The Thunderclap of Freedom: My Reverence for Subhas Chandra Bose

The Thunderclap of Freedom: My Reverence for Subhas Chandra Bose

In the tempestuous theatre of India’s freedom struggle, where the breath of prayer often met the blow of repression, one name rumbles through the corridors of time like a distant storm returning: Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose.

Among the many souls who stoked the fire of liberty, Bose stands for me not as a symbol of resistance alone, but as the embodiment of restless patriotism. His spirit did not move with the soft rhythms of negotiation, but surged like a monsoon river—urgent, unbending, and profound.

To choose a favourite historical figure is to lean close to history’s heartbeat. I lean towards Bose—not because he lived long, nor because he ruled—but because he refused to kneel. He was not made for the measured poetry of peace, but for the ballads of revolution.

The Fire-Walker of Destiny

Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose did not tiptoe into public life. He stormed into it.

A scholar with the mind of a statesman and the courage of a warrior, Netaji rejected a secured British civil service job and instead embraced the uncharted roads of resistance. His was a path strewn with exile, imprisonment, secret voyages, and a dream that refused to die.

He challenged not just the British Empire, but the limitations of strategy. While others stayed within the bounds of diplomacy, Bose crossed continents—from Berlin to Tokyo—not to escape, but to prepare. His alliances may have stirred controversy, but they were born from desperation, not disloyalty. He knew: history seldom waits for comfort to catch up.

His creation, the Azad Hind Fauj (INA), was not merely an army; it was a pulse—a proclamation that India’s sons and daughters could fight and bleed for their motherland, not just write petitions in her name.

A Philosophy Forged in Flame

Where Gandhi represented spiritual protest, Bose radiated kinetic rebellion. He believed that liberty cannot be requested—it must be reclaimed.

His guiding light was not just national pride but civilisational awakening. He revered India’s cultural heritage but wanted its future to be modern, militarily strong, socially equal, and intellectually fearless. He read the Upanishads as deeply as he studied Marx. He invoked the Gita not as a religious relic, but as a call to righteous action.

His famous cry, “Give me blood, and I will give you freedom”, was not a metaphor—it was a pact. A pledge of sacrifice etched into the bones of those who followed him through fire and famine.

The Vanishing and the Echo

In August 1945, he vanished into a cloud of uncertainty—an air crash, they say. But legends rarely rest in graves. Bose lives not in the certainty of facts but in the stubborn immortality of imagination. Was he lost? Or did fate merely hide him away, like a sword sheathed for another age?

I find in that mystery a strange beauty. Some stories, like rivers, are never meant to end—they only merge into other waters.

Personal Reflections: Why He Lives in Me

In a time when convenience often outweighs conviction, Bose reminds me what it means to burn for an ideal. His life asks me—Would I walk into darkness, trusting only the flame of belief? Would I fight for the silent, the poor, the invisible?

For me, he is not just a figure in history. He is history’s unfinished sentence.
– If Gandhi was the conscience of the nation, Bose was its cry.
– If Nehru was its architect, Bose was its hammer.
– If Tagore was its song, Bose was its war-drum.

Verses at the March’s End

Let me honour him as he must be remembered—not just in prose, but in poetry, the way thunder honours rain:

He rose not with sceptre, nor prayer on his lips,
But fire in his chest and revolt in his grip.
The wind wore his name, the storm bore his face,
As he marched through exile with unshaken grace.

A lion in silence, a thunder in voice,
He taught us that freedom was not just a choice.
It burned in the spine, it bled in the sand,
It knelt not to empire, but stood like a man.

Where borders were drawn with ink and disdain,
He dreamt of a homeland unshackled from chain.
His army of souls, like waves from the shore,
Cried “Jai Hind” till the cannons could roar.

Now history remembers, though fate stayed unkind,
The General who fought in the corridors of mind.
No grave bears his name, no end we can trace—
But his courage still marches in time’s quiet pace.

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If I Spoke the Truth of My Heart

If I Spoke the Truth of My Heart

There are silences that sit in our chests like folded letters—unsent, unsaid, unread. They throb quietly beneath every breath, nudging our spirit with the question: What if I said everything, the way I felt? What if I poured my soul, uncensored and uncut, into the chalice of truth and let the world drink from it?

In a world that rewards polish over passion and pretence over presence, voicing one’s true emotions becomes an act of rebellion. The heart, though tender, houses tempests. And truth, when undiluted, can either build bridges or burn them down.

The Courage to Bare the Soul

To speak every feeling as it comes—without filter, without fear—would be like stripping one’s soul bare before a mirror of infinite reflections. But society, ever watchful and often judgmental, teaches us to withhold: don’t speak of your pain too loudly, don’t express your joy too openly, don’t question too deeply. One becomes a curator of emotions, displaying only what is socially palatable and safely acceptable.

Yet philosophy teaches us otherwise. The Stoics remind us of the virtue in authenticity; the Gita speaks of swadharma, one’s true nature. Rumi whispers through the winds:
“Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure.”

And still, we hesitate.

Because saying everything we feel might mean shaking the very ground beneath relationships built on assumptions. It might mean admitting that we are not as strong, nor as indifferent, nor as content as we pretend to be.

The Poetic Heart’s Dilemma

Imagine telling someone they were your dawn after a night of weeping. That their absence hollows out your evenings like a bell without a tongue. Or admitting that some days, the silence feels louder than screams, and memories curl like smoke in your mind, choking your reason.

What if you told the world you are afraid? That the smile is rehearsed, the laughter timed, and the eyes—though open—carry the weight of unseen wars?

– Would it bring solace or solitude?

– Would the truth liberate or isolate?

– Or would it do both?

When Truth Becomes Redemption

There is, of course, a catharsis in honesty. It is the river that cleanses the mind of emotional debris. It is the balm that numbs the ache of long-held lies we tell ourselves.

Yes, saying everything as one feels might cost us comfort. It might cost us companionship. But it will gift us truth—raw, ruthless, and redemptive.

There is quiet dignity in being vulnerable. There is unmatched power in a trembling voice that speaks its truth. Because, in the end, even if the world doesn’t understand, the soul will stand a little taller for not having betrayed itself.

Stanzas of the Soul

If I said it all, the way it lay,
Not dressed in decorum, nor tucked away—
Would you embrace the storm I hide,
Or turn your face, your truth denied?

If I whispered grief into the rain,
Would you still dance or walk away in vain?
If joy leapt out like sparks at night,
Would you hold my flame or fear the light?

If silence shattered into song,
Would I still feel I don’t belong?
And if my words cut through the grey,
Would I be heard—or sent away?

Yet here I stand, unsure, unsure—
A heart too loud, a mind demure.
But know this truth if nothing more:
To feel is human—to speak it, pure.

The Girl with the Almond Eyes

The Girl with the Almond Eyes

A Love Unnamed, A Memory Unfaded
There are certain people who walk into the corridors of our childhood and, without ever meaning to, leave behind echoes that last a lifetime. She was one such chapter—unwritten but unforgettable. A girl I never knew by name, yet whose presence lingers like a fragrance in the folds of memory. Her eyes—almond-shaped, warm and unknowable—became the first verses of my romantic awakening.

Verses from a Forgotten Hallway

In the orchard of youth where the breeze was light,
She walked like a whisper through corridors bright.
A year ahead in life’s small race,
Yet always near, with a half-lit face.

Eyes that held twilight’s deepest hue,
Soft as prayer, and honest as dew.
Not love, not quite—just a silent crush,
A moment wrapped in a youthful hush.

Her voice—a stream through summer stone,
Wore uniforms like verses sewn.
And when she laughed, the world would pause,
Time would bend without a cause.

Gifts exchanged—no words, no claim,
As if the soul had signed her name.
A ribbon, a pen, or a chocolate square—
Each gift spoke what lips wouldn’t dare.

The Shift of Cities, The Drift of Days

One day, like seasons that leave without goodbyes,
My school changed, under stranger skies.
New walls, new faces, but something missed—
That fleeting touch, that childish tryst.

I searched her shadow in many a crowd,
In every face, under every cloud.
But names are weightless when hearts just feel,
And memories often the only seal.

Her eyes, I dream, still find my face,
In libraries of time and space.
What might have been, what never was—
Yet life moves on, without a pause.

The Philosophy of a Crush

They say the first crush is not about the other,
But what awakens in you like a long-lost brother.
It’s not about knowing, holding, or naming,
But sensing a world within quietly flaming.

Crushes are gardens where longing grows,
Without the burden of ‘why’—just ‘because’.
They’re more about wonder than destination,
More heartbeats than conversation.

She—my muse with almond eyes—
Taught me how memory never truly dies.
Though nameless, her impression stays,
Lighting the dusk of forgotten days.

The Gaze That Stayed

I do not know the path she treads,
Nor if her voice still softly spreads.
But every dusk, when silence sighs,
I see again those almond eyes.

Not love, not loss, just something true,
A shade of joy in memory’s hue.
No map, no letter, no last goodbyes—
Just a girl, and her almond eyes!

The -Crazies of Power: A Tale of Thrones, Truths, and the People

“The -Crazies of Power: A Tale of Thrones, Truths, and the People”

Governance, the art and act of ruling, often weaves itself into curious terms ending in –crazy—or more rightly, – cracy—each echoing a distinct philosophy, aspiration, or sometimes, delusion. From democracy to autocracy, bureaucracy to plutocracy, these   ‘-cracies‘ shape our world like invisible winds sculpting the sands of time. But in whose favour do these winds blow—the rulers or the ruled?

Let us walk gently through this gallery of governance, examining the tapestries of history, the silhouettes of power, and the heartbeat of the governed.

Democracy: Rule by the People, or Rule by the Loudest?

Democracy, from the Greek demos (people) and kratos (power), is often celebrated as the fairest of all political systems—a chorus of diverse voices, where ballots speak louder than bullets. In theory, it’s a government of the people, by the people, for the people, to quote Lincoln’s immortal line. In practice, however, democracy can be messy. When truth becomes optional, and rhetoric outshines reason, democracies risk becoming mediocracies — where popularity trumps wisdom.

Pros:

1. Citizens have a voice and the freedom to dissent.

2. Checks and balances limit autocratic power.

3. Diverse perspectives enrich decision-making.

Cons:

1. Susceptible to manipulation through populism and misinformation.

2. Slow decision-making, especially in emergencies.

3. Voter fatigue and disillusionment often lead to apathy.

Yet, even with its flaws, democracy remains a noble experiment in trust—a pact that says, “Your voice matters, no matter how small.”

Autocracy: Rule by One, or One for the Rule?

Autocracy springs from autos (self) and kratos (rule)—a system where power is concentrated in the hands of one. At its worst, it is a dictatorship draped in velvet, unchallenged and unchecked. At its best, it promises stability, swift decisions, and visionary leadership. But, oh, the cost when that vision turns into a tunnel, and the tunnel into a tomb!

Pros:

1. Quick, decisive action, especially in crises.

2. Strong leadership and unity of command.

3. Fewer bureaucratic roadblocks.

Cons:

1. Lack of accountability; power tends to corrupt.

2. Suppression of dissent, often violently.

3. Citizens are treated as subjects, not stakeholders.

Autocracy can build empires overnight, but it can also burn them by dawn. History, from Pharaohs to Führers, stands witness.

Beyond the Binary: Other ‘-Cracies’ in the Crowd

1. Aristocracy: Rule of the elite few. Often rooted in heritage, but not always in merit. It presumes nobility of birth equals nobility of thought—a presumption frequently proven false.

2. Plutocracy: Rule by the wealthy. Here, the coin commands the crown. Such systems tilt towards greed, turning governance into gated communities of comfort.

3.Theocracy: Rule by divine authority, or those who claim it. When faith governs facts, the result may be transcendence—or tyranny cloaked in sanctity.

4. Bureaucracy: Rule through procedures. It can bring order—or become a labyrinth with no exit, where reason goes to die under rubber stamps.

Each of these – ‘cracies’ carries a promise, and a peril.

Is Governance About Leaders or the Led?

A pressing question lies at the heart of this discourse: Are these systems crafted for the aristocracy of rulers, or the comfort of the citizens?

If governance is a stage, then the people are not mere spectators—they are the very script. Good governance listens more than it dictates, serves more than it – rules. As Plato once warned, “The price of apathy towards public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.”

Philosophically speaking, governance should aim to strike a fine balance—between liberty and order, between the wisdom of the few and the will of the many. The true test of a system lies not in how it empowers its leaders, but in how it nurtures its citizens: their dignity, education, health, and hope.

When Systems Lose Soul

No – cracy is perfect. Like old clocks, they need winding, oiling, sometimes resetting. But when a system—no matter how elegant—forgets its soul, it turns into – tyranny dressed as tradition.

May the future of governance not be about the craziness of -cracies, but the calmness of compassion. A world where leadership is a duty, not a display; where systems serve the people, and not the other way round.

Tags: #DemocracyVsAutocracy #GovernancePhilosophy #PoliticalSystems #PublicWelfare #Plato #ModernGovernance #LeadershipAndPower

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A Land Where Love Resides – A Poetic Journey

A Land Where Love Resides – A Poetic Journey

I do not seek the Eiffel’s charm,
Nor Venice cloaked in twilight calm.
I long to walk where hearts don’t lie,
And peace is painted in the sky.

Not for the passport’s worldly pride,
But for the soul I choose to ride—
To lands where justice gently flows,
And kindness in each gesture grows.

A mapless quest, yet true and deep,
Where eyes still shine and spirits leap.
Where strangers greet – with eyes that speak,
And mighty hands uplift the weak.

No palace gates, no golden towers—
But quiet lanes with blooming flowers,
Where love is not a rare disguise,
But dwells in tears and smiling eyes.

Where every meal is shared, not weighed,
And truth walks bare, not masked or swayed.
Where children play without a fence,
And silence speaks more than pretence.

Where judges weep for pain they’ve heard,
And poets sing each broken word.
A land where wounds are held, not shamed,
And every life is gently named.

O give me hills that hear the heart,
Where values form the native art.
Where sunsets speak in tones of gold,
Of stories just, of courage bold.

There, let me rest, no need for more

A hut of hope, a humble shore.
No need for crowns, no need for kings,
Just skies that soar with gentle wings.

So call me – dreamer, if you must,
But dreams alone defy the dust.
And every step I choose to take,
Shall be for love and kindness’ sake.

For not in borders, not in sand,
But in the soul I seek my land.
Where peace walks free and love decides—
Yes, take me there, where love resides!

When Words Begin to Breathe”A short story on the quiet revolution of English Literature in a soul’s life

“When Words Begin to Breathe”
A short story on the quiet revolution of English Literature in a soul’s life

I still remember that sunlit afternoon, the scent of ageing paper mingling with the silent pulse of a sleepy classroom. The fan above spun in hypnotic circles as if reciting lines of its own — and there, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the shelf, was a worn-out copy of “The Tempest” by William Shakespeare.

The book fell open as though it had been waiting. The first few lines read:
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

That day, the words entered not just my mind, but my marrow. Something ancient and beautiful began to stir.

The Tale of Aarav: A Soul Awakened by Stories

Aarav was a quiet boy. Not shy, not even melancholic — just detached. In a world ruled by speed, success and science, he was lost in the invisible lanes of his thoughts. He answered politely, studied mechanically, and spoke only when asked.

But one winter evening, as mist draped the city in silver veils, Aarav stumbled upon an old anthology of English poems in a rickety roadside bookstall. It was a slim, yellowing collection — “Verse and Vision”, it said, embossed in fading gold.

That night, under a dim lamp, Aarav met the words of Wordsworth, Dickinson, Blake, Yeats, and Kipling. One poem stood out — “Ode to a Nightingale” by Keats. The lines struck like music, yet stung like truth:
“Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known…”

Something in him cracked open — like dry earth meeting monsoon.

The Healing Power of Literary Art

Through poetry, Aarav found not escape, but expression. He no longer feared the silence in rooms or the ache in hearts. When he read Brontë’s Jane Eyre, he understood courage that wears no armour. When he journeyed with Pip in Great Expectations, he recognised the folly and fragrance of ambition.

The short stories of O. Henry and Katherine Mansfield showed him how brief moments could contain entire lifetimes. Even “The Gift of the Magi” left him weeping — not because it was sad, but because it was true.

And one day, when he read Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in his English class, he learnt that even the simplest words, when spoken with sincerity and soul, could awaken nations.

Beyond Grammar: The Philosophy of Literature

English Literature is not a subject — it is a mirror. A poem isn’t a puzzle, but a prayer. A novel isn’t just a narrative — it is a compass.

A good piece of literature doesn’t just refine our vocabulary; it reshapes our vision. It doesn’t merely tell stories — it tells us who we are, who we could be, and what we must never forget.

Aarav began to speak more — not louder, but deeper. He could now look into the eyes of another and say, “I understand.”

The Word Becomes Flesh

Years later, Aarav became a teacher — of English, of course. In his classroom, he never taught about literature. He let it breathe. He read it aloud. He whispered Shakespeare’s lines and Dickinson’s questions. He laughed with his students over Wilde’s wit and let them cry over Steinbeck’s sorrows.

He often said,

“You may forget my name, but if you remember even one line of poetry that saved you from despair, I have done my job.”

Epilogue: Words for the Wandering Soul

In a world of speed, let us remember the stillness that stories bring.
In a world of noise, let us cherish the silence between lines of verse.
In a world of forgetting, let us remember that every good piece of literature is a candle in a cave.

Because sometimes, all it takes to find ourselves… is a sentence that sees us first.

A few final lines for the heart to hold:

When pages speak and silence sings,
When ink gives flight to broken wings,
Then literature — that sacred art —
Will plant its fire inside your heart.

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“A Mirror of My Soul: What I Adore Most About Myself”

“A Mirror of My Soul: What I Adore Most About Myself”

In the quiet sanctuary of self-reflection, beneath the rustling leaves of time and experience, I find myself often returning to a simple yet profound question—What is my favourite thing about myself? It’s neither a boastful inquiry nor a moment of vanity, but rather a humble peeling of the self, a revealing of that inner essence which, despite the wear and tear of life, continues to shimmer with authenticity.

And the answer? It is my unwavering love, my disarming honesty, and my open-door accessibility—three virtues that braid together like ivy on the old brick walls of my soul.

The Heart That Stretches Without Measure

There is a kind of love within me—not the romanticised portrayal penned in novels—but a deep, human love. A compassion that stirs even for a stranger on the street, for a bird wounded by chance, or for a soul whose silence screams. My love, though scarred by betrayals and bruised by the world’s cold shoulder, has never closed its gates. It stretches itself like the morning sun over shivering rooftops, offering warmth indiscriminately.

I take pride in this love, for it is not selective. It is not owned by a few or leased by time. It is the kind of love that listens more than it speaks, embraces more than it judges, and continues to give even when the well seems dry.

A Tongue That Won’t Paint Falsehoods

Honesty is not an adornment I put on when it suits the moment. It is my language, my native breath, my stubborn truth. I have tasted the consequences of honesty—lost opportunities, shaken friendships, misunderstood silences. And yet, I hold on to it like a well-worn book, its pages crinkled with time, but its truth intact.

To be honest is not to be harsh. It is to walk with a lamp through a foggy path and offer the light to others. It is to say, “I do not know,” when the world expects certainty. It is to admit one’s failings, apologise when necessary, and speak truth to power, even if one stands alone.

A Gate That’s Always Ajar

What I find most appealing in myself, perhaps, is my accessibility. People find in me not a pedestal but a porch, not a mountain but a meadow. I am that shoulder where a tired soul may rest, that voice in the crowd that will answer when called, and that presence which does not vanish after the applause has faded.

Being accessible is not about being physically present; it is about being emotionally reachable. It is the ability to hold space for another’s sorrow, to laugh without restraint at shared joys, and to respond with sincerity when the world rushes by with indifference.

Philosophical Echoes in My Soul

Socrates once declared that “an unexamined life is not worth living.” I believe a life lived without love, honesty, and accessibility is a life untouched by grace. These traits are not medals to flaunt but footprints of a soul striving to stay human in a world often distracted by spectacle.

They are my anchors when storms rise, my compass when shadows fall, and my offering to a world that often cries out, not for greatness, but for goodness.

A Poetic Closing

Let, not my name echo in stone,
But in hearts I’ve known and touched alone.
Where love was given, not for gain,
And honesty bore truth through pain.
Accessible as morning’s light,
I stood for warmth, not heights of might.
If that be my legacy’s flame,
I ask for nothing—not even a name.

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