An instance of my favourite poem, She rhymes with my last lines;
Like the first drop of monsoon that touches my nonchalance.
The sacred halo of embrace from my lady or may be the lotus-laden calm of the lake.
She is all the tear of estrangement and all the pain clandestine.
Who watched me at the zenith of happiness, the dismal abyss of solitude.
She is the soft glance of my beloved and her unspoken repentance.
The early morning prayer, the torrent of a river I know.
She is the half-empty plate of boiled rice that was never half-full.
The grammar of greed and gluttony, the virulence of hatred, conscience locked up in a room.
She is the impatience on the road of retaliating individualism.
The blue blemish of historical agony facing times to come; the sloth and sag of the Want-Got bridge.
The bleeding heart of the untamed youth; the abode of sorrow in the corner of my child’s eye.
Victim of mistakes of whimsical old men and selective obsolescence of facts.
She is the proud face emerging from a wave of angry procession.
The alluring gesture of leadership and the vacant lap of a misled mother.
But my dream began with Her only to end in Her. For She is the longing called India.
Shounak's Daydreams 