Fallen Flowers


At the end of this post, I am going to try to append a song called “Fallen Flowers” by a wonderful singer called Steve McDonald. It is a great song, and I hope you can take the time to listen to it. The song is taken from an old Scottish tradition of referring to soldiers who die in battle as ‘fallen flowers’.

Anyway, I was in a town called Panipat last week. Panipat is a strange little town. It has deep mythological connections. It is also the town that witnessed three battles – the three battles of Panipat. These three battles – in 1526, 1556 and 1761 – were pivotal in the formation of Indian history.

In 1526, the Afghan chief Babur came into India and defeated the King of the Lodi Dynasty. This marked the entry of the Mughal Dynasty in India. The Mughal Dynasty was the last great dynasty of India.

In 1526, his grandson Akbar defeated the Hindu king Hemu, and firmly established the Mughal Dynasty in India. If he had lost, we would have lost a great king. Akbar is one of the two kings in India who are called ‘The Great’. If he had lost, his grandson Shah Jahan may never have built the Taj Mahal.

In 1761, the Maratha warriors lost to the Afghan king. The defeat, as per some, created a power vacuum that allowed the British to take over India, and caused India to become a part of the English Empire (in 1857, of course). The Third Battle of Panipat was the last battle between South Asian countries until the independence of India and the creation of Pakistan. It witnessed the largest number of deaths (in classic battles) in a single day during that century. Over 100,000 soldiers died that day.

Yet, when I was in Panipat, at the site of the Tomb of Ibrahim Lodi, the king who died on the 21st (or 26th) April 1526, no one knew who the tomb belonged to. “There was a King”, some said.

The site of the first and second battle has disappeared, and the memorial to the Hindu King Hemu has disappeared.

Only the site and memorial of the third battle exists. I took the above picture at Kala Amb, the site of the Third Battle of Panipat.

When I went to the site – Kala Amb – of the third battle, and sat by the tomb of Ibrahim Lodi, I thought of the battles that forged that changed the destiny and history of India. I thought of the battles fought, and the thousands of lives that were lost. Not one of those who died during those battles could have realised that the battle they were fighting was going to change the destiny of a nation.

Then I thought of our last battle with Pakistan, at Kargil. I thought of the apartments that the government made for the families of the Fallen Flowers – our soldiers – and how greedy politicians had tried to steal these apartments, without shame.

When I spoke to people in Panipat, I realised that practically none of them knew much about these battles. Their knowledge was hazy at best. I can’t blame them. They struggle to live in one of the filthiest towns that I have ever seen in my life.

I spoke to a friend, and she said – ‘ya, ya… forget the history’. I don’t blame her. I hated history in school. I detested the subject. It was boring, and just a recital of dates.

In the last several years, as I read more and more about Indian history, I started to appreciate the forces that forged our country, that made them what we are today. I started to realise that if we forget the lessons of the past, then not only do we forget a part of our culture, our collective subconscious, but we cannot forge a better tomorrow. We cannot take a balanced view when a politician or teacher or speaker or religious nut job blathers on in a dangerous manner about what wrongs have been perpetrated on us by the British or the Muslims or the Sikhs or the Hindus or any one else.

We forget the beauty, the dynamism of the past. We forget the sacrifices of those who made us what we are.

We forget those Fallen Flowers who helped make our nation.

The Journey To Hell – 6

This is the last that I wrote of this journey. I wonder if I should continue

“Yes, I would kill you, if I can”
Repeated Puss, “I’ve shown my hand.
It is you I truly hate
I’ve put it all on my plate.”
Lucifer looked at her through hooded eyes
And thought, “Oh, she thinks I lie”

He looked at her, and said
“Young lady, you make a mistake
I am no ape, no human liar
I did not eat the apple, and burn with fire
Of lust, of desire, of greed,
And please pay heed, to what I say”

“I did not shed blood, that is not my game
I did not ask for blood, to be shed in my name
I merely play an actor’s role
In the play of life, in the play of death.
I shake with mirth, to see humans pray
For their souls, for which they pay.”

“They pay with money, they pay with blood
Innocents die, for the Gods they cry.
I did not invent love,
I did not invent hate
I did not rise from the Holy Ape.”

“I am what I am, a twin of God
We are joined at the hip
We come from one pod.
Divinity is a joke, as is the seed you plant
Of everlasting Heaven, of everlasting Hell.
Think about this before you plant
Another pod, and give birth to a sod.”

The Journey To Hell – 5

Puss sat down, and broke her crown
She gazed through fiery eyes
“Oh Lucifer, I despise your lies,
Your sophistry, your clever smiles.
What do you know of Love and Hate?
You, who hold desire at bay?”

“I am young, and I have feeling
I am true, though time is fleeting
I have the courage to feel love’s fire
I have the faith that I will get my desire.
Of Love and Hate, I do not care
I will get all that there is to see here”

“Love and Hate are but words
Do they have meaning that you
Would care to share?
Who who play with people’s hearts,
Would true feeling
Set your heart a-beating?”

“Your faithless heart is all I see
A mere trickster is all you’ll be
I was wrong to think God is a liar
You are the one who should be
Set on fire”

“I shall watch you burn, and burn
I shall put your ashes in the urn
I shall dance on your unholy Grave
They shall admire me for being so brave.
I shall put a stake in your heart
And sell it on the shelves of Super Mart”

Puss laughed and laughed and cried
The tears of joy rolled from her eyes
Her cheeks were moist
With unholy glee
She looked at Lucifer from
Her bended knees!

A Touch Of Whimsy – Yet Another Interlude. I Arrogate To Myself…

And so we come to yet another interlude.

I do not classify myself as a writer. Not by a long shot. So, let me just say that I am suffering from something called blogging block. I am also suffering from photography block. My good friend Michelle tells me that I should not put pressure on myself and that I should go with the flow. So, maybe I shall heed her wise advice.

As I have mentioned, I started this as some sort of a corporate blog, and then got bored of that. I cannot, for instance, read magazines like The Harvard Business Review. No doubt, they are very good and present some interesting management concepts. Yet, I find the tone so very boring, and no matter what my dear friend (who is now some sort of management professor in Australia) tells me, I cannot read that stuff, or write like it.

I am interested in topics like climate change, the environment, health, hunger, education and leadership. Plus, religion, mysticism and humanity at large. Indian history as well. Also, the whole concept of corrosion. I love metallic corrosion, which is where I started, however, I am referring to the corrosion of the human soul. Evil is an interesting concept, as is the Dark Side.

Enough, I think. That is already too much! So, while I may try to go about these in some sort of serious pedantic style from time to time, I may fail in the attempt.

Esmerelda the Spider, bless her soul, has been weaving webs inside me, and she seems to be pulling me in the direction of story telling and allegories.

Bismillah, damn his hoary old soul is just sitting on the side lines and laughing. His cackling laughter is enough to scare the ghosts away, but he does not give a damn. Now, there is one inconsiderate fellow if there is one.

For now, I am thinking of arrogating a title to myself. And, like some of the Mughal Emperors, I shall give myself a nice sounding title. Prince Khurram, when he ascended the throne, called himself Shah Jahan – the King Of The World. It is her, by the way, who built the Taj Mahal, and the Red Fort in Delhi (some of India’s best known monuments).

So, I shall call myself The King Of Blah.

In The Mughal Style, I shall replace the word “King” with Shah, and shall retain the Blah.

Shah Blah does not sound good at all.

To make it more specific, in the British style of writing, I shall know be known as (hold your breath):

The Shah Of Blah”


The Dark Bride… By Patty

For those of you who know her, Patty writes superb poetry. Dark, with that hint of light that makes it scintillating.

She’s also one to speak up for a good cause, some that people don’t generally look at seriously enough,

Recently, she wrote a poem called The Dark Bride. You will have to click the link to read it, but it is well worth the effort.

I am, of course, honoured that she wrote this poem, especially since she dedicated it to me. I had re-blogged it on my dark blog, and WordPress refuses to let me reblog it here. Hence, the link in the title of the poem.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, The Dark Bride

A Touch Of Whimsy – And, Who Am I?

Who Am I?

And so, we come to the question that has plagued me since birth. Has it plagued you?

Who am I?

I was a son, till my father died. I am a father, husband, friend and lover.

I was a corporate executive. Now, I am not. Am I a struggling entrepreneur?

Am I a dilettante? Or, am I a scholar?

Am I a fully truthful person? Or, do I tell little lies and thus become a chronic liar?

When I was young, I was told to be a man. When I asked the people around me what it means to be a man, I was told be tough, macho. Hard drinking, hard swearing. Catch the woman,swing her up onto the horse, and gallop into the distance.

Now, they tell me to be a man. When I ask the people around me what it means to be a man, I am told to be strong. In sensitivity, lies strength. In gentleness, lies strength. Yet, if you need to kill, do it mercilessly. Do they coexist?

When I was a corporate executive, I was told that to be successful, I must exude confidence. I must never display doubt. It is a sign of weakness. I must be one of the boys. I must be able to blend effortlessly with the bosses, laugh at their inane jokes, and say ‘yay’, when my heart says ‘nay’. I must express the ‘nay’ in a manner that says ‘yay’. In my youth, I was to be a tough, ruthless leader. Almost to the point of rudeness. Now, I must be a servant-leader, yet be ruthless.

Who made the rules of the game?

Who made the game?

Who told me that I should clap for the leaders who preach tolerance, yet practice violence, corruption and intolerance?

When I was born, I had no teeth or hair. When I die, I may yet have no teeth or hair.

When I was born, I was helpless and dependent. When I die, I will yet be helpless. I will depend on others to cremate me well, and bid me well as I journey into the darkness.

What happened in between? What did I do that was truly of significance?

Did I measure up? To whom? To who’s standards?

Who am I?

Am I me, or am I an amalgamation of the many masks I have worn?

Chastisement 2014

He is ready to separate the chaff from the wheat with his winnowing fork


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Viziunea mea asupra omului nou este cea a rebelului in cautarea SINELUI, a fetei lui adevarate. Un om pregatit sa arunce toate mastile, toate caracterele prefabricate, toata ipocrizia, gata sa arate lumii cine este el cu adevarat. Si daca va fi iubit sau condamnat, respectat sau huiduit, incoronat sau crucificat, pentru el va fi acelasi lucru, fiindca A FI TU INSUTI este cea mare binecuvantare a EXISTENTEI. Un om adevarat, sincer, care cunoaste IUBIREA si COMPASIUNEA intelege ca oamenii sunt orbi, inconstienti cu spiritul adormit ~ OSHO (CARTEA DESPRE BARBATI)


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