A Scared India’s Daughter

By Pallavi

I am India’s Daughter, and I am SCARED today.
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People are threatening to strangle me and burn me alive.

For what crime? Don’t ask. Who are these people? Don’t ask.

I am a ‘flower amid thorns’. I should be ‘worshiped’ and not ‘spoiled in gutter’.

Am I really a flower? If that’s all you think I am, I choose to disagree.
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Yes, I am India’s Daughter and I am ASHAMED today.
 .

I will be raped and killed if I will watch ‘Life of Pie’.

I will be raped and killed if I will roam around with a male friend.

I will be raped and killed if I will go out of my house at ‘odd hours’.

And I will be beaten and tear gassed by the protectors if I will protest.
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Yes, I am India’s Daughter and I am DEFAMED today.
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I and all my sisters are standing helpless.

We pretend to be courageous, but shrink from inside in fear.

We are scared to hire taxis; we are scared to get into busses.

We are scared of our co-human beings; we are scared to say that we are ‘scared’.
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Yes, I am India’s Daughter and I talk to you as a VICTIM today.

My Best Friend

To Menika Sitalia

By Pallavi Mishra

I know you since those days when black and white were your favorite colours.

Some 65 kgs you were, but your smile was still worth million dollars.

A high bun and baggy capris were your trade mark then.

And your tick tock walk was perfect and exactly ten on ten.

You were almost always sick but I was never sick of you.

I am still as crazy for my Meni as I was before thin you grew.

There was some divine connection that I just can’t explain

You always loved me so much without expecting any gain

We don’t talk for days and don’t see each other for months in whole

But whenever we reunite, it’s like we are two bodies and one soul

You are one person who inspires me more than all the people in trend.

Meni my love, you are an angel sent from heaven for me as my Best Friend.

The Exploration

By Pallavi

I counted all mile stones, all trees and all sign boards.

Baffled by the coequal symphony, I broke the reckoning cords.

How much far have I come and how much more I have to cover.

There must be a speed limit; there must be a route more sober.

The distance seems uncalculative, the route looks latterly unearthed.

The winds smell crude and land cluttered with fictions obnoxiously versed.

Scared I run on the inescapable road, finally I sit to catch some breath.

I fall asleep only to wake up in arms of one who holds all the wealth.

A Calamity Level Hatred

So much hatred that a calamity level it has reached.

We talk about Gaza and cry but our home is no more different as it earlier seemed.

“Madam you are from which state? UP or Bihar?”

Well, Mishra is my name and I am not from a state very far.

He went on and said he is happy that the roads are empty

“The only good things about Eid-ul-Fitr is that there is less traffic at this hour”

“Why can’t these Muslims fight amongst themselves and die”

“Why can’t we be a Hindu state and flaunt our cultural tie”

I was sitting at the back seat, shun as a robot and quiet as a toy

Couldn’t digest the fact that my driver has just broke into my ‘peaceful India’ coy.

“I hate these people” and he kept staring at the road ahead in wheeze.

When asked his reason for hate, he could only say this

“We go to Dargah but they never visit a Temple. They live on a lie”

And I said: I am a Hindu and I never go to temple. Do I deserve to die?

He looked back and smiled and then turned to his loving road with his mouth mum.

The pang in my stomach remained and I still don’t know what is in our kitty in the days to come.

The Last Run

The little puppet rose from the box.

Midnight it was and he saw no one to coax.

He moved a few steps falling up and down.

Something stopped him, he looked behind and cowed.

His threads were jumbled with that of his onscreen wife.

What should he do, should he let her know his strife?

His dilemma penetrated but he didn’t let it overtake.

He cut off the harness and crawled towards the gate.

Streets were empty and dull but roads had some glow.

He covered himself with a sack from rag and started moving slow.

The new world was already not very soothing

He didn’t want to move ahead but idea of going back was also muting.

He tired not to stop and the sun was out in open

Challenging his stamina and promising a prize coupon.

He drew the motivation and started waking faster.

Past the houses’ porch and past the hanging paster.

He crossed the pavement and crossed the foot-over bridge.

He chased his destiny till the river without any glitch.

He looked at the opposite bank and saw a tree of palm.

The monotony broke and he stood straight and calm.

The beauty was as mesmerising as the divine powers.

The scenery kept him spellbound for hours and hours.

His journey was complete but he missed his rooted churn.

He showed destiny his back and took an about turn.

He entered the gate through which he left.

Took those few steps again and retied the harness set.

The journey back home was easier than his last run.

He felt more fulfilled and was in the box without any concern.

Giving Education No More A Service

Giving education is no more a service; it has, in its true sense, become a business. A business that brings revenues without the hustles and bustles of dealing with professionals. Hire some teachers, doesn’t matter how qualified they are to do the job, and you are good to go. You are at advantage if you have a nice infrastructure, you can ask for as much of money as possible from parents in the form of fees. Still not satisfied with the income? Don’t worry, open a trust or NGO on your grandfather’s name and ask for donations openly.

Many schools in Delhi NCR are earning in pinks thanks to the lack of quality education at government schools. Central schools in the national capital are not enough to cater the population that is in need of good education. The only choice left with parents is sending their kids to private schools; the road is not easy there too. Its hard to find admission in a well reputed school without shelling out huge sum of money. There are around 4,500 schools in Delhi and a majority of them reportedly demand donation in the name of school development and upgradation of infrastructure. The donation ranges anywhere from Rs 10,000 to a few lakhs, depending on the reputation and location of the school. One could still think about the onetime spending but the monthly fee at many schools is equivalent to the 2 weeks salary of many of us. And if you have two kids, then only God could save their future.

As per latest circular from the directorate of school education, no donation should be collected by the schools during admission. Apart from that, these schools are also not supposed to conduct entrance tests. However, the schools are flouting the rules since there is no concrete action from the education officials concerned. Though, the State Human Rights Commission ordered the district education officer in June to conduct a through investigation into schools asking for donations, but no report has been submitted as yet.

I know this blog will not change the business mindsets of our academic entrepreneurs, but I wish people stop playing with the careers of these little buds (kids). A school should be run as a temple of education and social service center, not as a dividend paying company.  

Self Obsessed

She has the colour she had the grace.

She has everything to up praise.

She likes to attend the attention given.

So what if it is an evil eye in red ribbon.

Oh my God they are following me!

She admires herself with a floppy flee.

Oh my dear innocent thee.

Why don't you realize the intentions behind what you see?

The followers are harnessed with sharp lace.

All I know is that its you they want to slay.

She kept on flying in her own mood.

Avoiding my advises as if it is rude.

She was very high when I heard her cry.

I tried to control but wind was against me, I don't know why?

Oh hell they are holding my neck!

Please save me, they are threatening to hack!

She kept on crying and could not be saves.

She was destined to suffer as she was self obsessed.