You pretend
you are a code warrior, fighting
Battles with
the lines of code you are writing;
You carry a
back pack to work in the software park,
Dream
of being Bill Gates and steering a sports car into the park.
ASP, Java,
Oracle, SAP are your fine forte,
Logic,
workflows and syntax your areas of comfort;
Your
happiness centres on a chicken tandoori,
And a movie
in the mall in East side of Andheri.
You will
marry a fast-talking high-strung woman,
Happiness
will be a short honeymoon to Konkan;
Then fights
will start in blessed conjugal-dom
Cries of
“Need my space; I need my freedom.”
The U. S.
A.’s a happy energetic place for everyone,
But there are
immigration officers and mad men with guns;
Then you
will have children, one or even two,
And your
joys will re-appear over a year or two.
But what of
your parents who made you walk upright?
You left
them, backpack over shoulder, into the night;
They cry
hard tears, “Where’s our child, tell us truly?”
“Have we
worked all our lives to beget a Code Coolie?”
