Author Archives: Mayank Mohan Pande

Contentment

All I want is a roof over my head,
A comfortable room with a hard bed.
An occasional chicken sandwich, restricted tea and cigarette,
Eyesight enough to read and key in rhymes, in a life free from regret.
Constant thanks to our creator for giving me life,
With loving friends, relations and Jaishri, my sweet and caring wife.

Gratitude

All I want is a roof over my head,
A comfortable room with a hard bed.
An occasional chicken sandwich, restricted tea and cigarette,
Eyesight enough to read and key in rhymes, in a life free from regret.
Constant thanks to our creator for giving me life,
With loving friends and relations
And Jaishri, my sweet and caring wife.

Contended thanks

All I want is a roof over my head,
A comfortable room with a hard bed.
An occasional chicken sandwich, restricted tea and cigarette,
Eyesight enough to read and key in rhymes, in a life free from regret.
Constant thanks to our creator for giving me all these and life,
With loving friends and relations
And Jaishri, my sweet and caring wife.

This hissing silence

Over the meadows, in the mountain tops,
The wind blows, hisses, and never stops.
The same kind of silence, in this room I find,
Of other abilities left far behind.
I sit here and compose,
Of prickly thorns, and a lovely rose.
Have you seen an ‘Awla’ tree?
The fruit is the purest form of Vitamin C,
And under which the deer roam free.
If you have, you’ll feel the hiss,
Otherwise there’s not much amiss,
‘Cause this hissing silence will always be.

An aerial view

I was looking at the air hostess, but there was not much to gain,
I looked below and glimpsed at God’s own terrain.
A wooded mountain range, with a meandering road atop,
With tiny little villages to make a cozy stop.
It must have been Meghalaya, which is not part of the Himalaya Station,
But is a beauty spot, on the face of India, our nation.

Spring

The earth came closer to the sun,
Cheerful birds began to sing.
The ‘Bihu’ dancers joyfully proclaimed the arrival of Spring.
The climate warmed and the spirits began to rise.
All remembered this saying of the wise:
That in this world miseries, and joys, abound.
Is it merely because the orbit of the earth is not perfectly round?
No, because happiness is possible in all kinds of weather.
We have to just love and be loved together.

‘Murgee’

The wild fowl is known as the ‘jungli murgee’,
The food of jackals, cats and yours truly.
A shot-gun is needed if you don’t have a two-two,
Now that shooting is banned, there is not much to do.
Except go the market and see a less sporting slaughter,
Without fun of the chase and a rare encounter.
A jungli murgee was more difficult to get, than a broiler chicken can be,
More often he beat you, and that’s why he is called the jungli murgee.
Of our murgee again there are two kinds,
One with a shiny black plumage, a name called ‘Kaliz’,
which only in the mountains a hunter finds.
The other is orange and equal in taste.
I could never shoot a murgee because I was always in haste.

‘Raghu’

Raghu is a friend as no friend can be,
Happily we work together in the ONGC.
Every morning when I report for work he is for my mind a debugger,
For you know he is a Mathematician and a Star Computer Programmer.
With a caressing stroke over scratches I and some others have made,
When I’m rich I’ll polish his name on a diamond drilling bit and not in ordinary jade.
He shares the name of the Lord I worship,he knows the message of Christ,
The likes of Rags will carry the ONGC to a new height.
I don’t know how I could earn my salary all alone,
And repay back my Citibank Car loan.
A selfless Raghu has nothing to gain,
In relieving his friend from a sometimes unbearable pain.
Free me he does from the tyranny of my past.
As long as I live his friendship will last,
I’ll write again on Mudit a mutual friend,
For by the grace of the Lord my lines will never end.

Sensuality

Let us talk of sunsets and not volcanos,
Of the warmth of a mountain hearth and not scorching infernos.
There are forms chiselled to perfection, garnished with smiles,
Leading to fantasies of a thousand miles.
Why does the Nilakanthan the poison not swallow?
In the company of Parvati in the glorious Himalayan nights?
An unbridled lust will lead to ugliness and dirty fights.
The warmth that forms give us let warmth alone be,
I will not let the scorch of this furnace come close to me.
The form, the smiles, the movements and the gait,
will always combine some elements inside,
Let sunsets be beautiful sunsets, and to our vows abide.

In the Morning

Clouds were seen almost everywhere,
yet our Sun still had its way.
Throwing a golden streak in a gap above,
As if all things in nature are hands in glove.
The pipeline hazards of the morn I always encounter,
My friend S.Manivannan will forever remove,
All will be just great thereafter.
Let us this cure, spread all around,
Not just in Silicon, but far and wide where students abound.
The Sun will rise every morning,
All of us will then welcome it cheerfully smiling.
Mani and I will write a book.
We will start by bringing my mind out of a paralyzing hook.

Tiger Hill

The tale of our sub-continent is not difficult to analyze.
Without going into matters for which others are paid
to have an accurate understanding,
I dedicate these lines to my former comrades in arms
and their gallant enemies,
both living and dead.
The trigger behind this expression is the fact that
I wish to drive to Korea and people who belong to us block our land routes,
and over whom and the land of the Sindhu, we have an ancestral claim.

The guns boomed over the Tiger Hill,
The world watched with its breadth held still.
Einstein would not have worked if he had known
it would lend to external military brass,
An excuse for them to present the Kashmir war as being fought over grass.
The political equations of the great thinker’s time,
Have not changed likewise, since the days of the gentlemen who sucked lime.
Thus sometimes I weep and sometimes rage over
this phase lag between us and those who rule the roost.
Let us look to the future and the morale of our poor’s morale do boost.

Confusion

After many years I heard the pitter-patter of the rain,
And I began to collect my wits which remain.
To sympathetic ears narrate,
This pain and this confused mental state.
When the mind is full of all that has to be done,
And bewilderment inhibits the commencement of any one.
Remote from the state of bliss, this is some kind of paralysis.
Let us not brood over this malady,
And work out a remedy.
If I just have in my work some prioritization,
God will give back to me my concentration.

The little fawn

From the stillness of the dawn,
Emerged this little fawn.
Right below the Awla tree.
Feeling alive and feeling free.
Feeling that nature was kind.
Alas a hunter pulled the trigger,
And the little fawn, left the world behind.

Sheljam

Down memory lane ,there is a forest rest house in the woods.
Colonial in style, it is of a vintage where a large hand-pulled punkah,
delivered the goods.
The furniture was still fine, with a good old gun-rack.
How I wish those days could come back.
A sloping roof, a stable converted in to a garage.
An Awla tree in the surrounding acreage.
Out-houses in a row, an outdoor kitchen.
It also a wood-fired hot-case,
with the suggestion of game and chicken.
Under the bright light of the Petromax we read Edgar Allan Poe,
Perry Mason and James Hadley Chase.
This fond memory no nightmare can erase.
No newer dreams and ecstasies can these ones fully displace.

Manu and I

My son Manu, was born many years ago,
It gave a caressing, though unacceptable, touch to my bruised ego.
His elder sister, Bhavya my daughter,
Has always been full of giggles and laughter.
But it is only Manu and I, who share a taste of the
raw earth, two-twos and bird slaughter.
Now that my son, Manu is in his teens,
He pleads to Doctors and Sadhus to Kings and to Queens,
To cure his father of an illness very much unseen.
Many pals in the world may be,
There will never be a friendship, as between Manu and me.
He copies and pastes and wants to join Microsoft or if not then Hyundai,
For the gears and the steering he keeps a hunter’s eye.
The Medeleef’s table and equations he has learnt from me,
But a commercial programmer he wants to be,
Every day when the sun rises ,my friend promises to look after me.