A puppet has no say A soulless object Which's not supposed to ever have its way, And is often manipulated as a puppeteer's project. It has to move and dance strictly on the lines drawn by the hand that holds it. Hands might change, Puppet's destiny still stays the same, She is no better than a game. A toy, an entertainment as long as spectators feel cheery. If once by some external force a string of its gets torn, Puppeteer feels it's just a liability better not to be borne. In a far-off niche or an attic it's ruthlessly flung or savagely thrown, Since it's of no more use to the hand it had previously adorned. The world has no use for the one that has loose strings. The puppet is for sure doomed like a bird with a broken wing, Which can't anymore fly towards the blue sky. Little did the puppeteer realize that it was either his harsh pull or rough try That puppet can't anymore comply. Grace be to God, Who endowed the puppeteer with the knack to sew and de...
The moment anyone reads the phrase "domestic violence," an automated image is generated in the subconscious mind—an image of a man unabashedly using his masculine prowess on his better half, the delicate one in the couple. But though that is the reality for a large chunk of the population, it is only a restricted view. The broader aspect involves unscrupulous violence against the older generation. Every other day, on social networking sites and in newspapers circulated across the nation, I would come across many such horrendous incidents. But somehow, the impact never lingered—until an akin incident occurred with one of my close acquaintances. A routine talk with my almost 74-years-old mother took an unexpected turn the day before yesterday. I had dialed her number three to four times, but it was engaged. When she was finally available, she called me back. She said, “I was on call with your late father’s best friend’s widow.” My father and uncle were childhood friends who had...