The Fool's Quest

A Solid Connection

2026-10-01T14:57:41.238+05:30

When do you feel a connection, is it when you have spent enough time?

Or is it friendship-at-first-sight, the spark instant and sublime?

Why are our enduring friends, from college or school days?

By spending time our office pals, should be best friends in that case?

Professional bonds have a different vibe, help you grow and watch your back,

Can help you achieve and advance in life, but the warm fuzziness they lack.

Shared rituals give a new lease of life, I try to speak to my son at ten,

Connection deepens when we both carve time, can share anything man-to-man.

There are friends unspoken, years have flown, yet we can pick from where we left,

Just a casual conversation is all it takes, to recover the intervening years' theft.

The friendship can run on auto-pilot, once we've sufficiently grown close,

It's too sublime a bond to conform, to curve between response and dose.

I haven't spoken with you in ages, and I miss you my dear friend,

I'm sure we'll pour our hearts out, when we meet perchance on the next bend.

Out Of Tune

2026-10-01T00:31:54.737+05:30

I try hard to understand your poetry, you write in free verse,

I've to bend to rhyme and rhythm, my self-inflicted curse.

My composition has to fit in, in 14 lines to be precise,

You can meander, or stop short, be any shape or size.

If I look all around me, what is rewarded or read,

You are playing with the form, rhyme and rhythm be dead.

You juxtapose vivid images, in metaphors mystery bake,

To satiate the modern thirst, traditions and meter break.

By making my poems resonate, I'm committing a crime,

How can a nursery rhyme structure, carry a message sublime?

If we needed a rhyming poem, we would ask ChatGPT,

Your poems reek of the old era, what a shame, what a pity.

I've never really paid heed, to what dominates the Mehfil,

I write to touch you my readers, not to win prizes or coffers fill.

Give Me Some Rain

2026-09-29T19:44:48.662+05:30

Going through life, on cruise control,

The 6-lane highway, demands a heavy toll.

You are unconscious, on autopilot, you stop noticing stuff,

Can't stop and smell roses, or you'll be fined sure enough.

Speed and more speed, the destination looms ahead,

If you get distracted by the dew, you'll most likely be dead.

Your vision gets narrowed, only the adjacent cars matter,

When you're comfortably cruising, there's no drive to be better.

Imagine instead, you're stuck in a jam,

Life's at a crossroad, and a door did slam.

You are running low on fuel, your alertness sky high,

Frantically searching for the next exit, can't remain stuck and die.

There's no coming to consciousness, sans some misery and pain,

To get roused from the slumber, often requires a strong rain.

Being Pragmatic

2026-09-27T02:36:57.554+05:30

Raised with a labor of love, with limited users to boot,

You nursed it with raw tenderness, but no one cares two hoot.

The product is only as good, as the market it captures and grabs,

Till you start generating revenue, the better it is, the more it stabs.

Knowledge amassed, wisdom gleaned, without degrees to showcase,

Sans credentials you can't apply your skills, no one to argue your case.

The resume is only as good, as the JD it seeks to fill,

The only touchstone for learning, whether it can help pay the bill.

A slice carved out of your famished heart, not gluttoned by many,

In the daily ritualistic offering, does fast food make sense any?

The poem is only as good, as the prize you can savor and relish,

To win the contest at all costs, may leave you feeling hellish.

I'm stuck in a state of stasis, can't move on, my love,

They say you are only as good, as the fate you can rise above.

A Waste of Time

2026-09-17T17:46:13.983+05:30

50 years vanished, a waste of time,

Didn't dent the universe, didn't matter a dime,

Except for the few, who were touched for the better,

How far and long the ripples traveled, does it really matter?

50 years looming, a poetic wasteland,

Writing mediocre poems, in sight no end.

Except for the few, that will pierce your heart,

Make you stop in your tracks, that's the lure of art.

50 years reached, a milestone to celebrate,

Pretend to be happy, and smile at any rate.

Except for the few, when the mask reveals the self,

You behold the beauty, of sensitivity you can't help.

Connection, and living-in-the moment, not to protect them would be a crime,

For the next 50 years I'll happily continue, nurturing them by wasting time.

Give Me Some Sunshine...

2026-09-17T13:53:55.829+05:30

The war pinches a little, you couldn't prevent the doom,

A lost friendship stabs deep, hardens you with its gloom.

Some pain you cultivate and curate, others you let go soon,

In the right amount the mud of pain, makes your poetic lotus bloom.

There's a dim satisfaction in knowing, you helped prevent a few suicides,

When your friends write a poem on your B'Day, you're bursting with joy on all sides.

For some slivers of joy, you had to work hard, others were thrown in your lap,

If you don't let it get to your head, this wellspring of joy, for your poems you can tap.

The loss of a loved one may perturb you a bit, you quickly recover compose,

The equanimity that has over time morphed to apathy, a greater danger to you pose.

Emotions recollected in tranquility, isn't that how poems are supposed to be born,

Each poem has to be discarded post writing, just like clothes old and worn.

You wish for me strength and serenity, I wish for me joy and pain,

What's life without a moderate bit, of some sunshine and some rain.

Will You Please Reconsider?

2026-09-11T00:25:45.981+05:30

Your mom said in anger, you're a burden on earth,

You took it to heart, lamenting why you took birth.

Your presence is pure joy, to your dear and loved ones,

Talk of being a burden irrelevant, between mothers and sons.

The labyrinth is soul-sucking, you're trapped beyond repair,

You're exhausted by all the running, ready to succumb to despair.

The tunnels are dark and cold, but there's always a way out,

If you wait enough you'll glimpse the sun, as it emerges from the cloud.

What use to survive this night, you don't belong to this tribe,

Even in death you stand alone, the voice in the head makes a jibe.

The lack of bonds is imaginary, there's always someone you can call,

And discuss at 4 am in the night, all matters big and small.

The future may look dim right now, the battle all but lost,

But to not witness that fickle future, is too steep a cost.

PS: Written on the occasion of The World Suicide Prevention Day 2026.

For You Or For Me?

2026-09-10T16:32:22.256+05:30

Bored between meetings, you scroll through the feed,

Among 100 competing stimuli, my poem you read.

Bored throughout the day, I let thoughts fester into verse,

Hunched on my desk, I touch you, for better or worse.

My poem catches your eyes, it's a microcosm of your life,

Capturing with high fidelity, your daily dilemmas and strife.

I make it a point to dump daily, it's a habit like the bath or the brush,

And for the very same reasons, that the dust doesn't my soul crush.

My poems make you squirm, stops you dead in your tracks,

You can recognize aspects of you, as you peep through the cracks.

I know because I can write with skill, each incident big and small,

As long as I process my feelings daily, I'll never hit the wall.

My poems make you ponder, what it's like to be human again,

For me it documents my wonder, that I continue to remain sane.

Retirement Blues

2026-09-08T19:56:03.614+05:30

Learn, earn, retire, you are now at life's third stage,

Managing finances, should ideally, occupy you at this age.

But the one thing that you miss, is no structure to your time,

No one dependent on you anymore, and not mattering a dime.

Your respect is still solid, cashflow curtailed, but there,

What bothers you is the purposelessness, and no one to care.

The demands of the sedentary job, still kept you moved around,

Left to your own device, you now binge watch, don't hit the ground.

Be it retirement, or a sudden job loss, the lack of routine hits hard,

You need to cultivate groups beforehand, can't play the victim card.

Go on a daily walk with friends, on each Saturday attend breakfast,

Volunteer at the local charity, and you'll be back on your feet pretty fast.

Retirement may pose a risk of depression, for people other than me,

My daily poem practice ensures, I spend meaningful time with thee.

The Gift

2026-09-05T23:46:38.790+05:30

To some you dedicate your poems, to others you can offer only your life,

My poems may not mention her, but she's there in the background- my wife.

For how can poems of love and pain flow, or even those of hope and despair,

Unless you are moored to solid earth, and left to explore themes fair and square.

To write an ode to her seems odd, as if praising one's own self,

I've become much like her, and she like me, the fusion we can't help.

As we age with grace, we'll merge even more, or so the research says,

With her as my mirror, I'm always ready, to embrace the golden days.

There's magic in the bond we share, but it requires a sleight of hands,

Because we put efforts, over the years, the trick with elegance lands.

I err at times, don't pull my weight, yet you ignore my quirks and flaws,

Like the Savitri you are ever ready to snatch, me from the death's jaws.

The poet in me, can hardly die, if your birthday is near the midnight stroke,

I offer just my wishes and presence, for aren't poets supposed to be broke?

The Absurd Practice

2026-09-04T20:09:25.183+05:30

Only a few get discovered eventually, most remain invisible and obscure,

That you'll get recognition posthumously, are you confident, are you sure?

The world is not malicious, it simply doesn't for anyone care,

You cannot bridge the chasm, no matter how long you stare.

A deep abyss stretches between, your desire to make sense,

To capture in your poetry, all matters light and dense,

And the indifference of the universe, that you cannot capture in verse,

You may not matter to the world, but the world perturbs you- for better or worse.

You constructed an elaborate ruse, with poetry at its core,

Which may be systematically dismantled, with random events in store.

You get a lucky breakthrough, land a high paying job,

Poetry practice goes for a toss, your serenity the work robs.

When I say the world is indifferent, it's not cruel, it may land a jackpot,

So just let me write poems daily, never mind if they are neither read nor sought.

Poised Precariously

2026-09-04T01:48:25.543+05:30

You are what you pretend, so choose your mask wise,

It will fuse with your face, so better embroider it nice.

The veneer of self confidence, makes your face shine and glow,

Doubts may gnaw at your belly, but you can't let the upper parts know.

In the midst of a winter, pretend you have discovered an invincible summer,

Keep smiling through grief and loss, authenticity- what a bummer.

Your body doesn't really keep track, whether the smile is genuine or fake,

Your mind is already saturated to brim, there's only this much that it can take.

In projecting to be emotionally centered, I have imbibed that role,

Seeking help is surely for losers, being anti-fragile my goal.

I purposely practiced for this adversity, in my mind I've figured it all,

If I neither win nor lose this round, I'll just proclaim it as a close call.

Pretending to live, life on the edge,

Like Humpty Dumpty, I my sanity pledge.

A Tribute To Shukla ji

2026-09-01T21:37:29.449+05:30

I want to write an elegy, but I'll keep it brief,

I'm still absorbing the shock, of the unprocessed grief.

In the space between paperwork, and the funeral rites,

I'm emptying my feelings, to get some respite.

Adored on all occasions, whether big or small,

Would it sound cliche, if I say he was loved by all?

He was the life of society, of our walk group,

He drained the life from all of us, in one fell swoop.

My loss is perhaps little, compared to the family's plight,

To spare us all the agony, he quietly departed in the night.

The guiding light that he was, he's now watching from afar,

Giving my poem the usual thumbs up, this time from the stars.

No poem can do justice, to the person we'll miss,

We pray to God he finds peace, and everlasting bliss.

Unsinkable

2026-08-30T13:54:52.332+05:30

All the water in the world, can't sink my ship,

Unless I let it in, then it'll be gone in a blip.

So I toil day and night, to keep intact the hull,

With waves breaching daily, there's not a moment dull.

Even a hairline fracture, can eventually flood the room,

Lowering my guard for a moment, will lead to inevitable doom.

Imagine therefore my horror, to find a severely cracked plank,

I fill it with golden lacquer, and with beauty reach the bank.

You can't stop the waves, but like a captain you can ride,

Allow what to seep through, and how to fight the merciless tide.

If you pay heed to the voices, you'll surely drown,

When you build strong walls, you'll smile not frown.

You say to survive this world, I need to grow a thick skin,

What use are swords and knives, when I can be burst with a pin.

If Money Were No Object

2026-08-30T00:58:26.533+05:30

If money were no object, I'd be hunched at desk,

Writing poems of love, from dawn till dusk.

But the lure of money, is real and strong,

Selling poetry is OK, writing poems wrong.

If status were no object, I'd forever be in school,

Wade and wallow in what I love, with the naivety of a fool.

But your reputation precedes, the work you do,

So I'm tempted to amass degrees, to shut the likes of you.

If duty were no object, I'd just laze all day,

Run agents to do my work, and with ChatGPT play.

But responsibility is a tech debt, keeps you awake at night,

The program keeps running, till it gets the user intent right.

If impact were no object, I'd be stuck at a dead end job,

But I'm letting the entrepreneurial grind, my mind peace rob.

Why So Prolific?

2026-08-27T14:48:22.194+05:30

I craft poems, to keep getting likes,

Modifying the themes, if I perchance get yikes.

I daily endure, to ensure you come back,

The dip in views, guarantees my comeback.

I craft poems, to ward off guilt,

Around invoking muse at will, my whole life built.

If the muse deserts me, I'll die of shame,

I pride on writing daily, it's not a hobby or game.

I craft poems, because I value the art,

My daily practice ensures, I can play the poet part.

The daily discipline, is now a part of me,

If I'm not a poet, who am I, you see?

I craft poems, because I find it fun,

I get deeply engrossed, and time doesn't run.

Career Quests

2026-08-25T23:39:12.213+05:30

Scuffle between offshore and onshore, strife between team and my boss,

A Hero-Saves-The-Day syndrome, that was leading to organizational loss.

I was a new dad at that time, a rookie manager at workplace,

I quietly made a lateral move, to manage life at a slower pace.

Good manager replaced with an average one, that left me under utilized,

I thought I deserved, but didn't get, the promotion that was prized.

So I ventured forth as a freelance coach, where my skills could be better used,

Aligning my work with my values, where psychology and leadership fused.

My new boss only talked sweet- didn't pay me for a whole year,

The ethical lines kept blurring, I felt powerless my dear.

So I decided to start afresh, I was looking for an escape hatch,

A calling that can make me live again, to which I could latch.

I've mastered the entrepreneurial journey, I'm ready to take the next step,

It's time to write a new chapter, let me now for poetry school prep.

PS: Today's post is inspired by, and tries to map, the 4 career quests identified in Lenny's substack (though not in the same order) here.

IPO On The Horizon?

2026-08-25T18:23:43.194+05:30

Writing poems, without a GTM plan,

Polishing drafts, for an imaginary fan.

Sliding in a bottle, letting it drift away,

But hope is not a strategy, the wise men say.

Writing poems, without a business model,

Ads may grant peanuts, is it worth the coddle?

You can build an audience, can it earn you bread?

How dare you dream and cross, a line that is red.

Writing poems, without a rich bottom line,

You may earn some revenue, but does the cost seem fine?

To lap some crumbs, you have to mortgage your soul,

Address themes to their liking, constantly popular trope dole.

Writing poems, without a FnF round,

No investors to pressurize, so I make every poem count.

Hi, Hello

2026-08-24T23:44:24.912+05:30

Sawubona, I see you,

I'm present, I'm here, are you here too?

Nigikhona, I am here,

I see you, you brought me into existence my dear.

Namaste, I bow to you,

The divinity within you, is verily true.

Namaste, I bow back to divine,

The God within me, sees the God in you fine.

Om Namah, I prostrate before the God,

His darshan blesses me, I'm overjoyed, I'm awed.

Om Namah, the God stares back,

Being perceived by him, now my life won't lack.

Good morning, Good evening, lack the magic when we meet,

Muttered absentmindedly, can without our whole being we greet?

Don't Observe Me Yet

2026-08-23T23:50:08.452+05:30

Like Schrodinger's cat, I'm both alive and dead,

I haven't decided yet, how to earn my bread.

I can be a poet or a psychologist, if I just make up my mind,

The specter of losing a self, leaves me in a perennial bind.

When stakes are so large, I can't embrace in a blip,

I can leave it to God and fate, or instead use a coin flip.

With nothing in my hands, maybe the regret will be small,

My future unencumbered of me, just due to the coin's fall.

Can I live with that image, a creature of circumstance,

What happens to agency, about commitment what's my stance?

Choosing one over the other, is painful now, and in times to come,

There's no getting around agony, whether I forego or choose some.

I've made my life-and-death decision, I'll remain stuck in two boats,

If you'll allow, I'll pen psych themed poems, both my poison and antidotes.

The Sign

2026-08-23T11:25:11.421+05:30

My mouth is turning down, the eyes have started to swell,

As I think about you darling, not everything is well.

One look at my face, and it's as clear as hell,

I'm suffering in my bones, ready to retreat in my shell.

My mouth is turned down, the eyes are filled with tears,

I've learnt how to catch your eyes, over the passing years.

One look at my face, you'll come running to my aide,

We attuned at some point, that debt has to be paid.

My mouth I turn down, the eyes I make moist,

I may not feel broken, but my sadness I hoist.

Could I be relieved, and happy that you're gone,

But to conform to society norms, feel sad and alone?

My mouth I've learnt to control, I've put on a poker face,

My sadness, if there, is for me, for you no external trace.

The Invariants

2026-08-22T23:12:59.265+05:30

Bothra yoga, or Dixit Diet,

Bend to each fad, with all your might.

Not sure how many, will stand time's test,

To me the invariant- daily walk, proper rest.

Eisenhower matrix, or Pomodoro timer,

Amp your productivity, read a new primer.

I rarely follow through; so to tick off deep work,

I stay up late in night, being an owl my quirk.

Box breathing, or JPMR,

Relieve stress, with the tool of the hour.

Daily meditation practice, can help you cope,

For me writing a poem, my daily dose of dope.

A vacation every 7 months, a date night each week,

Rituals and formulas are fine elsewhere, but in love it's all Greek.

Holding On

2026-08-21T12:38:52.127+05:30

Pain wriggles through, it has a habit to be found,

Memories pierce and stab, as you're not around.

They say suffering is optional, it's how the situation you conceive,

That you can morph your pain into poems, and with art everyone deceive.

Guilt is an uninvited guest, that has overstayed its due,

Who left whom charred, is known but to few.

They say guilt can make you better, sculpt your future form,

That it can goad you till you transform, and rise above the norm.

Loss is a sneaky intruder, that can haunt once it's left your door,

With everything precious snatched, it can leave you lonely ever more.

They say loss leads to meaning, you realize what's worth holding onto,

That no future relation would suffer the fate, that befell you two.

It has cost me almost everything, yet I'm staying in the fight,

Giving in to despair would imply, that it was for nothing- and that's not right.

Writing's Side Effects

2026-08-20T21:30:30.794+05:30

Writing helps me process, the pain of a withheld goodbye,

Each poem inches closer, but cannot bridge the gap, I sigh.

To catch your eyes is a fantasy, I've risen over that now,

If it's a formal closure I'm after, by myself I'll achieve how?

Writing helps me reminisce, the joy of that fragile bond,

Each poem helps me manifest, that relation with a magic wand.

I can draw and redraw you as an angel, each time I pour my ink anew,

That a ghost from past can make me smile, who fathomed, who knew?

Writing helps me reflect, with equanimity our joint fate,

Each poem prods me forward, to back down and wait.

In time I've started adjusting, to your absence from my craft,

By etching you in my poems, don't I risk losing you from my heart?

Writing helps me dump on my readers, my deepest, smouldering concerns,

That they get charred in the process, is a cost justified to heal my burns.

The Shifting Shape of Stories

2026-08-18T14:55:41.476+05:30

I had a blessed start, with IIT tag on my head,

The techno-managerial jobs, I did not really dread.

The lure of a different calling, sapped my energy, left me dead,

With effort I climbed out of the hole, making psychology my bread.

I met psychology in college, it was love at first sight,

After decades of courtship, tying the knot didn't work out right,

My earlier passion vanished, it became just another job,

Now that I've started my own venture, this might not end in a sob.

Venturing on The Fools Quest, is a Cinderella story,

Writing poems that went unread, didn't lead to fame or glory.

Till there appeared a fairy, bestowing on my poems a magical power,

Disappearing at the stroke of midnight, but in my heart poems daily flower.

It's ended well for me in these stories, but perhaps at a cost and curse,

On my original quest to be a good person, did I slowly go from bad to worse?