The kind of loser I want to be

In the (mostly) zero sum game of Life, where there are winners, there are bound to be losers. The term 'loser' has such negative connotations that nobody wants to be one. Everyone wants to be at the top, some stoop to win; caring naught for the means.

I dont like the critic whose job is the simplest of all; he creates nothing, owns nothing, loses even less. I dont admire the winner whose face, as Theodore Roosevelt once said, is not marred by dust, sweat, blood. The winner has the joy of winning to comfort him. The person who gives it all, loses and walks away with head held high has my ubridled respect. If he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, knowing that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat. 

He is my hero.

Though I am familiar with the name 'G.K. Chesterton' I never read any of his works so far. Today, I stumbled upon his poem 'The Last Hero'. It made my hair stand on the end. Here it is, with many thanks to www.poemhunter.com.

---

The Last Hero

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.

The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.

Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.

The chance of battle changes -- so may all battle be;
I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me.
I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise,
More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes.

She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine.
Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse?
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress.

O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown,
You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown.

The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day,
They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way,
I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers,
As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.

How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave,
Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave.
Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie,
When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky.

The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, --
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.

Know you what earth shall lose tonight, what rich uncounted loans,
What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones?
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease,
Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas.

To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given,
The blow that breaks my brow tonight shall break the dome of heaven.
The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see,
Tonight I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me;

One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath:
You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.

---

When I lose, this is the kind of loser I will strive to be.

Venus with a difference

Before I started biking, my commute to office took an hour by bus and the route passed through a variety of socio-economic zones. That gave rise to interesting possibilities and even more fascinating co-passengers. They ranged from causal laborers to polished analysts, from homely housewives to slick salesmen and so on.

Few days ago, a girl boarded the bus. Nothing out of ordinary, we have quite a few women on the bus. What set her apart was her exceptional beauty. And she seemed to be aware of, and probably used to, the effect of her presence on surrounding people. She had the magnificence of youth, the one which needs no complexion, contour or cosmetics for support. Nevertheless, all the three she had in plenty. She reminded me of Botticelli’s ‘Nascita de Venere’, except that she emerged out of the dirt road with a lot more garments.

As luck would have it, she occupied the seat right in front of mine. She got out a laptop and started working on some spreadsheet. A beauty with brains, wow! My reverie was broken by a loud song; which I figured out was her mobile ringing. She picked it up with a curt ‘hello’ and did not speak for fifteen seconds. What followed next was a stream of choicest abuses which would make a sailor in gale blush. The words were not your spur-of-the-moment kind; no sir, they were well thought phrases encompassing the other person’s career, parentage and the rest of his life. And her volume was loud enough to attract the attention of those who were not attracted already.

This continued for about five minutes. After that, she hastily shoved her laptop in her bag, stood up and moved towards the exit. I guess the whole bus was thinking the same: Nature, bestowing beauty generously, balanced it in the verbal department. As soon as she got down, she cleared her throat loudly and spat on the road.

That was it. I had a name for her. A name that will dwarf Mr. Boticelli’s prosaic title of his masterpiece but will convey the truth as it is.

Swearing Venus with phlegm.

Quality time

One of my colleagues is awesome with software, not as gifted when it comes to grammar. We were sitting in the cafeteria, doing general time pass (he speaking, me listening) when Quality lead for our BU entered.

Here is something about our QA practice; Our BU stretches across six floors; every project has a Quality analyst who, reports to a Quality lead who, in turn, reports to this BU QA lead. So she is someone pretty high up; her meeting requests rattles grown project managers. At the same time, she is pretty grounded, so anyone can ask her about our QA strategy and get responses. As a part of induction, she had represented the QA practice. Despite her years, she looks ohh-so-elegant; somewhat like Maharani Gayatri Devi.

So, in she walked and this guy said, I am going to talk to her. I said on what topic. He said this and that. I said good luck. So, he walked up to her and said, “Hi, You are the quality woman. We had fun with you on the first day.” I see a big question mark on her face. My esteemed colleague, oblivious like a Doberman pup, piles her embarrassment higher, “Me and other new joiners had high quality time with you! You were blowing our minds so expertly!”

I got up as inconspicuously as possible, edged myself across the table and disappeared quickly through the open door.

And people say I am too rigid when it comes to language.

Like...what?

One of my colleague’s wife’s birthday was on a Sunday. Nothing exceptional about that. He took her to a fancy restaurant and gave her a gift. Nothing exceptional about that too. What is exceptional was the way he narrated it. His lack of vocabulary coupled with conversational trends was amusing, at the least, and exasperating, at the most.

People:  VD (my colleague who had taken his wife out for lunch), SA (a female colleague) and me

This is how it went:

VD: It is like this. I took my wife to XXXX (name of the restaurant). We at a good food. Then I gave her a gift. She was…like…what?
Me: She was surprised?
VD: No, not only surprised.  She was…like….what?

This time, his intonation of ‘what’ was slightly different. Still, SA and I were lost.

Me: She did not like it?
VD: No, she took it. But she was…like…what? (This time, again, the way he said ‘what’ was different)
Me: Was she….
SA: (interrupting) Let him tell in complete, Anant.
Me: I am trying to give a name to his wife’s frame of mind, that’s what I am doing, SA. Have you understood how she was feeling?
VD: I like that. So, she was like ….what…why now?
Me: (venturing into what could be a minefield) So, she was doubting your intentions?
VD: You are my friend. She was doubting but also surprised. What is that word in English?
Me: Suspicious?
VD: There you go. I told you, she was ….like …..what?

Things I learnt out of this conversation:

1.       Doubting and surprise adds up to suspicion
2.       I should not interrupt people. In other words, I should let them ‘say in complete’
3.       The simple word ‘what’ has come to signify a lot of feelings while I was under a rock
4.       Point no. 3 is true only when the ‘what’ is preceded by a ‘like’

Though he does not speak my language…

I am reserved while interacting with people I don’t know much about.

But, for one of my colleagues - lets call him TBP - I made an exception. Initially, I was cautious in my responses, what with him being the client and me being just an external consultant. Later on, as I worked more with him, I realized he is a gem of a person. Unlike most people I know, he wasn’t ashamed to say ‘I don’t know’ when he didn’t.

On a personal level, he helped me a lot. When I was staying in the same town as he did, he insisted on dropping me home everyday, though he stayed at the other end of the town. He did the groundwork for finding me an accommodation near to the office, which I did, staying with an excellent family (more on them later). When I wanted to visit someplace, TBP was my first point of reference. He was quick to make fun of me and even quicker to ridicule himself.

All in all, a great guy.

Just before the start of Easter holiday, he asked if I would like to see Møns Clint, the famous chalk cliffs in Denmark. Of course, I could not pass up an opportunity like this. We asked another colleague and he was ready too. On the day of travel, TBP came to pick me from my home. Along with him was his angelic five year old daughter, Tilda. The other colleague informed us at the last moment that he wont be able to make it, so it was just three of us.

Tilda speaks only Danish but understands some English. She was scared of me, all kids are, nothing new. Whenever I tried to address her, she hid behind her daddy. TBP strapped her to the child seat while I rode shotgun.

On the highway, we were having a free-wheeling chat about everything and laughing loudly when Tilda said something in Danish. TBP said, with no one to talk to, she was feeling lonely and she did not want the guys to have fun. So, we sat silent for some time and then started the talking/laughing again. Once again, we were admonished by Tilda. This time, we were silent for a longer duration. She found a coloring book and was occupied with it, so the guys were allowed to have fun. After two hours of driving, we reached Møns Clint. During these two hours, my numerous attempts to talk to the child produced zero results. But she was no longer trying to hide from me, which showed that I was definitely progressing.

After a snack, we set ourselves to the monstrous task of descending the 400 odd steps to the shore and pick up some natural chalk for Tilda and her brother. With a huge burger inside, TBP was hardly spry while Tilda was on a sugar high due to pancakes and orange marmalade. I had a protein bar, so I was feeling light and full.


I tried to match Tilda step for step and, though it is difficult to match the energy level of a five year old on a sugar high, I was fairly successful. It also warmed her up towards me. After a couple of hundred steps, she was as uninhibited with me as she might have been with other children. Sometimes she outran me, at times she insisted I carry her and at times, she wanted to carry me on her shoulders and I let her think she did. By the time we reached the bottom, we were buddies.


When we reached the shore, she was talking to me in Danish, I could not understand a word but I was making the right noises at what I thought were the right times. A five year old would hardly bear grudges if you don’t understand all she says. TBP was translating her words to English and mine to Danish, serving as a bridge between us.


At one point, she said something which made him pause. It was apparent he was struggling for words. Then he said, “You wont believe what she just said!”

“And what was that?”

“Never knew my daughter is a philosopher. She said, ‘though he does not speak my language, he can still be my friend. Tell him that’”

It was my turn to be awestruck. I had never expected this level of wisdom from a child.

I bowed to her and said, “I am honored to have you as my friend.”

Once again, TBP was struggling, but for a different reason. He said, “For God’s sake, Anant, she is five. She does not know the concept of honor. Give her something simpler.”

“Just tell her, I am happy to have her as my friend.”

This he did and I got a wide smile from her. Then she said something which, translated by her father meant, “It is so cold here. Hurry, we have to fill this bag with chalk.”

Which I did.

Anything for a friend.

Please put your hands together for Emily Dickinson

Originally a note on my FB on Tuesday, June 14, 2011 at 11:07am

During my random rambling over the Net, I came across this excellent poem by Emily Dickinson. In only two paragraphs, she has laid bare the very essence of human desire.


---
The heart asks pleasure first
And then, excuse from pain-
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
---
The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

So true...

Originally on my FB page, as a note on 23/01/2012:

While going through various blogs, I came across this free verse. It rung so true that I had to share it. I have no idea who Veronica Shoffstal is and neither did I try to find out. But here you are, Veronica, and thank you so much for this.

“After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn’t mean leaning
and company doesn’t always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren’t contracts
and presents aren’t promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman,
not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow’s ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn…”
- Veronica A. Shoffstall

Memories of Denmark – Looked down by an angel

After getting a bicycle, my mobility increased. I could cover more distance expending the same amount of energy. I covered long distances, saw more of Copenhagen and took a lot more pictures.


I got a map from 7-11 which I used to chart my path. But I also took unplanned detours due to which I had to stop frequently and consult the map to realize where I had landed. Once, after taking a turn too many, I halted near a bench, laid down my cycle and tried to find my position on the map. I was turning it round and round, muttering to myself and looking all over Creation when I heard a female voice saying, “Do you need help?”

I looked up to see a tall Danish beauty looking down at me. I don’t like to be looked down, so drew myself to full height but that did not remedy the situation. I was torn between thanking Him for sending an angel and considering standing on the bench when she repeated, “Do you need help?”

I said. “Definitely, but how did you figure that out?”

“You don’t look like you are from here, you have been looking at the map and around since last ninety seconds. I have been watching you with amusement.”

She flashed her pearls and I was thinking, wow, I must really suck at reading maps!

“Yes, I would like to go to Norreport station but I have lost my way.”

“No, you haven’t, not with me around. You are just a kilometre and half away from Norreport station. Just follow this way and take the first right. Do you get it?”

“Ja, I do. Take the first right after following this way.”

“Excellent! Have a nice day!”

“You too, have a nice day. Thank you for the help.”

With a wave, the angel left and I did both.

I stood on the bench and thanked Him.

Memories of Denmark – Unexpected bonding

I covered almost all sights of Copenhagen alone, partly because the people I stayed with were scared of the cold, partly because I was the only guy who invested in a bicycle and mostly because I like to travel alone.

Being alone makes me more aware of my surroundings. It might have something to do with the primal instinct of survival we all possess in varying degrees.

I was wandering in one of the many parks in Copenhagen on a cold and foggy Sunday morning. I rarely take the beaten path; I like to enjoy the walk. I know Denmark has no predators except foxes which are the size of Indian stray dogs and I was never scared of dogs. In a thickly wooded area, I heard some rustling at my right and out came a big dog. It could have been the Hound of Baskerville and, judging by the leaves and twigs lodged in its long hair, it looked like it had some fun rolling in the autumn leaves. It came directly at me and stopped at a distance of two feet.


I held my ground and almost half a minute passed with the two animals judging each other. Then it came cautiously and sniffed me; I ungloved my hand and ruffled its muzzle; I didn’t even bend; it was that big. It then did the most unexpected thing; it rose up on the hind legs, put its big forepaws on my chest and licked my chin! I kept on stroking its muzzle. It got down on all fours and started rubbing his muscular body on my side.

It could have been a scene from fifty thousand years ago when we wore no acrylic or wool but still had dogs.

Our party was broken by a female voice – and later an old lady – coming out from the same spot where the dog had. She called out the dog again to which the dog immediately left my side and sped to hers. First thing she did was put a stout leash on the dog’s collar. She said something in Danish which I could not understand. I walked up to her and requested to speak in English. She apologized and inquired whether I was alright and if the dog had harmed me. Far from harming, it was actually nice to me was my reply. She rarely kept the dog loose since people judge it by its size and are easily scared; especially overprotective parents. She thought there was no one around and hence unleashed it. I assured her that I was perfectly fine and I think the dog liked me. I squatted and rubbed the dog’s muzzle again and it licked me right on the cheeks with its warm moist tongue.

Another warm memory of Denmark.

Memories of Denmark – Ferry, sandwiches and tea

My weekends were free and Copenhagen, steeped in history and art, has a lot to offer. On the first day, I got an ‘Alle Zoner’ pass. I love to travel and I decided to exploit my pass to the fullest. I was at Nyhavn when I got aboard one of the ferries and flashed my pass; I thought the guy at the ship didn’t really look at it and I was lucky to ride it for free. (Later a colleague enlightened me that my pass covers them too)

I was pretty excited to see the sights from a new angle. The only other passenger was an old lady, who looked equally excited. It would have been a shame not to have a photo in the ferry; so I requested the old lady to click one. She happily obliged and though her hands were shaky, the camera gyro did a perfect job and the photo was good.


She gave a detailed description of every landmark we passed. When I rose to leave, she said, “Are you leaving?” to which I replied in positive. She said, “Are you sure? You haven’t seen the best parts.” I didn’t have anything to lose, so I stuck. We alighted at the last stop, The Royal Library. She asked me about how I came to be in Denmark, how long was I here and so on. She also asked me if I had planned anything specific to which I replied that I hadn’t. I was just soaking in the city, going wherever the road takes me. She inquired if I would mind if she showed me around; I said I would be honored to have her company.

The first stop we took was at Christian’s Church. It is an old beautiful church, well maintained with a massive pipe organ. She told me the significance of each painting, each statue and so on. Just when we were leaving, the pipe organ started playing. The old lady, who was walking a few steps ahead of me, turned around, gripped my arm with amazing strength and led me, like a small child, to a seat. Then she said something I will never forget, “Close your eyes, kid. Listen, with more than just your ears”.


The music that poured was deeper and more resonating than all I had heard till then. When the music stopped, I opened my eyes and saw her crying. I did not disturb her till she opened her eyes, wiped them and said, “I have been coming to this church since last 50 years. This music always moves me to tears.”

When we were on the streets, she started giving history of each and every landmark we passed by. Even a guide couldn’t have surpassed her knowledge. After a couple of hours, we came to a building by the Kastellet when she stopped, grinned sheepishly and said, “Would it be improper if I invite you for tea to my place?”

I grinned and asked, “Pardon me for breaking the social norm, madam, but, how old are you?”

She blushed, “Seventy seven!”

“Then it is not improper at all!”

Once upstairs, I was treated to a tour of her four-roomed apartment, delicious sandwiches and Ceylon tea. She happily showed me some pictures of her India visit, cried while recollecting memories of her husband – their marriage of 55 years ended with his death four months before – and showed some more pictures of her children, grand children and great grand children. We talked about almost everything under the sun and, despite her advanced years, she was more up-to-date about the world than I was. After another couple of hours, when I got up to leave, she asked me my name. We both started laughing at the absurdity of the situation; here were we, two perfect strangers who enjoyed the company of each other without bothering about names!

Her name was ‘Vivi’ but everyone called her ‘Susan’. I asked her to pose at favorite spot in the house and she was quite a model.


Thank you for the wonderful information about Copehangen. Thank you for the sandwiches and tea. And, above all, thank you for teaching me what hospitality means.

I might forget ‘Den Lille Havfrue’ but you, Vivi, I will never forget.

Memories of Denmark – The Best Welcome

Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point

At times we doubt familiar people, sometimes we trust perfect strangers. I, for one, have been fortunate to have trusted the right ones most of the times.

Guy sitting next to me on the way from Dubai to Copehangen was an ex-army Dane named Lars. He was working with some NGO in Kuwait and was coming home after six months to his wife of twenty years and two daughters. Since this travel opportunity came suddenly, I could not do enough research on how to reach the hotel from the airport. While talking to him, I said one of my colleagues – whom I had never seen before - is coming to receive me. He inquired if I had a Plan B, meaning what if my colleague does not show up. I didn’t have one and I told him that. Our flight landed, we went through the immigration check. Since Lars was a Danish citizen, he got through easily while I was questioned for a couple of minutes. After I passed through the doors, I found him waiting for me. I was quite surprised as asked him what held him back. In reply, he started walking and I followed him to the conveyor belt to collect our bags. He got his bags and helped me find mine. I wished him luck and expected him to leave.

Will I stick around with a perfect stranger by choice if I haven’t seen my wife and two daughters for six months?

I wont.

But Lars did.

I told him he need not wait; he emphasized that he will stick around till my colleague finds me or the other way round. If that does not happen, Lars wanted to escort me to the hotel. After about fifteen minutes, my colleague found me chatting with Lars. All the three of us were relieved. Lars picked up his bag, wished me luck, walked for a couple of steps, came right back, hugged me and said, “Welcome to Denmark!”

Thank you, Lars, no welcome would have been better.

Or warmer.

Travel travails

I love to travel.

Today, as the Easter holidays start, I am taking a trip to Skagen (pronounced ‘Skain’) which is at the tip of North Zealand part of Denmark. I have been planning for two weeks for this trip. But today, at the start of the trip, I am feeling a bit shaky.

But, didn’t I start with “I love to travel”?

Yes, I did.

Shaky because I have been a lone wolf for the last decade. I have never taken trips spanning more than a day with people I have hardly known. I keep my trips largely unplanned so that I can invest more time and energy in whatever catches my fancy. One more sentient person brings its own challenges. There are these difficult parts of ‘to agree or not to agree’; ‘to compromise or not to compromise’ and so on.

Apart from visiting a beautiful region, I also look forward to knowing my co-traveller more.

Let the travel begin!

14/04/2012 Update: What I know about Skagen is very little but, compared to what I know about my co-traveller, it appears humongous.

Home

It has been half a year I am at Copenhagen. Before that, I was at Mumbai for eighteen months. Before that, I was at Chennai for forty six months. Before that, due to my post graduation, job and other stuff, I was living away from my family for almost four years.

Whenever I travelled around – which I do a lot - I met a whole bunch of interesting people who were very generous in sharing their perspectives about life, universe and everything else. The Chennaites asked me a plenty of questions regarding Mumbai. The Danish have a boatload of them about India. Regardless of the geography, there was one question which was, easily, the most asked.

Do you miss home?

When asked what do they mean by that, the answer has been banal, at best and ambiguous, at worst. One of my KRA’s is trend spotting; so, here is a concentrated list of answers I have:
1. Family
2. Friends
3. Girlfriend
4. Wife
5. Children
6. Sunlight
7. Warmth
8. Food
9. You know…home

During my younger days, I would say, no, I don’t miss home. This would lead to surprising reactions. Some said I lacked a heart, some declared I was one of the running-after-money-leaving-family-to-fend-for-themselves kind, some delicate souls stopped talking to me and so on.

Trend mapping came to my rescue, again.

When this question is put forth now, I start with a sigh. Then I randomly pick any of the nine enumerated above and voice maudlin thoughts till interrupted. It is especially interesting since
1. I don’t have points 3, 4 and 5, as of date
2. I am not concerned much about pt. 8 as long I get my daily protein and fiber quota
3. As long as there is no rain or snow, I don’t care much about pt. 6 too

But, seriously, what is home?

Definitions range from being mushy (Home is where the heart is) to corny (A place where you can scratch where it itches). A structure of four walls and a ceiling is, at best, a house.

When I was at Chennai, I made frequent trips to Kerala. I understand a bit of Tamizh but Malayalam is beyond my comprehension. After reaching Tamil Nadu, I felt at home.

So, is the homely feeling dependent on language?

When I went to Sweden, I could not understand one word of Swedish. But I felt at home as soon as I hit the Danish shores. To my untrained ears, Swedish and Danish don’t differ much and I don’t understand either.

Is it dependent on family?

I felt at home at Chennai and Denmark, even though my family is not with me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family.

Is it dependent on friends?

My friends have their own lives to take care of. I cannot carry them around and neither am I quick at forging new ones.

Perhaps, I have become what Metallica sang in ‘Wherever I may roam’.

---
Roamer, wanderer
Nomad, vagabond
Call me what you will

And the earth becomes my throne
I adapt to the unknown
Under wandering stars I've grown
By myself but not alone
I ask no one…

Anywhere I roam
Where I lay my head is home’
---

That’s correct.

Where I lay my head is home.

Sweet home.

प्रेम कर भिल्लासारखं बाणावरती खोचलेल!

I was talking to my closest friend when the topic of relationships came up, among other stuff. She mentioned two lines from a Marathi poem long forgotten. It was probably the context or the way she said it or maybe it was the words; whatever it was, it just made my hair stand on the end.

Here is the poem:

पुरे झाले सुर्य चंद्र , पुरे झाल्या तारा ,
पुरे झाले नदीनाले , पुरे झाला वारा
जाळासारखा नजरेमध्ये नजर बांधून पहा ,
सांग तिला तुझ्या मिठीत स्वर्ग आहे सारा

शेवाळलेले शब्द अन यमक छंद करतील काय ?
डांबरी सडकेवरती श्रावण इंद्रधनू बांधील काय ?
उन्हाळ्यातल्या ढगासारखा हवेत बसशील फिरत,
जास्तीत जास्त बारा महिने बाई बसेल झुरत

नंतर तुला लगीनचिठ्ठी आल्याशिवाय राहील काय?
शेवाळलेले शब्द अन यमक छंद करतील काय?
म्हणून म्हणतो जागा हो जाण्यापुर्वी वेळ,
प्रेम नाही अक्षरांच्या भातुकलीचा खेळ

प्रेम म्हणजे वणवा होऊन जाळत जाणं,
प्रेम म्हणजे जंगल होऊन जळत रहाणं
प्रेम कर भिल्लासारखं बाणावरती खोचलेलं,
मातीमध्ये उगवून सुध्दा आभाळात पोचलेलं

शब्दांच्या या धुक्यामध्ये अडकू नकोस,
बुरुजावरती झेंड्या सारखा फडकू नकोस
उधळून दे तुफान सारं काळजामध्ये साचलेलं,
प्रेम कर भिल्लासारखं बाणावरती खोचलेल!