Posted by: Pucadyil | November 6, 2015

And God said “Let There be Light”

After a 137 page conceptual design report

and a 743 page preliminary engineering report

and two engineering design reviews

and a 865 page final engineering design report

and a 1087 page tender document

and a Universal Tender Notice

and shortlisting of seven vendors

and three technocommercial discussions

and a final vendor selection meeting

and a public interest litigation by Dark Environmentalists Voice In Light

which prompted the preparation of an environment impact statement

and the setting up of a Commission for Reservation of Dark Matter

There was Light!

Posted by: Pucadyil | February 25, 2014


The gallery was crowded. Excited noises were all around me as people moved around peeking at the paintings on the wall. They were waiting for the hall to the right of where we stood to be opened. It was rumored that a new line of pink Budhas were being opened for exhibition and sale.

I was with a few friends, all known connoisseurs of modern art. In fact they were a few who had the foresight to buy the early work of the artist. They would occasionally hint that they were sitting on gold mines, the way the work was being picked up now.

 “It will easily hit a million any day” the older guy said.

 “ Million is nothing. You aint seen nothin yet” said the lean, hungry looking one.

 “Why, what is happening now?” I asked.

 “She is now working on a line of transparent Budhas. Once they come into the market, the price will hit the roof”

 “That is brilliant!” I exclaimed.

 The lean one looked at me pityingly. “ Brilliant? You cannot even see them”

 I was lost. “If you cannot see them, how do you appreciate them and say clever things?”

 “Simple. You just feel the presence of the enlightened one”



Posted by: Pucadyil | May 7, 2013


An appreciation of Joseph’s photograph site

Captured here permanently in pixels
Nature caught in visions that excel
Monet’s impressions and Matisse’s movements
Cezanne’s violets and Miro’s magic
Caught through my Nikon brightly
On a lazy day in Cham under the sun
I zoom, therefore I am!

Posted by: Pucadyil | April 21, 2013


Alstonia Scolaris, Saptaparni to you and me
of lenticellate branchlets and scented night blooms,
of seven fingered leaves in imperfect whorls,
haunt of the Yakshis in their nocturnal prowls.
The leaves nodded to me and spoke of the night
of a recent visitation when she sat on these branches
breaking her journey from the temple to the forest
hair flying in the wind, eyes pools of death
and told stories of blood, lust and destruction
of maniacal desire and many faces of death
to the wind, which shivered and wailed in the night
came back and whispered them to the leaves
which trembled in frenetic frenzy, yet asked for more
tales from the Yakshi who sat on its branches

Posted by: Pucadyil | February 22, 2011

Song of the Stray Electron

Transient in birth, quirk of a cosmic photon
trapped in this shell made of steel and viton
dreading my fate, the burial in steel, I thought
I could hear the distant mind say, ‘Begin the shot’!
and I realized that my predestined part
was that I should kindle the starfire in Bhat
Stroked by the tendrils of the induction field,
decreed by Lenz and Faraday, to yield
and start my free fall, inertia and all
round and round, away from the silvery wall
caught in the clasp of this magnetic maze
survival of the fastest is the secret of this race
By now, we are a crowd, those who started late
have also joined the race, given the mandate
to jostle the atoms, excite a few.
Deep in the torus is the shade of a glow
before the distant mind could say avalanche
we have gone forth and multiplied in revanche
companions freed from the bondage a la Bohr
collective consciousness begin to soar
the transient surge over, transformer will soon tire
Catch the impure, burn them in our fire.
Break through the barriers, radiation and others
soar to the flat top, promised by the designers.
We dance, saw teeth and radiate
in a ring of fire, primeval, inchoate
you outside who listen to our heart beat
it shall not matter that we shall quench or disrupt
if only you would say in our obit
that, for a moment, we made a starlet.

Posted by: Pucadyil | February 15, 2011

Under the Painted Ceiling

Under the painted ceiling, amidst my peers
I sit, waiting to be called to the presence
and for the scroll and the medal, a lifetime’s reward
for going my way and doing whatever I did

My wife sits among the guests, in signature blue
Her eyes darting my way in constant concern
when she was not watching the gathering crowd
of movers and shakers who make up Delhi

they gesture and prance and surreptitiously look
for the wandering press, perchance a shot
for the page three prominence, the holy grail
and those who arrive late, with those arrived

youngest of the Kapoor clan, Kareena of the Khan
flirts with the babus, as they blush, their day made
and the hall slowly fills up, the last seats taken
and a hush as Trumpets rumble and bugles flare

As we are called, we present ourselves
in well rehearsed order, with obsequious care,
namastes strewn around, cameras flash
and back in the seat, the trophy clasped in hand.

Posted by: Pucadyil | February 15, 2011

Erase the Memories

Erase the memories, the tormentor of self
wind me back in time and recharge my innocence
denude me of knowledge of events of the past
and prescience of things waiting to happen
cast me back to the time when the mind
had no questions on the nature of the self
of what I am and whence and why I came
Let me not want to invent everything I can
And to lay bare all the secrets of the world
exhibit all achievements; catalogue virtues?
denude the forests and drain the sea’s bounty
Hold me back from building those towers
rising up in arrogance and taunting the sky
and bridges that span from shore to shore
and highways which break up the greens
Allow me to go back to what I was once
A child playing in the sand, an elf in the woods

Posted by: Pucadyil | November 10, 2010


Marjorie, morning’s star gazer in print
forecasts the signs for an anxious mind
I read her column while sipping my tea
and think on how best to cope with the day

“Stop whizzing round at that dazzling speed
doing those things in your liveliest way
speak to your friends in a rational way;
and keep away from those doomsday refrains”

After I read how she cautions my wife
as she goes on with her battle with life
I find that what she has forecast for Cancer
make me believe that she has the answer

In praise of Marjorie Orr’s daily forecast column in DNA

Posted by: Pucadyil | July 1, 2010

The Past

The past, some say is crystallized future
that has been cast in the foundry of the present;
frozen forever, imprisoned in stasis
what could have been, now lost forever
In that transition, does the moment despair
at its loss of choices or is there relief,
an intense relief at the closure?
Perhaps that is why the past is pathos.

Posted by: Pucadyil | June 2, 2010

Night boat to Cochin

As a recurring summer rite, there was nothing to beat
the vacation trip to Cochin, after the schools closed.
young and old, we all gather together at the jetty
waiting for the journey and a night of sheer delight
the boat, we joked, belonged to the ancient mariner
showing off our English skills to the less endowed
who were in fact many, with their pots and sacks;
merchants, we were told, in the Mattancherry shops
the boat surges and sways in baby steps
as the srank deftly maneuvers it back and forth
to lie by the jetty, urchins jump down to tie it to the post
the boat shall leave in half hour, some one said
a final siren and the srank climbs down
making his way to the toddy shop for a fix
an undefinable smell of kerosene fumes fill the air
and the stench of the backwaters through which it plies
unmindful of which we jump in and look for the best seat
An hour gone and we finally start the journey
the boat now full, pots and stacks dumped in place
faces pushed against the railing, we stare into the water
the jetty lights dissolved in the waves move apart and rejoin
we are now in the river and entering the backwaters
black ink shimmering against the distant palms
The conversations around us wax and wane
The elders slowly nod off to a tired sleep
We speak in hushed tones about the denizens of the deep
And the Yakshis who dwell on the tall trees on the shore
Satiated in dread, we too drop off to sleep
to dream of distant shores and the streets of Cochin

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