Finally the little grass did grow,

Although the rain had wetted it,

It did not get wet.

Free—free form the shackles of brooding,

Free from that pensive state of mind,

And free from whatever chose to fight me.

The skies have turned azure

Even in the darkness;

I won’t let the clouds snatch away

This true bliss

And would I turn them grey instead.

A pair of eyes fell on the street outside,

Staring—until the street shouted:

“Where were you?”

And I smiled.

A pair of eyes fell on the verandah opposite,

Staring—until the verandah shouted:

“My friend was looking for you.”

And I smiled.

A pair of eyes fell on the canine outside,

Staring—until I shouted:

“Where were you?”

And it kept staring.

A pair of eyes fell on the grasses outside,

Staring—until they started dancing,

When I smiled.

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In The Country

This life is sweetest; in this wood 
I hear no children cry for food; 
I see no woman, white with care; 
No man, with muscled wasting here.

No doubt it is a selfish thing 
To fly from human suffering; 
No doubt he is a selfish man, 
Who shuns poor creatures, sad and wan.

But 'tis a wretched life to face 
Hunger in almost every place; 
Cursed with a hand that's empty, when 
The heart is full to help all men.

Can I admire the statue great, 
When living men starve at its feet! 
Can I admire the park's green tree, 
A roof for homeless misery! 

William Henry Davies

How better can you express?

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THE BLURRED LINE

The diverse seas around stir many a time,

Though the fishermen dare to sail.

The sail swells with the mightiest wind,

As the sky intends to give way once again.

Still the boats sail on,

Clinging to the object of a fish,

And the men never give up.

The high seas rage with apoplexy,

And the darkest night turns cruel.

But they still continue their work—

Undaunted, unmoved.

But when persistence becomes obstinacy,

And the ocean becomes merciless,

The boat overturns, tossed by the tempest.

Success knows no bounds;

But trammels always arrive to bind it.

The fetters crush the host sometimes,

And sometimes the fetters are crushed.

The Greed for Success

And the Ambition for Success

Do not belong to the same branch.

Greed occupies the highest,

Mostly prone to the storm;

While Ambition occupies the lowest:
Low, yet the strongest.

The former takes us to the highest cliff,

While the latter takes us, to the highest hill.

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THE LAST OF THE ECHELONS DID NOT GIVE UP….

When the bullets ripped apart hundred legs, few could cater to those, since amidst the sanguinary atmosphere, there had been raging a fierce battle; a battle, not over a bibelot, but over issues of existence. The shuffling of the MG-42s from the encroached Himalayan peaks came down as disastrous cacophonies that shattered life beneath. But the united men, though could hardly manage a vantage point, did not stop. Hundred corpses rolled down with heaps of snow down the mountains and were hidden from the world in an instant. But some could not be daunted, some could not be crushed. As more bit the dust, so rose their passion for triumph. And none could stop them.

                Why myriad martyrs were born was because in the book of our history, lay the names of those intrepid band of men and women, who had only one dream in their whole lives—not of becoming an engineer, not of becoming a king, but of freeing their country of the king. Millions, regardless of caste, creed, and religion, gave their blood in the wake of ultimate freedom for our country. Some smiled at the sight of death, as India looked toward the choking of the black-draped neck, while some fought till death. Many heroes were born and many heroes died.

On this very midnight of the 15th of August, 1947, India was freed from the fetters of two hundred years of British hegemony. It was a night when India awoke in the spirit of freedom; freedom, as dreamt of, in every sphere of life, from corruption, from crime, from poverty. On the next morning, the flag of Great Britain couldn’t be seen in any corner; while the Tri-colour Flag blew on the ramparts of the Red Fort and the wind that had shaken the British edifice, seemed pleasant.

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MANY, BUT NOT EVEN ONE…

Before my eyes stood the vastness of the sea,

With a hundred boats lining the shore;

I got into all at different times,

But couldn’t complete any journey.

The time now is too late,

When I am flung

To the gauntlet of regret—

A regret arising from the batons of apathy.

Everything touched my tongue,

But nothing went down.

The tomb of learning had been built,

A worn-out shroud covering it,

While the Clock of skill didn’t stop.

The terrain of life is very rugged,

With cliffs and ridges,

With chances and sudden deaths.

But the terrain is verdant,

Lush green meadows deck the boughs,

Some bovine graze and some birds chirp.

But the house of cards lay by the river:

A river with few floating logs,

Holding onto which, many struggle

And reach land.

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Sitting on a bed of thorny roses,

The pitied soul looks at the window,

And thinks what to think.

Myriad thoughts occupy him

While he shares none.

He laughs at what wasn’t meant for him:

Sometimes snubbed and sometimes used,

He knows his day will come one day.

He flocks to where his mind takes him

And the thorn pricks him,

He isn’t called when he leaves—

Silently.

He saw the sky roaring and the leaves quivering,

And the incessant drops seeming like dew—

Petty and trifling.

When the sun came up,

No one could see the dew,

Since it had already dried.

The vicious tentacles of competition

Are too strong to be broken:

Sometimes so strong that it does not remain

Competition at all.

And sometimes, a bit of his past

Knocks him at his heart’s door—

And that is when he strengthens himself.

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TO LIVE WITH THE HEAD HELD HIGH......

Sometimes I want to stomp the overwhelming grasses,

Thinking that I also have a boot.

Sometimes I like to crush their ambitions,

With feelings tough;

And dwell amongst the planets,

Like a star.

I want to be the heavy rain,

Wetting the ambitious;

And become the rainbow after,

Drying the wretched.

I look up to the sun,

Only its heat melts me,

Not its sight.

Sometimes I feel like sweeping away

All opposition, building

A staunch place for myself—

In this deathly world.

To feel ambitious is to attack myself,

And to feel meek, is to be defeated.

To maintain the line should be the aim;

Blurring the line sometimes, but never

Forgetting that it shall always remain.

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