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Nagandran Murugiah Poem
THE MASTER AND THE SCHOLAR
The Scholar was teaching in his class,
before a crowd of learners.
He excelled in his words and philosophy.
Ruin comes after pride.
And the Master entered the room,
sat, and took the last chair behind the classroom.
The Scholar continued his teachings and lecture,
while the Master kept looking,
smiling occasionally with sadness in His eyes.
The Scholar stopped;
He couldn't teach anymore;
He asked who the Man was who had just entered.
The cynical look of the Master vexed the scholar considerably,
but the Scholar did not show it.
He heard one of his students whisper,
“It's the Master.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“Now tell me your name.”
But He answered, “Why do you want to know my name?”
The Master replied,
“What is this you are doing, giving false counsel to these youths?”
The Scholar put down his black marker on the teacher’s table.
His heart was struck, but he kept his composure.
The Scholar asked the Master, “What do you know about wisdom?”
The Master replied, “You cheat yourself. If you think you are wise by the measure of this sick world, you be ‘a fool’ first. For the Wisdom of this world is dung in My sight.”
"The Lord is the witness between you and the women around you whom you have defiled those coming to you as a moral guide.
Wisdom is shown through care and works,
Not plain speech. You have violated my covenant with you."
Remember, the ancient prophets were persecuted and some murdered for speaking the Truth.
You are a false teacher, therefore the world loves you.
No one had ever questioned him before.
It bordered on an insult.
“Do you know me?”
The Master replied,
“I saw you while you were still under the fig tree.”
The Scholar paused. He knew the Scriptures.
He asked his students to take an early break and stepped down from the front of the classroom.
Then he stood in front of the Master.
Only then did the Scholar notice that the Master was younger than him.
The Master had brought nothing with Him:
no gold or silver or copper in his old leather belt,
no bag for the journey, or extra shirt, or sandals, or a staff.
The Master said,
“Will you then say, ‘I am a god,’ in the presence of ther who will kill you?
You will be but a mortal, not a god, in the hands of a woman who will slay you.
And you used your seat of power to sleep with the women who served at the entrance to the tent of this classroom.”
The Scholar whispered loudly, looking at the door and the classroom windows, fearing someone might hear. “How do you know?”
The Master did not answer his question, but said,
“You will die the death of the uncircumcised at the hand of your victim.
I have spoken,’ declares the Sovereign Lord.
Your counsel and behaviour have brought this upon your own head."
“Earthly justice refused to find you guilty; you escaped frequent reprisals.
Now We have pronounced Ours.”
The Scholar rushed out from his classroom and was stabbed to death in his heart by a woman who wandered yonder with a sharp kitchen knife.
She did not flee the scene but stayed and whispered a lullaby:
She placed her bloody palm on her womb and sang to her unborn child, "Hush-a-bye baby, your father’s a sinner,
Your mother a lady, lovely and bright, yet foolish."
And the Dead Scholar's students called the place Peniel: for they have all have seen God face to face, and their lives were preserved.
Copyright © Nagandran Murugiah | Year Posted 2026
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Nagandran Murugiah Poem
OLD DIRTY MUSICAL NOTES
FROM THE GROUND
Listen to a song nobody wants to listen to,
The beautiful notes thrown to the ground,
Torn and spat upon as worthless,
Stricken and rejected as useless.
The stone which the builders rejected has just become the chief cornerstone.
A bruised reed,
Made into a cheap flute,
A diminishing wick swiftly dying.
A symphony that everyone has counted as worthless,
Just like the words of the ancient prophets.
I took the old, dirtied musical notes from the muddy ground,
Made them into a dirge
That predicts the end.
The smoldering wick was trimmed and forced
To give light into a dark world.
Copyright © Nagandran Murugiah | Year Posted 2026
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Nagandran Murugiah Poem
A FUNERAL AND FIRECRACKERS
I went to a funeral
My friend died of alcohol
Forgotten when alive
Remembered when gone.
Inside, people mourned
But joyous hearts within
Outside, firecrackers burst.
I saw tears in one house
Laughter and sparks on both sides of the neighbourhood,
Grief and celebration tangled
Like thick smoke curling in hell.
A life lost, a memory gone forever
Tears and firecrackers
Side by side
The world refuses to mourn or laugh quietly.
Copyright © Nagandran Murugiah | Year Posted 2026
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Nagandran Murugiah Poem
HE SAID
I met a man;
He had the breath of beer on him; We met as I was coming out of a pet shop.
We struck up a conversation.
He spoke,
Of how he worked hard for his family,
Night and day.
He bought a lot of land,
Built a small house on it, Single-handedly,
With some help from his drunkard friends.
He told me his two sons were students at a nearby university; One pursuing a degree,
The other a Master’s degree.
I listened as he said he refused to let his wife work;
He held two jobs.
I wished I were as hardworking and responsible as he was;
I shook his hand and said I had to go.
Four days later,
I saw him lying drunk and asleep under a tree;
Truth reached my ears:
He was actually a cruel bastard Who beat his wife and children every night,
And was kicked out of his younger son’s house.
He let his wife and his elder son work,
Yet he stayed drunk all day and night.
And the land and house he told me about,
Were actually on squatted land And had been demolished last year;
He didn't build it,
It was there,
Where he and his battered family took refuge.
The kingdom He envisaged to me,
Was a ruined one.
He let his wife and his elder son work,
Yet he stayed drunk all day and night.
And the land and house he told me about,
Were actually on squatted land And had been demolished last year;
He didn't build it,
It was there,
Where he and his battered family took refuge.
Copyright © Nagandran Murugiah | Year Posted 2026
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