Gravitational Waves!

Billion years ago were two orbiting black holes

Closer they drew; they collided and merged through

Space-time fabric was warped; still it folds and unfolds

The colossal collision set off these gravitational waves

Stacking crest after trough, endlessly propagating, until time stays.

I wrote this poem to celebrate the historic day on which mankind first observed the gravitational waves directly! This poem - an acrostic - has more than the word formed by first line first letter, second line second letter and so forth. There’s another word in it. Can you find what that is?

Also, for reigniting my interest in astronomy and black holes in particular, many thanks to Usha Keshav!

Song for Life

Strung together are myriad notes

Often words too, to go along

Now the listening of the composition

Gives birth in us to emotions strong.

Souls are touched, we find respite

Or comfort in grief, or ecstasy in joy

Numerous meanings in different life phases

Gifts of music are for everyone to enjoy.

Similarly I hope to be a song

Of lyrics meaningful and melodies soulful

Now my existence I will deem successful

Given I make at least one life purposeful.

Sure the song will not last forever

One day my last note will be played

Notable, let my song be called, if it is

Given at least just one more replay.

An acrostic written and published (take that, you government!) in China.

Just Another Day at Work

Tired as he was, he grinned from ear to ear when he saw it.

3 hours. 14 minutes, 15 seconds. That was how much time Homicide Detective James Hardy had spent in the interrogation room. He’d just come out of the room with every inch covered in sweat, exhausted mentally and physically drained. The prime suspect in his latest assignment of the Todd double murder case was unyielding. He had gone inside the interrogation room convinced of the guilt of the suspect. A very methodical man, Hardy, had left no hair unnoticed during the investigation and after 9 nearly sleepless days and nights of relentless efforts, during which he had worked under the scrutiny of the media lenses employing his acute observation and reasoning skills, he was finally convinced of the sequence of the events. A confession from the prime suspect would seal everything up. Now at 2 in the morning, the tense situation notwithstanding, he was smiling at the picture that he had just received on WhatsApp.

Despite his firm conviction of the event sequence he had carefully and craftily reconstructed, the interrogation at some point had made him question himself. Hardy would never forgive himself if he was in any way responsible for a false conviction. He thought about how he would normally discuss every detail of the case with his partner-in-crime-detection Irene Lawrence. This case did not give him time for that. Nor did it give him Irene, because she was on her holiday, which was already put off three times. But he still had painstakingly gone over smallest of details the case presented (like the small stain of blood on the second floor window and the seemingly watertight alibi of the neighbour) at least thrice before arriving at his conclusions. During the doubtful junctures in the interrogation, he had gone over the copious details again in his head and had realized how his theory was indeed right. It had taken enormous concentration and character on his part to not just process the information the suspect was giving, but also to find a way to trap him. Having stepped out of the room after successfully extracting a confession, the weary detective continued to grin at his phone.

All he wanted now was some strong Sumatran coffee, brewed freshly from the coffee beans which were at his table, the bag still unopened. But this was only his second choice. What he truly longed for was on the rocks scotch and a night of peaceful sleep. It was a longing which started taking shape just after the confession. However, the just received picture had killed that longing in an instant. He hadn’t a choice but to settle for the second best now. Second best though it was, it didn’t make Hardy feel bad. And maybe, he thought, that was the effect of the picture he had just received.

The picture was just madness, really. Talk to any civilian about it, she’d feel disturbed at the very least. But that’s what, he figured, jobs like his drove people to. He felt more certain that without a degree of madness, one couldn’t do all the work, which involved looking at bodies over and over and at each part with total attention, looking for bodies in places where you are least likely to find them, coming up with theories about how the bodies came to be in that state, came to be where they did, then looking at the area around the body, talking to people who could in any way be related to the bodies, find those relations too on many occasions, and finally finding the somebody - people or a group of people - who was responsible for the body being there. And they invariably worked with a strict deadline. The picture was one epitome of the madness.

How the Todd double murder case alone hadn’t driven him to madness, Hardy didn’t know. High publicity and Irene’s absence had made it more difficult than it could’ve been. But more madness awaited him now. The picture had been Irene’s selfie. No, it wasn’t a selfie from her holiday trip; it was her customary selfie with the new murder victim. She was called back to work and the game was afoot again. Yet, for one last time, he smiled at the picture.

The longest walk… to ruin or fame!

He forced a smile on his face. It was imperative for him to keep his calm; to keep his nerve. Faltering was not an option. It never was. But especially not now.

His time had come. He started the walk, still trying to force a smile on his face. He wasn’t so sure about how fast he was walking, but he felt like a snail could beat him for pace now. He was tired, yes. The past couple of hours were draining. He had very little energy left in him, because he had given more than he ever had. Mentally too, it was a tough two hours. These, though, weren’t the reasons why he was walking slowly.

Every passing second would one day go down in history, and it took him closer to being a part of history himself. No matter what happens, he will be etched into history books. It was this knowledge that made him slow.

“Not just the books, even documentaries I’m sure!”

That thought in his head actually made him smile. For a fraction, he felt confidence surge in him. But it only lasted that long.

He felt a hundred thousand pairs of eyes on him. Some rooting for him, some willing against him. The people around him were screaming their lungs out. If there ever was a situation where one could feel the weight of 100kgs on him, though he was carrying nothing, this was it. Expectation weighed on him. He was also aware of a million other eyes across the globe that were fixated on him. Again, some rooting for him, some willing against him. He continued to walk, at the same unknown pace.

His opponents would have studied him in all detail. He wasn’t going to do anything new. It was something he had practiced before and done effectively over the years. But if that was an advantage at all, he didn’t think so now. He wondered if it would play against him.

His walk had carried him to his destination, but that wasn’t the end of it. He had done only the easiest part right. Now came the defining moment. A moment that would make a celebrated hero whose name would be sung in praise or the villain of an entire nation who would always be known as the man who let them down when it really mattered. His heart was hammering against his ribcage. His mind was still racing with thoughts of the aftermath. What would happen now?

He stood with his arms on his hips, legs apart. Suddenly, he felt adrenaline rushing inside him. He knew what he should do. And to do that, he threw the thoughts of the consequences out of his head. The screams of the people, though loud as ever, were reduced to a mere whisper. He had one quick glance at the opponent in front of him. He focused his mind and picked his target. His face held an expression that wasn’t quite decipherable, but it decidedly was what a confident man would wear.

From the edge of the area, he took measured steps towards the penalty area and struck the ball firmly to the bottom right corner of the goal. Even before the ball was halfway through to the goal, he was aware of the keeper diving to his right. He had managed to deceive the keeper, it was only a matter of the shot being on target! Before he could finish thinking this, the ball had found the bottom corner it was aimed at. He had just struck the winning penalty! Falling to his knees, he felt a massive emotion take him over, as emotion that’s felt when your nation has just won the world cup!

Rock the Cradle on

‘Ma, he looks cuter than my Sophie!’

Arya’s little brother was just nine days old. Wrapped up in warm tiny cloths, he was a picture of serene, sleeping in his mother’s arms. Five year old Arya, who had come bounding back home from her Montessori, had gone straight to her mother’s room. To Arya, her doll Sophie was the most beautiful person in the world. But now she put into words what she had felt ever since she saw her little brother: that he was the most beautiful person in the world.

Her little brother had just drifted off to sleep, only moments before Arya’s arrival. Arya’s screamed exclamation could have woken him, but it didn’t. Had there been anyone else in the room apart from her mother, she would’ve had to deal with an earful on how to behave with a baby around. But her mother, valuing the intent more than the act to convey the intent, instead smiled, and said, “He also looks so calm, doesn’t he? And he has just fallen asleep; you don’t want to wake your little brother make him and cry, do you sweetie?”

Realising what she had done, Arya’s dark eyes widened, her smile dropped to a small frown and she put her tiny index finger to her lips, hoping she hadn’t disturbed her brother. Moved by the look of guilt on her face, the mother put her son in the crib and drew Arya close to her.

“It’s ok, Arya, he’s still sleeping,” she said consolingly.

Arya hadn’t taken her eyes off her brother. She had always had a lot of questions and questions about him were on top of her list. She had in fact tried to count the number of unanswered questions about him, but had lost track of her count. The first of her questions was how he ever managed to get into their mother’s stomach. Was she also there, when she was a baby? Nobody could quite explain it to her. Just then, though, she was fascinated by how tiny he was. His tiny fingers, trying to clutch on to the blanket, his tiny bent legs that were kicking around, his tiny eyes closed in sleep, and his tiny mouth, that seemed to be curled into a faint, barely-there smile.

She had many times felt the urge to hold him like her mother did. But she was also scared that she might do some harm to him. Arya felt the he also was fragile, as much as he was tiny. She didn’t like it even if Sophie fell from her arms. She just couldn’t risk doing anything to the precious little kid. She also wondered when he would be big enough for her to include him in her games. She would be the teacher and he the student, she’d be a mother and he her child, she’d be the queen and he her subject. She would also teach him to crawl, to walk and to run, to hop, to skip and to jump and to read, to draw, and to colour.

And until he grew up, she, the big sister, would take care of him in all ways she could. And just then, she wanted him to sleep well. Suddenly, she remembered what her mother did when she wanted him to sleep. Arya went forward to the crib and gently started rocking it. And taking on the softest voice she could, she sang, “Hush little baby don’t you cry…”

The mother, looking at her children, felt delighted in a divine way that only a mother feels. Arya gently rocked the cradle on.

The Big Run

He stood with six boys on his right, three on his left. The chalk line on the ground, which formed ten lanes, stretched ahead of him for 100m. His physical education teacher was making sure that all the boys were behind the start line. The gunshot to signal the race start would soon be heard. He had never felt this excited before!

Seven year old Rohan looked around at the crowd, who were all seated in stands around the running track. He couldn’t tell how many were gathered, but there sure were a lot of people in the ground. The entire school – teachers and students – and the parents of the students were all at the ground for the annual sports meet. Though he tried hard to spot his parents and his brother in the crowd, he could hardly make out the distant faces. But he knew they’d be there somewhere; they surely wouldn’t miss his biggest race yet.

Running was natural to Rohan, like a second nature to him. In every previous round, he had run faster than many boys who were older and bigger than him, and had always finished first. He was looking forward to this day for nearly a month now; a month in which he had run every morning along with his father in his favourite black shoes. Now wearing the same black shoes in the finals of his age category, he heard his name announced, “…standing in lane four is Rohan, from class 4-C.”

Rohan, jumping slightly up and down to keep himself active, couldn’t stop smiling. He had watched such races on T.V before. But never had he thought about being involved in one. He wanted to run the fastest he ever had, just like Usain Bolt (of course he knew that Usain Bolt is the world’s fastest man ever). A thought enters his head. Maybe he’ll even do the Bolt celebration at the end! The name of the last boy in the lane was announced. It was now time to concentrate. The gunshot was just moments away. Then he heard the voice of his physical education teacher from his left.

“On your mark!” Head forward, he got into his stance.

“Get set!” He was only seeing ahead. All his focus was on the stretched finish line ahead.

CRACK! The gun exploded. And so did Rohan.

He has put all his strength into his legs. Madly swung his arms back and forth. Breathing became extremely quick. He was thinking about nothing. The taut finish line was getting closer and closer.

Only a few metres away from the finish line, Rohan gave everything he’d got. He felt certain that he’d be the first! And just when this thought crossed his mind, he saw the finish line slacken. He knew that he was not the first across the line.

His momentum took him another 20m forward. Out of breath, he jogged and eventually came to a halt. There was a numbness spreading through him. A numbness which the gut bursting dash had nothing to do with. He was feeling strange, because he was feeling like he never had before. Hands on his hips, breathing heavily, head bowed down, he realized he’d finished second.

But no, how could he finish second? He was so confident that he’d win. He was always first. Second place now! Was this how second place felt? Didn’t he finish ahead of eight other runners? Did that count to nothing? Was all his training in vain now? Should he have trained harder? Why were his friends congratulating him? Didn’t they see how he hadn’t won? These and many other such thoughts plagued his young mind. He felt extraordinarily tired and dejected. This was something running had never done to him before.

He found a spot relatively free of people and sat by himself. He couldn’t get himself to see the rest of the runs. Not that he wanted to actually see them. He didn’t want to stay there, nor did he want to move from his place. Though thirsty, he didn’t want water. Though hungry, he didn’t want a bite. The confused boy sat there, wondering why he didn’t run faster.

“…in second place is Rohan from class 4-C!” He heard his name announced again. Somehow, that put a smile on his face. He jogged slowly towards the podium. Realizing suddenly how much he likes to run, the jog turned to a run. On the podium, he continued to smile though he wasn’t really sure why. He did not realize that he’d learnt an important lesson that day: that you cannot always be the winner in running. Little did he know that the silver medal now around his neck will serve him as a reminder in the future to apply that lesson to his life too.

Thanks to Shwetha Krishnamurthy for the idea!

Breathe...

The light was fading away quickly and evening would soon be night. Walking around her quiet neighbourhood, the relevance of this on her situation was not lost on her. But no, the light in her life had already faded. The night in her life would never cease. She forced her quick and shallow breaths to change to long and deep ones. Yet, she felt her pulse beat as fast as it always had for the past few days. She struggled in vain to keep those drops of tears from escaping her eyes. Suddenly, she found that she could walk no more and sat down in a heap on the pavement, under the yellow street light.

“I’m learning to walk again...” (Walk, Foo Fighters)

A song on her phone hummed in her ears. The trickling tears were quickly becoming a torrent. Burying her face in her hands did not help. She felt tormented by the emptiness. Where now was his shoulder, upon which she’d laid her head on many occasions? Where now was his comforting voice that had always reassured her? Where now was his warm hug that made him her safe haven? Where now was his sweet kiss that made her feel cared for? Where now, was he?

“My soul yearns for one last look at you...” (Patience, Skyharbor)

Composing herself with great effort - though it still did not prevent her from heaving - she looked up at the sky. The chill wind blowing could not affect her; she had turned cold over the days in his absence. Every second since that dreadful moment was spent in reminiscence of the memories they shared: the cheers and the tears, the thrills and the fears and their dreams and their failures. As she was momentarily distracted from those thoughts by the wind that briefly grew stronger, she realised what she was looking at in the sky. Until then, she was merely looking at it, without actually taking it in. It was the brightest star in the sky, Sirius. The irony, now, of the situation was not lost on her. She had lost the brightest star in her life.

“Always the summers are slipping away… Find me a way for making it stay...” (Trains, Porcupine Tree)

She got up and trudged back home. She did not know why she did any of the things that she did of late. She did not see how anything mattered at all. Surely it will all come to nothing one day! Nothing made sense to her anymore. Living seemed like a burden to her. Just then, a small voice that sounded very much like him spoke to her, inside her head. It filled her with something that made her want to hold on and to carry on. It even wanted her to make him feel proud. His voice had said, “You know this is not how I want you to live right now.” Or was it her own voice? Through all her exhaustion, she couldn’t say. But it had lit the light of defiance in her. A light to dispel the night. Though she didn’t know it, it would soon be morning again.

“And your tears have been worthwhile

They got you through to a different place and time where all is new

To the start of something fine 

Like morning dew...” (Love Will Come to You, Poets of the Fall)