Activities of Aniruddha Pathak

Mere readers, repeaters are we

Mere readers and writers we are,
Tell me, who's found a new letter?
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Mount of price of molehills

He set no limit to his ‘always',
His ‘never' was strewn all over ways,
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Mount of price of molehills

He set no limit to his ‘always',
His ‘never' was strewn all over ways,
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Fine, old age comes and it will,
And it may bend you no mean,
But ne'er should that mean
You cannot grow greener still
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Mind, intellect ego, nor echoes they spell,
Nor sense of hearing, speech, nor of smell,
Nor am I earth, fire, air, nor yet space,
I'm Shiva, awareness and bliss.
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A kindly lady in a large house lives with her brother, both unmarried, both elderly, say, around seventy. Imagine you stay with them for two years— the two graceful hosts, more than the income from a paying guest, they care for some souls around. Soon you become part of that household. But then, you have to leave the town on transfer, they let you go with a heavy heart. It is difficult for you too to part. You promise to visit them soon and leave. But ‘soon' somehow gets stretched to three long years, and when you manage to visit, it is too late. Death, man's nearest companion, had called on them, and in a span of a few days, you come to know.

With some sense of sin
You tear away from the scene,
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Call it kindness or kind-heartedness, helpfulness or humanity, compassion or sympathy, all human attributes, yet, sometimes it is felt that Nature often scores over humanity. The poet here that observes trees envies them, their flowers and fruits. He envies bees and butterflies, for, they seem to live for others, be kind to each other and support others of their kind, even mankind. How much humans care for them? Here, they seem to respond to him:

We feel there's no choice,
They all said and in one voice,
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Why did that lamp lose its light?
Your thoughts taking fancy flight,
I kept it burning all night….
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Once I had my voice,
An unhindered, un-chained choice,
Now, what I've of all—
A choice, should ye it so call—
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