Quirks Of A Jaded Age Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Two wobbly old men at opposite ends,
Hostile forces as if from rival poles,
At loggerheads and still affable friends,
Finding holes were their favoured pastime goals.

One, like a stork stalking for a stray fish,
Awaited his turn better life to live;
Another cherished almost a death wish,
Life lived if only for ever to grieve.

His second wife an accident of late,
His large brood he thought was born— him to rile,
Their aim tethered on each to tolerate,
He'd oft say, if only I were sterile!

How I wish there was a repellent coil
To keep my irritations far and out,
Or a concealed and live-wire metal foil
That kills them like mosquitoes in one bout.

His friend perchance but a shade better was,
With a late start in life, marriage and all,
Late grooming of fortune past a long pause,
He endlessly waited for sons to call.

None could sleep the never-ending nights well,
And mornings brought no rest, nor ever cheers,
Age was the sole ailment casting its spell,
It was this they poured ire on friendly ears.

The morning meets were spent old bile to wash:
‘You look good for your age all life to sigh',
One wished with his waiting life to play squash—
The other self-cursed, soon enough to die.

‘Scan these papers; is there any promise? '
And prompt would unfold his friend's veiled attack:
‘Ye think life would spare you a pleasant breeze?
‘Forget, your estranged son calls or sends check.'

Life too much was for one dying to die,
One boarding his bed, every single night
Wishing no more to see morrow's dawn nigh,
But dawns sure returned O to pile more plight.

His all-weather friend, a tad brighter-eyed,
Had his life put off for a vague morrow
That never came— his dreams had not yet died,
But they seemed to unfold ever so slow.

Each counselled each to be more tolerant.
Ill health makes one helpless, his life to rue,
And hoping for help is a futile hunt;
Old-age is infancy dipped in dark blue.

Thank heavens we are fairly fortunate.
Say, not yet stone deaf, nor helplessly blind,
Nor cursed with a failing forgetful mind,
Body's blest still with limbs mobile till date.

Look, I'm not here to hear your hack on life,
For, fretful sleep lets me forget no things,
Aware, alive am I of life's lay strife,
Not on life, I crib on its hollow rings.

Man miserable is not for his plight,
Nor yet happier still for what he has,
For, heavenly mercies he takes too light,
In not enjoying ‘now' dearly he pays.

And when every hope dies premature death,
One is still left— that breathes with sure breath—
The hope to die that'd sure materialise,
O after falling, Phoenix-like to rise.
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Musings | 01.06.09 |