The Direct Path

 The shortest distance, a simple line,

connects two points—a truth divine.

It asks no fanfare, no grand parade,

just a quiet nod, a choice once made.

You roam the earth for sacred ground,

through temples built and forests crowned.

But all the while, the quiet flame

burns in your soul, an ancient name.

And death—no need to chase or flee,

.

it walks beside you, silently.

A shadow cast by morning sun,

it waits until your journey's done.

So hush your steps and look within,

to find the end, and where to begin.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

To Be and Not to Be: Hamlet, the Bhagavad Gita, and the Philosophy of Inner Conflict

To Be and Not to Be To be or not to be, the question. To be and not to be, the answer. Between these two thoughts stands the restless human mind, weighing life with fear, measuring death with doubt, searching for certainty where none was meant to exist. Hamlet stands there still, thinking himself into silence, trapped between action and retreat, afraid of the world, afraid of what lies beyond it. He asks if it is nobler to suffer or to end the suffering. But the question itself binds him, for it assumes that being and non-being are enemies. Elsewhere, on another battlefield, a man stands trembling in the same way. Arjuna lowers his bow. His heart shakes. His mind collapses under duty and grief. And yet, beside him, a quieter voice rises. Not a command. Not a judgment. A remembrance. “The soul is never born, nor does it die. It has never been, and will never cease to be. Unborn, eternal, everlasting— it is not destroyed when the body falls.” And suddenly, death loses its terror. Not bec...
Read more

Theory of Relativity of Age

Image
When he was five and refused a toy, Sai looked up and asked, “Dad, how old are you?” “Thirty-five,” his father said. A small silence followed. Then the boy murmured, “When I’m thirty-five, I’ll have a son of five. And I’ll never ever deny him a toy.” Time moved the way it always does. Now Sai is fifteen, bright, focused, scoring high, yet rising into the untidy air of youth and its storms. He wants his ears pierced, a new cut, pants low enough to show the edge of freedom. His parents frown. He turns to his grandfather, who listens, smiles, and asks for time. “When you’re thirty-five,” the old man says, “your son may not even ask. He may step out in a skirt, and your daughter may prefer the bare sky on her skin.” He laughs softly at his own memories— the slap for long hair, the ban on drainpipe pants, the scolding for strange music, the narrow permission of Godzilla and Kabuliwala. Generation to generation, the wheel turns. Eternal. Cyclic. A puzzle wit...
Read more

THE SCRIPT IN THE DUST

Image
The Script in the Dust The script was written in the dust of the desert long before the first missile ignited the sky. We sat in the stone tiers of the world, a global chorus with our hands over our mouths, watching the actors march toward the fire with the heavy rhythm of men who believe they are walking toward glory when they are really walking toward the grave. We saw red lines drawn in the sand, crossed, drawn again, and finally washed away in blood. Every final warning was a drumbeat. Every diplomatic success was a mask hiding the fury that was coming. Then pride rose. The swelling chest of the axis, coiling like a serpent, dreaming of a chokehold, met by fury launched like a thunderbolt, dreaming of a clean end, a surgical strike. But tragedies never end cleanly. The strike that kills the lead actor only drives the understudies screaming to the front of the stage. And we, the chorus, are the most tragic of all. We comment, we watch, we record. We...
Read more