India: The Better Side

Where every visitor is deemed divine,

Whose fecund soil produces Indigo,

And landforms have a picturesque design;

Through whose broad swaths the Ganga's courses flow,

Where sunrays crown (as if an honoured king)

The Himalayan peaks of whitish glow;

Where holiness is felt in everything,

In trees, in stones, in farmers' spades and ards,

Or in the trill a flock of Brownbuls sing.

Her womb of knowledge gifted us the bards:

Ezekiel, Dutt, Naidu, Seth, Tagore;

Their words still stand on glory's boulevards;

And though her fast-progressing nature bore

Modernity to us, yet, every child

Bows to his parents as if it's a chore

Each dawn. No influence, however wild,

Could change her culture: we eat with our hands,

Her principles have never been beguiled;

Although she's been despoiled by foreign lands,

She gave them shelter at her blood's expense,

Chose love against their hate, and now she stands

Among all mighty nations, so immense,

To prove a truth: all battles can be won

By one true sword, the sword of tolerance.