The Natural HR Theory by Dr IVNS Raju

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I wake up to a sound,

Piercing the still woods, 

Shattering the veil of silence,

Hanging gloomily over the misty forest

Press my face to the window,

Trying to figure out the source of the noise,

T'was no man, nor machine,

A solemn beast, 

Perched on a raven cliff

Crying in despair, to the moon

A lone wolf, howling it's heart out to the sky,

The separation from a pack,

Leaves you reeling and vulnerable,

To emotions, and rage.

Empathy welled inside me,

I knew the pain,

The pain of separation and loneliness,

When the roads curve and bend,

The ghosts of the forest rage around,

From the darkness, feral things stare,

Their eyes glow and fangs bare,

And none to lend you warmth

When all that's left is to run and cry,

And wait to die;

When the cold north wind, blows you over,

With the cold of a thousand winters,

The chilly desolation takes over,

And, to find nowhere to shelter,

When all that's left, is to stand and freeze,

And fight the frigid breeze;

The brother scared of darkness, gives you company,

The muffled breaths give you warmth,

The cool moon gives you light,

The winding glades, the food,

But no man to give you comfort,

For, a life with none is gelid,

And devoid of fervour.

I was brought out of my reverie,

By the silence that prevailed,

The wolf had stopped howling,

I could only hope,

It had not succumbed to the cruel cold,

I walked back to my bed,

There was no warmth in the bed,

Not mine, nor a fellow human’s

I didn’t know if I would survive the icy winds,

For alas, Winter is coming…


"Fight to your death men!" The chieftain barked, "Victory rests, with Aetius the great" Aetius, the man for who, We have laid down our lives A war is not fought in battlefields, But in the hearths of homes, Beside, the warm fireplaces, And the cold and draughty kitchens Nostalgia sets over me, As I ready my armour to fight the huns And,the sun rises above the horizon, Burning in glory, The battle starts, Horses and men go riot As the huns descend, From the crest. Warriors clad in metal armour, And amount a well bred steed, Fall Countless warriors, Fall Prey to the blades and maces of the huns Countless heads Roll, Prey to the spears and javelins of the huns, A million bodies, fill the plains And the catalaunian fields, A mountain of corpses. The stench of blood and death Strong in the air, A river of blood runs rampant through the woods Watering the path with its crimson silt. The huns scour the land, Pillaging and plundering, everywhere The blade of Mars rests by their king, But the rules of war, Lie unobeyed I stand cowering under my shield Shivering against the tens of thousands of arrows, That rain upon me, A fellow warrior, falls on me Gasping and panting under his weight, Acting like a shield, Protecting me with his mortal remains, Darkness set over the bloodied fields The burning souls of the dead Yearning for vengeance Set upon a wraithly fury And hunger for the living For, there was no battle, But mere slaughter The swords of the huns, Sliced through the goths and franks Like cattle, The burning whips lashed out at the warriors Searing through their skin. With all but oblivion, The souls of the dead, ravage the field Radiating fear into the slaughterers. The huns cripple to the cold And the sheer fear. The undead surge backward, Repelled by fire And pyres rage across the battlefield Cleansing the earth of the dead I push out the warrior over me, Survey the field of war The huns have lain waste to the rolling plains Changed the fertile land, Into a bloodbath. Attila steps into the battlefield, Scanning for survivors I tremble and revolt against the very thought The demon king attila, The kin slayer The skull of Aetius, adorns his blade The burning fields, he hell, he created, The mountain of corpses, the throne of Pluto, My bones and flesh Are naught, but the last remnant of, a race slaughtered I curse Attila, He shall fall for a mortal, Lose his men, His empire shall crumble, The woman he lusts behind, shall kill him, The spirits of the slain, Shall pursue him until his grave Maddening him with their screams Their peals for help and mercy The very thing he didn't grant Shall be his end. I crush the skull underfoot, And join Attila, as a godman Father Armand, shall be his judge And the cause for the devil's final breath.



The light of Paris,

Has been snuffed out,

A hundred people dead,

500 injured,

Countless drops of blood,

Countless tears shed,

In the blood-bath that ensued,

Paris stood desolate,

Her people, scared and vulnerable,

But it wasn’t just her,

Everyday, people shed blood,

Countless lives are taken,

By human hands,

And their weapons of destruction,


Shed your tears,

Not just for Paris,

Pray for the Tamils, who went through hell in Lanka,

Pray for the innocent, who lost their lives in Baghdad,

Pray for the Lebanese, killed in bombing,

Pray for the refugees, fearing for their lives, running across the seas,

Pray for Syria, where death is now, a usual visitor,

Pray for humanity, to come back to their senses,

Pray for those, who no longer have a home to defend,

Pray for those, whose lips can no longer pray…

For no matter, whose blood is spilt,

Every life taken,

Is a family destroyed,

No matter white or black, Asian or otherwise,

No matter Hindu or Muslim, Christian or otherwise,

Every terrorist, who kills,

Who claims to kill in the name of God,

Should be slain…

Let’s offer our prayers,

And our condolences,

To all the victims of this tainted earth,

Let’s offer our moral support,

And whatever we can,

To cleanse the earth of these sins and sinners.


Women who changed the course of Indian history

It all began,

When Draupadi in her righteousness,

Razia sultana in her statesmanship

Rani Padmini in her chastity,

Rani Laxmibai in her courage,

Mother Teresa in her kindness,

And Indira Gandhi in her resolve,

Sought to change the world

Draupadi, albeit mythical, wooed everyone, with her righteousness

Persuaded Dharma, to fight for dharma.

Alas, the war began, blood was spilt

Kin turned upon kin,

The water turned red,

But, after many days of bloodshed

As the sun was devoured by the horizon,

Dharma, prevailed.

Draupadi, was the reason it prevailed.

A kingdom left in chaos,

Spurred on by the death of an emperor.

Yet, a woman appeared at the helm,

Guided the empire towards glory

She gave women, an identity,

That they could be what they wanted.

An, empire, on the verge of collapse,

Strengthened with the ideals of this woman.

Razia sultan, the first and final woman ruler of the Delhi sultanate.

Indians’ greatest virtue is chastity,

This queen, who jumped into a pyre,

Out of fear of being violated by a foe,

Has been engraved in the pages of history

But also has been criticised,

By the feminists who in recent times, dot the digital world’s landscape.

Victory wasn’t theirs,

She chose to die, in her own terms.

Embracing the searing flames,

Her chastity was guarded by the vicious pyre

Gone, is the fire,

But not the name, Rani Padmini from our minds.

Courage is a man’s virtue,

Rani Laxmibai proved this wrong

Riding into battle,

She was invincible,

Slaying invader upon invader,

Foreign blood, adorned her sword,

An oath to protect her motherland, and her beloved son

She was a raging forest-fire, in the heat of battle,

Her armour radiated courage to her men,

And fear to the foes,

Who crumbled beneath her horse’s hooves,

Like grass in a meadow.

Treachery stabbed her in the back,

But even then, as she fell,

Enemies, hailed in respect.

She is seconded to no man,

She brought forth,

A wave of attacks on the British,

And she was the first.

After, all the raging battles,

After, the press of the onslaught died away,

There emerged, a woman,

Who in her ideals and appearance,

Resembled an angel.

Her words,

The sweet flapping wings of an angel.

Her kind gaze,

Heaven’s soothing light, curing your wounds.

She worked her way, as a nurse,

Tending the wounded,

Caring for the hapless,

Never demanding anything in return.

Not Indian by birth,

But by years of servitude, granted to the nation.

She dwelled, in the slums of Kolkata,

Unmindful of the “Filth”.

More than the medicines,

It was the kind look she gave,

That cured, the ailments.

Her patients fully cured, grieved when they left her,

Such was her passion towards society,

We all call her lovingly “Mother” now,

Mother Teresa, is one of the greatest beings,

To have walked this earth,

And to have graced this nation, with her service.

A will of iron,

And resoluteness, flowing through her veins,

This woman, changed the face of the nation.

Following in her father’s footsteps,

She learnt her statesmanship,

The art of politics,

Drowning her adversaries in her words,

She was chosen by the people to lead them.

The people’s will which was handed to her father,

Came down to her.

She ruled with an iron fist,

Bringing down the hammer of justice

Upon those who dared to disobey the law.

There was no second thought,

Guilty, you shall pay!

Innocent… until proven otherwise.

Faced with a tough decision,

She, to protect the justice,

She swore, to serve,

Stormed, a place of worship

And was killed at the hands of treachery

The blood tainted hands of her bodyguard

Who stood un-fazed,

After sending 16 bullets straight through her heart.

She lives on, in the hearts of Indians

As one of the greatest Prime ministers of India

And, The Iron lady of India.

These women, are a few amongst the millions

Who have made India proud,

With their, courage and charisma,

Their kindness and their virtues,

Their righteousness and their resolve,

They brought glory to their motherland.

Women aren’t trodden upon in this sacred land,

They are beheld as goddesses,

As the Indian pantheon suggests.

This poem is a small tribute, to the women,

Who have changed the course of Indian history,

And have made us, huff our chests in pride,

For being Indian.






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