Littera Scripta Manet

"India is a hopeless country and I absolutely hate it. I'm gonna shift to the US after school because I cannot tolerate the mentality here anymore." "Oh, did you listen to the new pop song by Ariana Grande? Damn man, I'm in love." "You listen to Bengali songs? Actually? That's so old, listen to English songs bro, grow up, be cool." "Why do you even wanna watch a Hindi film? Bollywood is extremely horrible, let's check out the new English film instead! At least it'll be worth it." "Oh! you do not know the meaning of this simple English word? Dude, coolness increases as the vocabulary of Hindi decreases, you embarrass me." Such is the culture of India. Lost amidst the trends of the magnificent western world, with our own personal identity absolutely forgotten, we're sailing on the oceans of approval far from our land of origin with no plans to return. What is the use of existence when we cannot be grateful to...

Who are we, the ones who live? Why are we here, if not to give? The trees were painted, the mountains were laid, the sun was involved and the seas were laid. Such enormously important things, were created only for us. But still on the tiniest of things we normally tend to fuss. Where is the gratitude? Where is the respect? Nature gave us so much and more, yet only flaws we detect. She thinks she's alone, she thinks she'll always be, The beautiful flowers bloom for her, waiting for her to see. He thinks success is a seed, a seed he hasn't sown. He ignores the ferocious winds, telling him to do the unknown. They muse with raining eyes, giving all the sadness a place to reside. Thus I wonder how they cannot hear, the waves of the ocean they have inside. The stars, the planets, the galaxies, are known for the treat they're to our sight, but often we do not realize, we're their source of light...                  ...