My truimphant failure

I look at my failure in the eye,

Try to smile and suppress a sigh,

It jeers at me with a laughing cry,

“Your poor dreams, my  dear,

were born so tender, but aimed so high!”

 

I turn my back to it and try to walk,

But everything around looks so dreary and dark;

I stumble over a rock and hurt my heart,

My failure laughs louder at my staggering start.

 

I gather myself and say a silent prayer,

In answer the clouds above disperse

and the light dispels my fear.

My failure shrivels and struggles at this sight,

Knowing it cannot stand a chance before this Might.
 

On golden wings of hope comes a divine succour,

Encircles me and whispers in my ear,

“Try again; I am with you, my dear,

There’s still some life… your dreams are still here!”

The man with the magic pen

My favourite classes during my school years, especially in my primary school were English’s. I used to look forward for them everyday and come alive with the stories they told and carry their message in my heart.
I enjoyed each one of them, from stories written by greats R. L. Stevenson, Charles Lamb, Hans Christen Anderson, Mark Twain, Wordsworth, Lewis Carroll, etc to historical anecdotes and famous folk-lore. Though they were merely names and interesting stories put together in our reader to us back then, I realise now what precious gems of English literature the Board had collected to enhance our linguistic skills and understanding.
But one name which never failed to capture my attention and whose stories fascinated me the most was Mulk Raj Anand. For me, at that tender age of 6 or 7, oblivious of the fame any of these names enjoyed and such other great’, finding an English story written by an Indian was as astonishing as finding the wonderland would have been for Alice or the Neverland for Peter; as my tender mind had courted a strong notion till then that only an English could write in English.
I recall Mulk Raj Anand’s stories usually centred around every-day occurrences, Indian culture and traditions and simple meanings, but i was still so impressed by his style and the topics he addressed, that he became my favourite writer and when i realised (as years passed) as to what a great author he truly was, my admiration of him only alleviated.
Surely, he was a man with a magic pen, for his stories not only touched the reader’s soul, but left a lasting impression in their lives. Characters created by him like Baakha of “The Untouchables” and the protagonist in “The Coolie” has become unforgettable in Indian literature. One of the early writers in English from India to attain international repute, his writings not merely addressed the common mass but also challenged the British rule in India, and also brought about a radical change in India’s social structure, eliminating social evils and shaking the grounds of deep-rooted blind-beliefs.
So today, on his 108th birth anniversary, I dedicate this all new series of my blogs to him, whose style of writing established a life-long rendezvous with the beautiful language and art of writing for me, and in whose magical world of stories, i found my dream.

A new beginning

Life has strange ways of coming around. Sometimes it takes a lifetime to rebounce, and sometimes a little miracle gives our life a whole new meaning. All we need to do is give life  another chance and some time.

Wisdom, trust and courage go a long way to define what we become and to enrich our lives. We only need to use them at the right place and right time.

Life is beautiful, life is precious and life is worth living.