Shorts — short-form poetry and prose on Rrenavirk

Beneath a sky of endless grey,

I wandered through a garden’s decay.

Vines twisted round half-built walls,

And wilting petals littered the halls.

I found forgotten dreams asleep,

Lying in silence, piled in heaps —

A song unwritten, a love left behind,

An unfinished poem etched in the mind.

The air was heavy with sighs unsaid,

Yet in one corner, a sprout raised its head.

A green whisper — stubborn and true,

Born from the promise that hope always grew.

I knelt and whispered, “I’ll finish you.”

The sprout replied, "I believe you’ll do."

And with trembling hands, I cleared the ground,

For a second chance had just been found.

I change my seat,

Midday,

To sit with you.

My joy comes with

Making you laugh terribly,

By cracking the lamest jokes.

It was you,

From the start—a friend.

I change my seat,

Midday,

To sit with you.

I need the book

That I was too much of a coward

To take the weight off.

It was you,

From the start—a partner.

I change my seat,

For the whole day,

To sit with you.

I was hurt and wounded.

All I knew about

Felt meaningless.

It was you—

A shoulder and a guide.

Now, I only sit with you

Because I can't help but wait

For the moment, this world gives me a chance

To help you back.

There was once a loner

Who had a shiny casket,

And his hut was near a market,

And there, he frequently went.

There, the most wondrous sight

Was the shop of the great Samaritan jeweller.

His profound name and great taste in gems

Bewildered the people in a shock of amazement.

The magic he possessed

Mesmerized the world.

His dexterous artwork

Was truly magnificent.

But imperfection hit him hard—

He had problems.

Problems that made many look away,

While others shuddered and panicked.

That man had a wrath upon him,

As he struggled to keep calm.

He had to use his fist

To keep the practice up—

That stiff arm.

One day, he beat a lonely bird,

Which flew in

And sat on his favorite talisman.

A ferocious blow over the wings

Made it fall from the desk...

To the shiny casket below.

It twitched in pain—

The sweet little creature.

And cursed in soft chirps,

Flapped in agony, and took its last.

The sound of a gong startled the scene,

But looking below, the bird was nowhere to be seen.

His favorite talisman had turned to ashes.

To his shock, the outside stall vanished,

And the casket fell to the ground.

He knew what had happened.

So he rushed to see his home—

Only to realize

It had transfigured into a straw hut.

His hands started to twitch,

That twitch turned into a tremble, which would last forever.

He realized he had lost his gift—

And lost his head.

He shrieked and burned the whole village down.

He stabbed the gentle folks,

Choked and suffocated the newborns to death

Until he was the one and all.

Now he stood there in the market, alone.

There, the most wondrous sight

Was the shop of the great Samaritan jeweller.

But his profound name

Always kept the traders and merchants away.

And there he was, a loner,

Who had a shiny casket,

And his hut was near the market,

And there, only he frequently went.

Part I

Rock-laborious hands, they racked.

Worked all day,

to steer a few concrete slabs.

They lacked

mercy for humanity,

as they sheathed away into pain.

Up went the gigantic cuboids,

as tall as the mountains.

(Lifted by the hands of Adonis)

In vain

were the wind, the sun, and a thousand flocks of birds,

as they saw a wall rise up, cutting off their gaze.

Now only God could see what others could not:

A chiliad of walls placed on mother,

one behind the other.

And dazed,

at the end of the chain sat Adonis,

sighing at the gifted solitude after occluding all humanity.

"It is what it is,"

the God said.

"My son is insane!

What poor reason is this marvel being made?"

But proud I am of the hands of Adonis.

Shall they be gifted good luck.

Part II

For several hours, it heavily rained.

Clouds fought and moaned,

until a storm came.

It hit the wall and let out a reverberating sound.

And as the wind, the sun, and the thousand flocks of birds watched...

The wall of Adonis came tumbling down.

Every wall toppled onto the next,

till the last one fell on Adonis's neck.

He sprang up in pain and danced,

and shrieked:

"Oh God, you took your chance!"

But the wall had fallen, and thus all he could see

was the beauty of the storm,

as bright as it could be!

And naturally, in love, the hands of Adonis spread out,

to embrace the storm from inside out.

He forgot his walls and racked hands...

only feeling that burning power.

He sang:

This is but a smile,

the love of humanity.

It has but one home,

where my life beats.

And where it will be, for the rest of

eternity.

Just another day, passing by,

Amidst silent thoughts, and loud voices,

Comes a moment of fleeting joy.

A comforting presence,

A soft hand on the shoulder,

The scent of fresh jasmine,

Unhurried musings, hearts poured out.

It all feels like a warm hug.

Suddenly, it all goes blank.

It's just a mundane day again.

Something quiet, something restless.

It was all only a dream!!

The mind replays it over and over again.

Yet it moves on, energised.

There was a day when grass bristled,

As caves beneath shook with terror.

Angry oceans slapped their waves

On the hard, racked boulders.

Wandering birds took a hit,

Changed their course in the midst.

Bellies grumbled of creatures eating grass,

Through the rest of the myriad, it passed.

The sun showered more love, more warmth,

Oh, its beautiful fiery array.

This cosmos twitched and bewitched,

A countless number of galaxies at once.

And there was man, there was man—

His ignorance bewitched the cosmos.

There is one that brings comfort,

and there is none that makes

berserk, a part of me.

No need for catharsis,

just embrace reality.

With articulate analysis,

of every mindful intake;

'the sublime nature',

and behold the grave mistake,

to ignore the teacher.

So I rejuvenate the sunken heart,

and wait for him to make,

the ocean comes apart!

For over a year, I’ve been working on a question that has shaped much of economic thought: how do we explain factor pricing?

The Marginal Productivity Theory of Distribution (MPTD) has been the dominant framework, but it has long faced critiques- from its reliance on perfectly competitive markets to its narrow view of wages as purely marginal outcomes.

I’ve been developing a counter-theory that addresses these gaps, and recently submitted the paper to a reputed journal. It’s now under review.

Of course, acceptance or rejection is a whole other dimension- and one that takes months. I’m relieved my economics professor couldn’t contradict the argument, yet anxious there may still be some hidden demon waiting in the review.

It’s a gut-wrenching stretch of time, but I suppose that’s what the process demands: patience, humility, and a pair of crossed fingers!

The scent that I longed for,

what was it worth?

I made it my home,

where a thousand jasmines bloomed.

The day it left, it tore me in two.

I wished, just once more,

to take it in,

to let it engrave itself upon my heart.

But time passed,

and I moved on.

One day, suddenly,

the scent returned—

but unfamiliar.

So I asked for its worth.

She replied—

"A hundred rupees."

There was a knight who fought for the sun,

And his brave chivalry shone so bright.

In the hundredth battle, he fell to one,

Into a shower of red and golden light.

With a clang, things fell from hands,

And their knees kissed the wet, red ground.

Clasped palms prayed, but on the battle lands,

Cried those who loved, beside the howling hounds.

His last breath preached careful words,

A song of wisdom into the ears of towering sons.

The work of sooth he had played like a mockingbird,

And wished it had reached the same desperate ones.

"Call for light, beware of choice,

And they will look at you with tangled eyes.

But perhaps they shall come to praise

The shining armor beneath."

"Fight for light, beware of choice,

And they will sing flutes in your name.

But perhaps they shall come to envy

The proud chest of thyself."

"Die for light, beware of choice,

And they will cry, promise remembrance.

But perhaps they all are lying,

For you are to be forgotten anyway."

IT WAS WHEN THE LOCAL TOWN HALL CLOCK STRUCK AT THE MIDNIGHT HOUR, THE REVERBERATIVE GONG OF THE BELL FROM THE TOP OF THE TOWN HALL, TWO STREETS TO THE SOUTH OF THE BAY OF GRENADINES, OPENED MY EYES, AT THIS ODD HOUR.

I HAPPENED TO SEE MY GLOOMY DARK ROOM, ONLY A LITTLE HIGHLIGHTED BY THE SPARKLING SPOTLIGHT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE BESIDE MY COTTAGE. ALSO, THE SOUND OF WAVES, CRASHING ON THE SHORE, WAS DRUMMING IN MY EARS PEACEFULLY. THE RAMMING SOUND OF A MOTOR CAR WOKE ME UP FROM DAZEDNESS. I SAT UP AND SCURRIED TOWARDS THE WINDOW, WHICH WAS SCENING THE MIGHT OF THE GRENADA-VALLEY LIGHTHOUSE, PROUDLY FACING THE ANGRY WAVES, OF THE DARK BLUE SEA. I NOTICED A FIGURE STANDING BELOW, WHICH SMILED AT ME. IT WAS MOSTLY GREEN AND RED. THINKING ABOUT THE NEWLY-WED LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER, HE WAS TO BE SITUATED IN THE BAHAMAS, WITH HIS WIFE.

THE STRANGER BELOW, STILL STANDING, STATIONARY, CRUMPLING THE WEEDS BELOW HIS FOOT, SMILED EERILY. I TOOK OUT MY CLUB, WHICH WAS UNDER MY WELL-POLISHED PLYWOOD BED, AND HEADED STRAIGHT OUTSIDE, TOWARDS THE LIGHTHOUSE. THROUGH THE VEGETABLE PATCH, I ANXIOUSLY WENT TOWARDS THE STRANGER; I COULD PERFECTLY DESCRIBE HIM NOW. HE HAD A PALE FACE, REDDENED AT THE DEPRESSION OF HIS WRINKLES. HE HAD TWO LONG FRESH CUTS ON HIS RIGHT CHEEK. HE HAD GREEN LONG HAIR AND WAS BRUISED ON HIS FOREHEAD. A SPECTACULAR SIGN OF ART COULD BE OBSERVED ON HIS FACE. BLUE COLORED TRIANGLES WERE PAINTED ABOVE & BELOW HIS EYES, THE EYES WHICH WERE SO RED AND WATERY, AS IF THEY WOULD JUST BURST. HIS LIPS WERE OUTLINED IN RED COLOR TOO. THE STRANGER SPORTED HIS BLUE MOUSTACHE AND HIS BLUE FRENCH BEARD. ON HIS LEFT EAR, WAS A SHAPED EARRING, AND ON HIS RIGHT EAR, WAS A GUITAR-SHAPED EARRING. ON HIS STUMPY NECK, AN ALL-BLACK CHOKER, WAS ADDED TO HIS DESCRIPTION.

BEFORE I COULD ASK HIM WHO HE WAS, THE STRANGER WEARING A RED COAT WITH A GREEN AND YELLOW COLORED BOW TIE, POINTED TOWARDS THE LIGHTHOUSE, STILL SMILING AT ME.

WITH A SURGE OF ANGER INSIDE ME, I STRAIGHT WENT TOWARDS IT, I WAS HALF INCLINED TO TURN AND GO BACK. BUT AS I CAME CLOSER, I RECKLESSLY SEARCHED FOR CASUALTIES, BUT THERE WERE NONE. I EXPECTED THIS PLACE TO BE IN RUINS. A SUDDEN DEVASTATING THOUGHT LED ME TO RUN TOWARDS MY COTTAGE. THE STRANGER WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN. I STARED AT THE WINDOW OF MY COTTAGE, FROM WHICH THE FIRST PLACE, I NOTICED THE STRANGER. THE WINDOW WAS LEFT HANGING, ITS HINGES WERE BROKEN, AND THE GLASS PANE WAS SMASHED. ALL THE GREENERY WAS UPROOTED OFF THE VEGETABLE PATCH. THE MAIN DOOR OF MY MALIBU COTTAGE WAS BROKEN INTO PIECES. I WENT INSIDE AND TRIED TO TURN THE LIGHTS ON, BUT TO MY HORROR, I SAW THEM DESTROYED ON THE FLOOR. MANY EXPENSIVE ARTICLES WERE MISSING. THE TELEVISION WAS LYING ON THE MATTRESS BELOW. THE DINING TABLE WAS FLIPPED; THE LEGS OF THE CHAIRS WERE BROKEN. THE FLUIDS THAT WERE KEPT INSIDE THE FRIDGE WERE NOW SPILT OUTSIDE, AND THE CURTAINS WERE SMEARED IN BLOOD. TOO TIRED TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS, TOO MUCH SLEEPY TO CRY OUT FOR HELP. I WENT TOWARDS MY BEDROOM, SLIPPED THE CLUB UNDER MY BROKEN BED, LAY DOWN, AND CLOSED MY EYES.

THIS WAS WHEN THE LOCAL TOWN HALL CLOCK STRUCK AT MIDNIGHT HOUR, AND THE REVERBERATIVE GONG OF THE BELL FROM THE TOP OF THE TOWN HALL, TWO STREETS TO THE SOUTH OF THE BAY OF GRENADINES, OPENED MY EYES, AT THIS ODD HOUR.

The rain arrived like an old friend — tapping against the window, whispering secrets only she could hear. Maya closed her eyes and let the scent fill her.

It reminded her of her mother. When Maya was five, they’d dance barefoot on wet roads, stomping puddles until their jeans clung to their legs.

Now Maya was 27, and her mother had been gone for three years. Yet somehow, the rain still brought her back — not in photographs or echoes, but in that scent.

Maya kicked off her shoes and stepped outside. The cold water splashed her ankles. For a moment, she felt five years old again — and she swore she heard her mother laughing beside her.

Aryan spent every night on the rooftop, memorizing constellations. He believed stars carried messages from the past.

“Why are you always up there?” his father asked one night.

“Because one of those stars is Mom,” Aryan replied. “I know she’s watching.”

His father looked at the sky. “You can’t see her,” he muttered.

“You’re looking with your eyes,” Aryan said softly. “You need to look with your heart.”

That night, Aryan’s father lay beside him, and for the first time since losing his wife, he noticed something new — a star that seemed to flicker more brightly than the rest.

There is no such thing as a pure hatred towards quantification, but there is a high probability that ideas that lead to, in some form, widespread criticism are standing on a phantom foundation. My mom told me once that a particular idea can spring up in your mind and it might seem right to use it once, but if it works the first time itself, it doesn’t necessarily mean you build more on it. In this vast world of theory, developed over ages, and the countless different ideas, the sky may not always be the limit. Sometimes, what it needs is a cave that has to be lit.

This time, I have a story for my readers, of those curious cavemen that lived long before the first civilizations of mankind. They knew just one thing: uncertainty is death, and certainty is power over death, the first ever sign of seeking a form of control. So, as those curious cavemen ventured across the lands, they killed animals for food and cut trees to fuel their fires. And so, one day, they came across a cave that disclosed to them nothing but a pitch-black void. With experience, the elders of the group held their heads high and their torches, and stepped into the cave one step at a time. It was ultimately concluded that the cave did not have a grizzly bear inside, and was small but spacious enough for all of their tribe to take shelter. But it was dark, so it had to be constantly lit.

To keep the torches from running out, the gatherers of the group brought in extra wood and other resources, and the one who could bring in the most was rewarded with the juiciest piece of meat. Soon enough, that region was seemingly running out of available resources, but the cave was important, as it gave them shelter. So their smartest ones found the use of alternative fuels, and in that, chose to dig inside the earth to mine them. And what a perfect place to dig deeper than the cave itself. The strongest of men went down to mine the magical black-black stone that kept the fire going. The smartest of them did brain magic and found out exactly how much fuel they would require to keep the fire going until a specific number of times the sun would defeat the moon and his star soldiers in the sky. But deep down in the ground, the miners wanted more, as they had bigger rewards waiting for them on the surface. Soon, one of them silently killed the others to steal all of their collections. Above, the hunters killed the biggest of the beasts in the nearby grassland, intended to feed their hardworking strongmen, who were solely responsible for keeping the fire lit.

Everyone still had strong confidence in their tribe the day the miner resurfaced with just a few precious resources, claiming others died with their loot below as the mine caved in. And the hunters claimed too, the disappearance of the mighty meaty beasts in their region as the reason behind their almost empty hands. With the few precious resources, the torch was kept lit, and the cave did glow, until it didn’t. The strongman, who hadn't gotten anything to eat throughout the day, tired, stumbled inside his mine and fell to his death in a trench. His undisclosed loot lost forever. Others above met a similar fate as they sat down to eat the food they hid away from everyone else. When a hungry grizzly bear came searching for food, as it found no other life out in the grassland, and here, in this cave, there wasn’t a burning torch to scare it away. And so it prevailed. A cave that had to be lit now remains dark, with a mighty meaty grizzly bear inside.

There is something beyond the cave, the resources, and the fire. And until and unless that is given enough care and thought, there will be crime, instability, poverty, hunger, corruption, and conflict. Don’t forget the moral in the story.

We can’t achieve anything now by blaming the lack of integrity of the miners, and the hunters and the gatherers. There is also nothing to be achieved by questioning their procedures and individual decisions. By-the-book rationality comes up with the most pleasing definition of self interest, but what it doesn’t include is the social cost of that profit. Until the cave is glowing, we have our certainty, and so we have control, and whatever it takes, that control shall remain in our hands. This analogy is expressed as another dive into the conceptual understanding of miseconomics.

The existence of moral entropy matters most to those who have already been affected by it, while the other section of society, resting in some ball of comfort, completely ignores it. But for how long, when the miner isn’t capable of bringing more magic black-black stones, and the hunters have cleared the land for the mighty meaty grizzly bear to come to you, and there you are, standing with the extinguished illusion of power.

KCP.