Poems and Stories

Have you seen a butterfly? I guess you all have seen, Such a beautiful creation of nature Not an insect, rather a winged queen. But a butterfly, has only one chance To transform from a caterpillar, But we humans, change many cocoons With time and with healers. Yes, you have read it right The process is a bit weird, We form a cocoon of a comfort zone When we get everything near. But a time comes when it breaks As breaks everything in nature, And then paint with our life's colour On our aspiration-shaped caricatures. When we are kids, we are less tolerant And are pissed off by this and that, And behave as if we are moody as a lion With a mere size of a cat. But slowly when we see, all are the same We mature and we understand, Its folly to behold the ego in life If we want a helping hand. Now the age comes, when we are young But not into the teenage, We are mesmerized by petty little things And bragging creeps like a leakage. And finally, we grow and pass through this To become a bit

  When the sun sets, beyond the dark hills And the moon smiles amidst the stars, I can see her pretty face Smiling at me few yards apart. Her blonde locks, like cobwebs on trees And her deep eyes, with an azure hue, The mesmerizing smile of her pink lips Enough to make all the false, seem true. Gradually she walks, closer to me And I feel the breeze, hitting on my face, Her fragrance dissolving all around And surrounding me in her solemn grace. She stops very near and looks Straight into my garrulous eyes, And quietens all noise inside my soul As if I she knows me so nice. Neither of us, do speak a word But we talk a lot through sight, Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we cry Or sometimes indulge in fights. As the night comes, and the moon rushes in hurry  Suddenly she wishes to leave, All I could say is a mere goodbye But in my thoughts, I do embellish. I get weird dreams, of her and of me Walking past hand in hand, And getting lost in the wide meadows Or drowning in time's quicksand.

  Long long ago, when the preachers preached And travelled through lonely forests, They had a risk of being attacked By bandits and by all threats. And no one knows how many monks Had sacrificed their life to them, As being monks they renounced all war And renounced fight as a mayhem. But how can then the holy message be spread? And how can people be served? How can one relay the teachings  Of the great Buddha? Perhaps, the way of such a cult Was not to end so soon, And nature chose it's own protector On a seraphic night of full-moon. The protector of Shaolin and Buddhism was born In the Pallava kingdom of the South, Only time was needed, to remove all worries And bring along the fearless scout. Bodhittara was the youngest prince Born with all princely treasures, But none of the riches or the royal bliss Could bring his mind any pleasure.   At a very young age, he was swayed by truth And enlightenment flooded his soul, Into Buddhism he poured himself Never to return to the shore. H

  History is a mystery with magics unknown Bestowed with miracles and stories untold, Some so gallant that even today My blood boils, as I read of them. Such was a tell of the bravest of men Who had raised my nation's head high, Such an example had they then set That even apocalypses can never deny. The day was in December of 1705 When the bastard Mughals with darkened fame, And the ruthless governor of Sirhind district Wished to erase the Sikh Guru's name. After beheading Guru Tegh Bahadur, Who raised voice for the Kashmiri Pandits, Who's calmness had raised a ferocious fire A fire that had burnt the Mughal bandits. With a hope of life and the growing support Frightened the Mughals and their reign, And this was perhaps their last option To capture the Guru and extinguish the flame. He ordered his soldiers to mix up with kingdoms And convince the hill kings and the treacherous Rajputs, To combine and arm with all their might And hunt down the lions of Anandpur. But none had