Giving Wings To Dreams

Silence is golden, Silence is an indisputed lethal weapon,  when enemy is unknown.  Silence is unshakeable truce, when you want an unwanted altercation to cease.  The strongest prayer is silent. The sage reading of the human disposition is also silent. Silence for sure is end of violence. Alas! Though Silence is considered a precious asset  Yet  silence has another not so welcoming facade.  Face that is devoid of grace and  that has capacity to wipe out the goodness of the human race. Silence undoubtedly is synonym of end, End of the road that leads to good times ahead. While dialogue though heated is a thread  That clutches on flimsy hope . Hope that once negativity of battered hearts is flushed out. The radiant flowers of new and better days would be blossomed. Life is noise while death is quiet. Therefore,  before picking the silent ways, Let your soul one final time shriek or cry, Otherwise, you will have no choice left,  But to free...

The creator of the earth must Himself be amazed, When He would have painted this beautiful earth, And filled softer hues of multiple emotions in the human heart and brain. How proud He would have felt , on  weighing  His master stroke that was undoubtedly mother's selfless love. Love that needs no returns, Love that sees no reciprocal turns.  Mother's love of course is infinite and matchless, Like ray of light in the darkest night, And shade in the warmest day, Like shelter overhead in the heavy rain, And medicine for relieving excruciating pain. When the whole world unites to judge and criticize, If you even once stumble, fail or fall, Your Mother's love will be your strongest shield And would for sure ward off all evil eyes. Mother's love keeps her offspring round-the-clock warm and saves them from every harm. This love for her progeny won't for a moment cease, reduce or leave them uncovered even when the heart that's its constant spring stops to beat. When in...

A boatman trapped in the middle of a raging storm, looked pleadingly towards the persistently rising tides, vigilant to the fact, that from land he had drifted too far to expect assistance in any form. Waves after waves were touching the mammoth skies, As if making space to gulp and swallow the boat alongwith its boatman. Up there in the firmament gloomy clouds also appeared to be scheming that day, peering into every corner of the incensed ocean, to make sure to turn everything upside down,  to spare no pains in order to move heaven and earth, to extinguish the lamp of hope that would always stay lighted in the boatman's little heart. The lamp of light that had previously preached the poor boatman to spare no effort, to pull out all the stops and to be ready to move the mountains if need be, was as if eclipsed. Dense clouds were ready to burst on the frail watercraft, to dig the water grave of the God- fearing seafarer. The able-bodied seaman, beseechingly fixed his gaze towards t...

A saint sitting on a silent island, mastering silently the art of meditation, Seems satisfied with soundlessness, wordlessness, voicelessness and speechlessness of the vicinity.  The reticence that his soul holds signals, towards  something for sure that is concealed, unsaid, unheard and may be suppressed. Pensive and spiritual are outwardly his ways, deep down inside the silent cave of his superficially silent heart, There can be traces of some painful scars.  With his stern silence on the silent island, he might be venturing to find the scheme of salvation for constantly screaming earthly souls, because to practice and preach selflessness is his sole goal. Amid his silent ways and prayers surprisingly and contrastingly the silent island,  Like an orphaned baby awaits for the painful silence to break, It awaits for sweet chiruppings of the little  birds to fill the silence of its surface. For constant sea waves to strike its silent shores to end the tranquility...

Irony, satire, pun and word play leaves touchy sensitive hearts battered and in a fitful sway. Truth seemingly is tightly bottled, sealed or buried inside the airtight , impassable thick layers of lies.  On surface, every image is sugary sweet , but beneath the plain exterior there is an ocean of cramped uneasiness, grappling hard not to ooze out, not to leak out the shades of grim truths. In  our contemporary cosmos whatever is fake is real, and surprisingly  irony is whatever strikes as real is fake. ' All that glitters isn't gold', is often just casually told. But these are the golden words pointing poignantly towards the candidness of the aforementioned maxim. God's eyes are needed to decipher truth lying defenselessly dormant inside the deep ditch of resilient web of lies. Howsoever, puny truth may squeal the ear-splitting screeches of rugged lies always succeed in muffling  up the genuine cries, unless the receptor has  inherited the empathy and unbiased e...

Motherhood is the most beautiful and satiating moment of every woman's life. The mammoth task of rearing a child becomes the sole driving force behind every woman once she attains motherhood.One of the most beautiful moments of my life was also undoubtedly when l had 21 years ago seen the face of my first born for the first time and another was when the Almighty had blessed me with my younger born 19 years back. Since then the centre of my life became the two children born to me. Day in and day out a silent prayer for their health and well-being goes on in my conscience, and that's what every mother does. My profession the sublimest one i.e teaching has mostly female staff who have a strong motherly instinct and are thus able to relish strong bond with the students. Present day teaching demands rigorous in-service trainings. The teachers like me attended various workshops from time to time in order to enhance their skills. During these workshops we got to interact with the teac...

Every soul enroute it's life  span at one time wonders, at another frets. Wonders when views others fail and fall, frets when it itself fumbles and stumbles,  on the semi-illumined and semi-dark alleys of love i.e the sublimest of all the human emotions.  Why love hurts is perhaps the only question that to all humans haunts. Why love hurts so much is a question that is being pondered by sages since ages. The heartless question abounds around the absence of exalted and untainted love, unsullied love that's pivotal for the peace and harmony,  for human growth and the solitary life sustaining hope. Why siblings' blood turns white and there is no inhibition while picking up the knife against one's own brothers in hand just for  a piece of land ? Why emotions go so deadly cold , when the old wrinkled hands of parents, which once made their offspring stand with sweat of their brow are brazenly lead to old age homes? Why true love is easily sold for comforts and bricks...

One more year has slipped by Of course, now there are no more audible cries. Yet, the pain of your departure is still acutely strong, Nothing can be done to rectify twenty two years old wrong, When you were quiet aware of the chiming of your death gong. And decided to suddenly without any prior intimation to be forever gone. And those final twenty four hours seemed to be so heavy and long, when from human form you were turned into ashes who was once so strong. Alas! that day,  It wasn't you who were solely  gutted in that so called holy fire, So much more was turned into coal and tar, Your younger ones' innocence and elder ones' desires were with you for a while gone. With you gone, Suddenly the warm gusts of this dreary world were chasing your progeny. But law of life is to keep going, Day or night, Dawn or dusk, Alone or with people around, With or without you, Life moved on and is still moving. But though physically missing  Yet, you haven't been completely forlorn....

The previous Saturday, after a back breaking day in my workplace heading  back to my home with my friend  with whom l do car pool, l checked my phone as usual the moment l sat in her car. There was a missed call from one of my friends.  I called her back while sitting in the car in order not to forget to reply back later on. She invited me the following day at 10 a.m.at the Gurudwara near her residence in Sunderpur village  for Sukhmani Sahib path and later Langar that her family had arranged, for sharing the joy of a child of theirs who had come from Canada after almost four years. I promised her of my presence and just moved on with my routine.  But , the next morning a bomb was as if dropped on me when my house help called to inform that she won't be turning up for the next two days. I got alarmed. The most dreaded situation for me throughout my life has been managing the household chores without help. Washing utensils in the kitchen is the one and only work ...