Born Too Late For Today's Times Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

An aging odd pea in a greying pod,
He grew old blaming each passing season,
Frowned on things not meeting his whimsy nod,
And vouched for vague, frivolous a reason.

If things were cool, cosy, comfortable,
He'd wish they were a wee-bit warmer still;
In a climate heavenly sent, stable,
He was wont to find faults of flimsy ill.

A child he was more of chaff than good grain,
This man known around town as Subba Rao,
Unable to live happy with his now
And here of life, whose past perhaps was pain.

To feel sorry perhaps he was here born,
In constant complaint of the world unfair,
Keen to fly first flight to escape this morn,
To leave behind all wicked days of ere,

To time-travel to golden days of old—
When all wears were spot-less white, all so right,
The milieu mashed to his maudlin delight,
The time when wore glowing garments of gold.

He loathed today's o'er gutsy girls and guys—
Rebellious, too risqué, rowdy their romance;
Things not tied to his tether were unwise
To him, and looked like loud and lurid dance.

Classical south alone would pass his muster,
And matching old music again from south,
All else lacking rhythm was so much bluster,
To him all mod ways were rather uncouth.

His look of content yearned still what was not,
Rejecting things well within his slim grasp,
He dreamt of whatso his fond fancy caught,
Some vague and wild blossoms he wished to clasp.

He hated wealth, but wealth was what he sought,
And sure enough felt frustrate without it,
Pure gold should garnish every life, he thought,
He cherished hopes one day bull's eye to hit.

It looked as if shorn of luck born he was
Too late, in a wrong place and at wrong time,
Where everything clashed with his tinkered cause,
His life's lyrics were in rhythm, nor rhyme.

Some blokes refuse to blend with passing stripes,
And fuse seamless with prevailing spirit;
Subba Rao was no crime for all his gripes—
The problem was perhaps that of a fit!
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Subba Rao was a kind we oft come across anywhere in India, as I did— one that lives almost exclusively in the past; one constantly in quarrel with all things of prevailing times. He was mired in contradictions and conflicts.
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Musings | 07.08.08 |