A Tale Of Our Times. Poem by Ravi Panamanna

(The life of Howard R Hughes is phenomenal. He was born in Houston, US on 24/12/1905 and expired on 05/04/1976. He owned a number of companies and was the Chairman of Hughes Aircrafts. But his richness did not give him a peaceful life towards the end. Life is after-all not a question of material richness but a measure of richness of mind and heart. His life naturally compels everybody to reflect on the moral and spiritual values of life. Hence this poem has a purpose unto mankind. I haven't tried to shorten this long, narrative poem for the fact that the reader should get to the whole issue of how a man could dig his own foundations to ruin himself. Let us take a lesson out of his life) .


On board an air ambulance,  
On way to The Methodist Hospital,  
Unknown and unsung
He breathed his last.

His billions were a waste,  
Richness could not save his life.
From the springs of yore
It was a reckless wander unto a recluse and beyond.

Once upon a time
The winds were blowing soft.
Long long ago
His seasons were normal and perfect.

During his prime life
He was an archetype.
A daring aviator, an indefatigable tinkerer,  
He owned a flag carrying airline and myriad companies.

It was a huge take off,  
A marvellous flight, sprawling dreams.
Hollywood lay under his very feet,  
Billions lay in his golden pocket!  

He could burn all his wealth
And still remain as an unquestionable king.
That was his word, command and affordability,  
Those were his hay days, umpteen seasons.

When it is day light,  
Twilight is in sure reserve.
When it is twilight,  
Mid-night is not far off.

Man has his eccentric levels,  
He has his strange moods and ways.
Within the world of his psychic bounds
Man often stands in isolation.

Beyond billions
Man is often a thinker.
It can lead to philosophy,  
Else, to eccentricity.

Without a seed
A tree can't grow.
Without a spring-board
Man doesn't reach the depths.

And he plunged to darkness,  
He drew his silvery curtains.
From the world of friends, wine and women 
He ran to incapacitation and seclusion.

From the land of Uncle Sam
To Las Vegas he made an escapade.
There on the floors of Desert Inn
He built Maheu spending a fortune.

Those were his Penhouse years,  
A decade and more, his eccentric days.
Yielded to obsessive -compulsive disorder,  
The price was a prisoner's life.

He was a tortured, troubled man,  
He lapsed into periods of lunacy.
In self neglect he wallowed,  
In prison like conditions he survived.

He was hooked on to drugs
Empirin and Valium he took in excess.
Codeine and Morphine added,  
He lived out of the world for a decade.

He was unstable, incoherent,  
Often he preferred nakedness.
To buttons, metal snaps and zippers he had an aversion,  
And rarely preferred a pair of drawstring white underpants.

Far from his blood gushing days
He reached appalling conditions of health.
Skinny, bare-assed naked man,  
He sat on an unmade three-quarter bed.

Anemia, arthritis and a host of diseases
Took their seasonal peep on him.
Around him rotated four doctors
And his main trouble was constipation.

Once for three days in a stretch
He was in the toilet and made a record.
Occasionally propping himself on a chair-set
He could support himself while dozing.

That was the fate of the billionaire,  
That was what was in reserve.
Was it a natural phenomenon or self created one
Is only a tale meant for our speculation.

He was six feet four inches tall
But short by three inches towards the end.
He had a pronounced stoop
And he reduced to a cadaverous ninety pounds frame.

And he no more shaved his face,  
His straggly beard hung to his waist.
His long hair reached mid-back
And his finger-nails were two inches long.

The story of his toe-nails was the same,  
It grew long and long like yellow corkscrews.
During those Penthouse years thrice he met outsiders
When he did elaborate barbering, clean up and clipping of nails!  

He had a strange phobia -
The fear of contamination from the world.
His secretaries wore white gloves
And he used a Kleenex while holding a person.

And he carried, nay, clasped a Kleenex box,  
It contained his syringe.
He took several shots of it
During a flight of six hours.

From Claustrophobia he suffered not,  
His bed-room was the smallest on the Penthouse floor.
Stacks of newspaper and magazines scattered about the room,  
It told of a man having an uneven breath.

His eye sight was bad,  
He wore no spectacles but used magnifying glasses.
He called them as his ‘peep stones',  
They were windows of a shrinking world.

His hearing was also bad,  
He spurned his collection of hearing devices.
He preferred people talking into his ears,  
He tried to follow their lip-movements.

He drank only Poland mineral water,  
It was bottled at the Spring of Maine.
From pint bottles he never drank,  
He had his very obsessions.

His flying Dutchman-like wanderings,  
From place to place, country to country,  
It was not a layman's travel,  
It cost him an estimated one fifty million dollars an year!  

It was a confinement of an eccentric,  
It was a billionaire's incalculable flight.
He no longer watched Television,  
So he missed his days and dates.

The lyrics of that jazz hit Hey Baba Rebop,  
He sang aloud time and again.
‘Ice station Zebra' was seen one fifty times
And he considered ‘The Blue Max' was great.

Those were his lonesome wanderings,  
A man's unreadable mind.
Before the predicaments of human mind,  
Billions are just floating papers.

This is what our sages repeatedly said,  
This is the essence of life.
If thy mind is not in thy reach,  
Your money is never going to rescue you.

The story of Howard R Hughes ends here,  
The tale of our times is more than a fiction.
In the ocean of life
One has to be an expert swimmer.

On board an air-ambulance,  
On way to a Huston hospital,  
Unknown and unsung,  
He perished and disappeared from the vanities of the world.

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29/01/2003 
Ravi Panamanna