Hardik Vaidya

(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

To All The Sales Folks Who Worked Under Me


Gentlemen it was an honour to be on board,
Such rare and distinguished men are not made any more.
I was not a worthy leader, I was and am aware of my sores.
But each one of you were worthy leaders, let me tell you my folks.
I have never ever flinched, from leading you up front,
In true tradition, the bullet must first find my chest on the crux,
Never have I looked back, and never did I found you wanting,
Your dedication to my immense blackness was never a faltering.
Sons of great mothers you are, you rise from noble dust,
Not without a reason you worked for the eagle that soared upward.
I never lost a moment and I thank you for that,
To learn every single trick, you were champions and adept,
Amazed, awed, and humbled at your might prowess,
With tears hidden in the corner of my eyes,
I lead you with the greatest pride.

Submitted: Friday, March 01, 2013
Edited: Friday, March 01, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Sales is a remarkable profession. Morons who haven't sold a Popsicle in their life, sit in board rooms claiming they know the inside out of sales and a salesman's wife. The fact is the world runs on sales folks, the commercial guys live off their fat arses on the sweat of these gentle souls, if they have it in them, I challenge them all to pick up the tab, come to ground Zero, meet budgets, and show me they are men or women of substance. In my mother tongue there is a saying ' sambheloon wagaad to Kahoon ke toon shaano che' if you play a grind stone I will agree you are smart. Common smarty's play. Scared? Chicken.

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