It’s drizzling

But it doesn’t matter.

I am running,

Around the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium

At Kochi.

The ground is wet,

There are water patches around.

So, I take careful steps.

As I go around,

I see a young man,
In a hoodie,

And track pants.

He is talking,

On the mobile phone.

Standing beneath an awning.

Must be to his girlfriend,

Because he is smiling.

I think to myself,

‘What a wastrel. Do some exercise. Get fit’.

But he is oblivious.

During my next lap,

I see,

A friend has joined him.

‘Two wastrels’, I think,

As I start panting.

My middle-age lungs,

Are aching.
But I like the suffering,

Because it makes me feel good.

When I stop.

On my third round,

They are peeling off their track pants.

I run on..

The drizzle has eased up,

A cool breeze is blowing.

My perspiration-drenched forehead

Gets some relief.

Running triggers

Something primitive in me.

This is what man did,

For thousands of years.

Before the invention

Of the wheel.

I can hear the thud of feet

Hitting the ground

Behind me.

It sounds like heartbeats.

Then these two young men,

Whom I derided,

Whizzed past me

At high speed.

Smooth electrifying movements

Of hands and feet.

‘What?’ I exclaim silently in my head

My perception was

Oh so wrong.

They are athletes,

And they are swift.

And they splash,

Through the puddles.

Fearless.

So I had simply

Misunderstood them.

That’s what happens to all of us

We misunderstand

People.

Places.

Communities.

Religions.

Spouses.

Children.

Parents.

Relatives.

Is it any surprise,

Society is so fractured.  

I feel like a fool

Message to me: don’t jump to conclusions,

Ever.

Scoundrels and rascals
All decked out in pastels
And Brooks Brothers suits
With cufflinks to boot
And five hundred dollars ties
Thinking that makes them wise;
Just one of the rich guys
And nobody to question them,
Never harrumph or an ahem
Because they are above it all,
No boring trips to the mall
They depend on their buyers
And other expensive liars
To tell them how cheap it is
To engage in this dressing biz,
For them to buy for the guy
And never ask why so high.

After all, it’s Armani, not Guess
So why should they confess
That they are smarter than him
The guy they work for is so dim
He pays whatever they say.
After all, he can afford to pay.
Even the water his maid gets
Is so high quality, one forgets
It is only hydrogen and oxygen
Not something created by men;
Probably bottled from the tap.
He never knows he is a sap
That falls for the television ads.
He will die completely glad.

It is so ****-hardening for him
To sup in restaurants so dim
He hardly notices how small
The costly portions are at all.
He lets them uncork the wine
And brays about how fine
The taste and the vintage,
Not caring the damage
It does to his Diner’s card.
This kind of life is not hard.
Plus he gets to go tomorrow
And wreak more sorrow on
Constituents and other peons
And wreak his own opinion
Even though he is but a minion
Doing exactly what he is told.
As long as he rakes in the gold.

Later, a bit under the influence
He'll revel in the confluence
Of a lack of conscience, and
Socially accepted concupiscence
At an appropriate gathering
Where there is a smattering
Of propriety and morality
That allows rented geniality
And permits him to rise up
And drink too many cups
While he beats his chest
Just like all of the rest
And call for the dancers
To come and surrender
To their oh-so rightful rapine
That won’t make the magazines.