A Mortal On An Immortal Bridge.

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“Is this your first breath there, or is it your last here?

Who has written your story? Do you know your story? “

I’ll put on a coat now, I’ll tell you stories now.

You could walk with me if you like or turn away

Either way is just fine.

Beneath my coat you won’t find a dress,

Because I’m a perfect mess.

My sweater and my jeans comfort me. Keep me warm.

On the banks of the river, I shall walk.

The trees are giving away,

The leaves now grow old, gracefully.

Red, as though the lord had put in a little bit of fire in them.

They shall burn, they shall give light.

All before they let go.

Of themselves, of forgetting their names.

Someone will take over, they have to.

The bridge will still stand, strong. People will walk.

The benches and public phones will stay.

They’ll always lead to the Eiffel.

Like the bridges in our life. They’ll lead us to where we belong.

Sit under that tree, oh! It’s beautiful.

“Linden”; It’s name.

Every step on that path shouts love and purity.

That’s how our lives should feel.

You, your loved one(s)

Happiness. Purity.

Beauty. Eternal love.

Sit on that bench,

Upon your head will you see, the tree smiling at you

Guarding you, protecting you

Like your innocence, and childhood.

As though it’s blessing you.

Its leaves the shape of a heart.

God’s the best writer,

You don’t have to have a private plane,

And you don’t have to have a grand wedding.

It’s all there.

Nature has it all, laid out for you.

Life’s not a burden, it’s not a game.

He sent you down, to be a part of him.

To marvel at his works of perfection,

The one we, mortals would never create.

Sit there, look at that river

Breathe.

Breathe the air that brings life

Not the one that causes cancer.

He may not be your soul mate,

He may not be your brother,

Not even your father.

She may not be your sister,

Maybe not your mother,

But embrace them,

Embrace them all.

Those who stand by you, hold their hand.

Take a while,

Walk with them.

Not in metro’s, not in the office, not on Skype

But in real life.

Feel the touch of human skin,

The supple creation, designed to comfort.

How does it feel?

To know you have the warmth on the cold winter night?

Maybe that’s why this road was made,

Probably why it was never the same.

Maybe the leaf of the tree over your head will eventually fall,

And tree will one day have new leaves,

But it will always.

Life goes on.

And it’s okay to sit there, pamper yourself

Let the tree and its leaves heal you,

To hold the hand of those you love,

Before your journey ends,

Till you reach your destination.

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A Parallel World Of Rape- Part 1

imagesIndia is growing, from a developing country to something.

The ministers and politicians say it’s towards a developed country, like the States perhaps? What has the States got that we don’t?

 Is showing the country’s progress on sheet of paper our only aim?

Is the rise in GDP all we can ever think about?

 

‘Every drop in the ocean counts.’ Today I shall prove how. It all starts from a single entity, from one drop. One Indian.

That’s all it takes to mess up an entire nation. Yes, I am criticising. From the time an Indian is born in today’s date all he/she ever looks around to find is struggle . Struggle my friend, Is great. It makes you a better person, teaches you to stand on your own feet. But wait, what are we learning from the struggle?

We’re learning how to cheat, we’re learning that numbers and figures on a piece of paper is more important than our values, dignity and purpose. From childhood, all a child sees is wrecked houses, unorganized system, bad roads. The only feeling he grows up with is hunger instead of love.

Then he is put into a school. A school that runs on donations and the MP of the state. He shall be given free education , so to say. Hey! The country has to improve its literacy rate doesn’t it? So there he goes into school where the teachers are dominated by the principal , the principal by the chairman, the chairman by the management and the management? If you can guess, A Politician.

That’s how, one little child who’s mind is bubbling with creativity and imagination,  The hands that are capable of creating wonders and reaching the sky beyond the rules made by the selfish mortals called ‘Adults’ are suppressed. His hands are tied and his mouth incapable of expressing opinion. Oh, did I mention we have the ‘Right to Speech?’

So this little child learns his math ( Whatever is prescribed by the board and whatever the teachers are asked to complete within a given time period).

He also has to learn political science, geography and history of the country, he ‘learns’ , he tries.  His fertile imagination allows him to think of what the badly printed text has to read…”Non violence, lush green fields, democracy…”

He’s lost.

Why? Because every time he looks out of books he sees murders, guns , trash everywhere and corruption.

So this little child looks back into his books imagines the India he reads about.

That is his version of a fairy tale. A good dream, one he’s never had.

Then of course comes, ‘Language’. His mother tongue, great poets, writers print their stories. He reads but doesn’t understand. The teacher shouts at him, the exams are approaching! He’s scared, and so he leaves the text book as a whole turns to a guide and the ‘questions at the back’ .

“Learn the marked ones, she said they are important!” He learns them, goes to the examination hall.  Realizing his friend was right, jots down all that he had learnt and there,  a perfect score!

His mother is happy, his father gifts him a pen his grandfather had once owned, in the ‘British days’. The society calls him ‘Intelligent’, he’s achieved what he had to.

Twelfth pass, ninety percent. Bravo!

The little boy who now sits deep somewhere in his soul is still eager, he wonders, imagines, thinks, analyses and wants.

The ‘intelligent boy’ took over the ‘little boy’.

He learnt his ‘political science’ so now he sits in air conditioned office taking bribes.

He learnt his language well and so he is  now the speaker in the parliament and abuses anyone who raises a voice against him.

He’s great, he’s successful!

But is that him?

Because the little boy still sits, wondering, hoping, scared because his powers had been subdued and abused.

That, is rape.

P.s – This is just one kind.