarity between terrorists and all private organisations, but, the behaviour, the signals sent out to non-conformists and the way justice is meted out to them killing multiple people in broad day light under the behest of HR is strikingly similar. I am saying this with a lot of affection which, I pray you understand; ‘love it or leave it’ is what private organisations believe in. Everything these children do is based out of competition, including their CSR activities! Why so? Well, why not so! This model of competition, killing, back-stabbing, gundaraj is working everywhere.  What I find amazing is that these activities are carried out under the banner of protecting employees as families, rest assured there is nothing called ‘family’ in all these profit-seeking organisations masked as being employee-centric. They are there in the market to make profit, to make them the best of the best, to excel, to deliver high performance and client satisfaction, that's all. With experience they have gathered over the years, this system is validated as foolproof, in time, as it works every time and all the time. So it is here to stay.

Organisations, private organisations, have failed to deliver two vital things to their employees, viz. stability and peace. In fact, for all practical purposes, they’d undermine these and usher in 'instability' and the object 'war' as an excuse to growth and excellence. It is only wise, therefore, to accept these rules as fellow employees have to work for a living, to bring home food. If you went against these ‘philosophies’, you would be shown the door for sure. You would go begging from door to door, like a popper, much to their amusement.

There was this employee who sent an angry mail to the manager using an expression ‘blessed organisation’. For this, issues and transfers followed one after the other until the time the employee was killed (thrown out) in broad day light, and mind you, without a right to return. How are these managers different from those who don’t want to hear anything against their faith? How! Then there was another employee who found some typos (in all forms actually!) in the manager’s English and showed the foolishness to point them out. Sure enough, issues followed, and sure enough the inevitable had to happen.

All of these killings are justified, recorded as fair; you won’t be able to convince them it is wrong, just as you cannot convince those people who slay innocent lives.  Private organisations are also headed by extremely intelligent people, toppers from colleges, you could also find very saintly people as the founders and senior executives, just as you find very intelligent and saintly people in the horrid zones too.

So  recruitment of managers who specifically disengage the workforce is going to happen, love it or leave it. My advice to you is to be very careful with these very competent people, because ordinary mortals like you need to work to fend for your families, the concept of which is marketed in most private organisations. Your grievances, if any, would be recorded, meetings will also be held, with the inevitable outcomes. With all these processes in place, my only advice would be 'compliance'; please comply with them, because private organisations do a lot of good too; their goodness is recorded and quantified, some of them rank as best employers as well. So please stop judging, because there is no point.

Just focus on your work. Do not backchat, argue.

Keep smiling.

Friends

Friends! They’ve qualities a bit special and stark,

A mélange of a parent, sibling, spouse and a child

A tad informal, outside they reside, off the family mark,

Yet in them, we look for our home, a comfort, we find inside.

Friends! They’re ageless to the very core,

Same age, or decades younger or older to you,

Could be miles apart, or a person next door,

They define and defy all boundaries, milieu.

Friends! They’re a keep, not a symbol to flaunt,

Celebrities, erudite, panwalas*, all the same,

Fools judge their company, duds praise or taunt.

Market conditions of guilt, pride or shame.

Friends! They may not always stand beside

When you are in dire or pressing need,

For that, if you brushed them aside,

It’s your failure indeed.

Friends! They become you, you your friends become,

With them you dive in, keep afloat, swim or sink,

With them around, your sailing world becomes a home,

A shore-less bond beyond rests in the ocean of friendship.

Note:

*panwalas  - This may also be spelled as "paanwallah". Literally taken, this means "betel leaf seller". It is composed of two Hindi words, "Paan", which means "betel leaf" and "wala" (or "wallah") which means "person associated with". Betel leaf and areca nut is a common breath freshener in India and there are other ingredients added as well depending on region, similar to sausage varieties in German towns. It is a chewable product. (Source:Wikipedia) 

The irreverent

Scene: A court

You are one man without basic manners

Minimum courtesy is to use salutation for the aged

Don’t you know it matters?

Use Miss, Mister, Madam and Sir

It’s a civilised world here.

And what the hell are you scribbling there, show!

 It’s a contempt of court, don’t you know

(The man chuckles)

What? You want to say something? (Looks at the jury, laughs)

“Yes.”

Say!

“I am sorry, but age matters little to me

It’s so unkind to remind one of those years

Salutations, merely decrepit, a superannuated thought

People disrespect with feathers of the sort

I respect all, would want to make it clear

The gray hair and wrinkles, visible lies, you see

For me, it’s a bluff.”

It’s a civilised world here. Your staffing is enough!

If you don’t salute, it only has one effect

A mark of disrespect!

Again?? What the hell are you scribbling there!

Hiding like a criminal, inside the court, how do you even dare?

“No, it’s just a letter... a lie... not of any worth to you”

Give the damn thing to us, we’ll read what is not so true

(Snatches the letter, everyone to their hearts’ content, grinned)

“Mr. Jesus, Madam Durga and Reverend Allah

Please accept my apologies, all through the years, I have sinned.”

Ha ha ha... behind the bars you will your lessons learn

For today, the court is adjourned.

The fall

flowers

in love with the grasses

detached from the holders

the sounds of waters

from the nearby brooks

and those of the birds

marries the fall

the garden

a stage of fallen flowers

a bed, full of lovers

with fresh brown whispering leaves

night and day

ceaselessly unite here

in moments, bloom

through millions of dawn and dusk

the numerous cracking, befriend,

celebrate the falling

waves of time, fall on the shores
folks write, written

seeds of love-thoughts, drop on the ground

this is nature, in permanence

loving and making love

in multiple folds, old anew

o sense, loud and mute

a sad wall, an island

accursed, live and stand

a death that does not die, ages

perpetually distant

its height cannot smell the grass

from where waves wither its cold feet

a non-living, inert symbol

trained, groomed, never to fall

all around, surrounded by

breaking, falling

sounds of love

ready to lose

a bee just pierced a hole

at the bottom

a cracking sound

with an ouch,

it went to the other side

busy

in the same way

falling,

failing, and

falling
in all of this
the sole wall 
looks old

Times

No holidays since long

Days rest tired, somehow go

Night-eyes stare up, blank

Hope for a tomorrow

Work might never start

Holidays might never wait

At the crossroads

The last shadow

the last shadow

disappears from the trees

the sky sheds off the clouds

complain rains

melancholic day

drowned in alcohol

stays sunk

until the dog at the corridor

of my garden howls

brings the intoxicated day to a halt

everything around changes

for some moments

a gap

an in-between

it will eventually get back

clouds will hang again

shadows will re-appear

water is the rock of Sisyphus

curse, curse, curse

what bliss this curse is

I walk down the corridor stairs

my legs have rain-sounds

jhhum jhhum jhhum

filled with the glory of falling

all absolutes become obsolete

blurred, nonsense

I lie flat in my garden

rains cover me...

moments with openness

without shelter

the dog howls

the sound, blunt and content

In this gap, curse or bliss

I know

Last is never the last. 

The source of entertainment

Literature of the world

Wounded, hurt...

Operas weep,

Sense engrossed in the narration

Pain becomes the healer.

Dying mind, history’s only hero.

People who fight, put behind the bars

In worship-cages, locked for good.

Dearth, horror, scarcity re-appear into the fore

Poverty, a permanent guest, hoists richness

Insanity, which is beautiful, mesmerising, becomes ugly

Weapons re-surface as the only truth

Imprisoned fighter, banished in the pages,

Wars and destructions, followed with awe

With utmost care, and sincerity

Bought and sold

Flawlessly, all over the world.

Operas re-weep

Literature re-wound

Senses drown

In the mindful, elite entertainment

the relentless poet

with high sugar, bp and other physical plights

the poet writes

through the dysfunctional ears, myopic eyes

the poet types

in an armchair, with a stick that wobbles

the poet scribbles

with wilting legs, quivering hands

the poet dares to stand

despite migraine and toothache, the poet giggles

the words on those pages scrawl, squiggle

despite wars in the air

in every corner

stony tones that joke and smirk

the jerk, with the restless mind

writes

what drives the poet, no one knows

would the poems anywhere go

to the insane, matters the least

out in the sun or in foggy mist

drying, drizzling, or pouring

tools aiding or ailing

the writing continues

of the sighs and the hues

in the world around

with the spirit of wonder

yet untapped, unbound