Save the tiger...

" Tiger, tiger, burning bright

   In the forests of the night,

   What immortal hand or eye

   Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? "

It's the Year of the Tiger, but sadly, it is no longer burning bright.

The forests are but a pale shadow of their former self without the halo of the world's alpha predator.

The hunter has been hunted down to an abysmally low figure of 1411 in my Motherland.

When will Man stop his nefarious activities.

When will he stop poaching the world's favorite animal.

Will it be the day when we will be speaking of the Tiger in the same breadth as the dinosaurs.

The pride of Tiger is dwindling by the day.

And we refuse to allow an attack on our Pride.

We will fight back...

I signed up for the "Save Our Tigers" campaign by Aircel today.

I hope you join and pledge your support as well.

It is upon us to ensure that the finest of our fauna survives.

Let us show that we care for this maneater that does not necessarily make the world a safer place but definitely makes it a better and an exciting place to live in...

A dangerous game...

" Hobbes: How come we play war and not peace ?

  Calvin: Too few role models. "

The atomic bombing of Hiroshima exactly sixty-five years ago had shrouded the orb in a cemetery light.

The 'Little Boy' had played a dangerous game.

A game that had trivialized Death...

We are still playing a dangerous game, the big game hunting.

A synonym for mindless killing in the garb of a sport.

My poem 'The Hunter and the Lioness' explores this game where the only means of winning would be not playing it at all...

The rifle’s mass made my fingers fumble

As memories of the past flooded my mind;

And it raced back to the times in the jungle

When my cognition was completely blind.

I could see the smile on the hunter’s countenance

As the bullet pierced the maned forehead,

And as the smoke veiled the rifle’s lens

In a heap lay the grand lioness dead.

Unaware of the unforeseen peril,

She sauntered on the grasslands, rightly her own

For little she knew of the marksman, who to flaunt his skill,

Would depose her from her lawful throne.

But today with my skills and senses dulled

I repent for the hunter that was I myself

When I realize there was place in this world

For both the lioness and the hunter himself.

Till the curtains come down...

" The world's a stage where every man must play his part. "

A rare few are born with an innate ability to sleepwalk through their part. A victor by destiny...

For the rest in this mortal orb, it's more about adapting to the part to emerge unscathed at the end of the play...

And that I believe is not a mean feat either. But there needs to be some constant source of inspiration that would keep the blood flowing in the sinews long enough to ensure that you sojourn on till you take the final bow...

And there will never be a greater source of inspiration to journey on than the sun...

For you know deep within that however dark and despondent the night may be, the sun shall rise again the next morning and chase all the shadows away. Its done so before the diluvial and will do so beyond it as well.

This unequalled heroism calls for an ode to the beacon of our lives... 

Thou beauty stands undiminished

Having survived the ravages of time;

Thy burning passion cannot be extinguished,

For Thou art so noble, so sublime.

On the Earth on which Thou shines

Where good has always been ephemeral;

Except for that divine beam of Thine,

Which has been forever eternal.

Thou splendour melts away the darkness

And with it the unwonted fears of night;

For even ghosts, with all their vileness,

Would endure not, Thou unusual might.

Only Thy can say good from evil

For Thine has seen all; one by one;

The newborns and the dead, the saints and the devils,

For there is nothing new under the Sun.