Before the Storm

The silent servant stands motionless,
This delayed land of Bharat
Gazes on with a faded smile.
The air has frozen still,
From behind the clouds
Thunder murmurs.
I press my ear to hear—
The herald of the coming storm.
 
The wind smells of gunpowder,
Life’s breast is pitted with craters,
Humanity locked in battle with man.
The boatman waves from afar,
The vessel rises in the heaving waters.
 
In the certain darkness,
The royal decree barred our way,
Yet in our silence
A sudden gust rises—
The conch shell sounds in protest.
 
This stillness is only a pause;
No journey will halt forever.
On the dry porch,
In a storm of dust,
I sit with bowed head and listen
To the death-cry of the bamboo grove,
The drumbeat of the storm approaching.
 
Still, there is more to say—
The servant holds
A secret pact with an unseen band.
The people roar,
The day of shame arrives;
Yet the rulers sit,
Watching and listening in silence,
Their gaze stretching to the horizon—
An endless lament,
The burden of their unspoken words.
 
This deep civic anger
Needs rehearsal—
For many more days, brother,
Life will drag on like this.
 
But we will return—
When the storm is over,
To our own land and our own time,
To exchange and rebuild.
Bharat will stand as one nation.
 
Now the fierce winds howl,
Let the rains fall without mercy.
Those who once sat silent
By the pond, in the courtyard,
Obeying the ruler’s command—
Now step forward
To claim their homeland,
To guard the undivided soil.
 
They rise awake,
To understand their rights.
When the storm has passed,
Dry leaves will fly northward,
Light will flood the earth,
Its joy must be shared.
 
The silent servant rises—
The call has come to him:
To build the nation.