By Utkarsh Agrawal
I. Early Days
Two boys were born on the same old street,
Where dust and dreams and daylight meet.
They raced the breeze, they climbed the trees,
And wrestled truth on muddy knees.
One clothed in green with silver thread,
The other wrapped in saffron red.
One knelt before a prophet’s word,
The other bowed where gods were heard.
They carved their names in bark and bone,
Each whispered word a world their own.
With forts of straw and thrones of sand,
They ruled a small and sacred land.
They laughed at Holi, prayed at Eid,
Shared books and mangoes, rice and reed.
Their mothers fed them side by side,
And blessed their heads when storms would ride.
They chased the monsoon down the lane,
And bathed beneath its silver rain.
They’d kneel on mats on different days,
Yet both would meet in quiet embrace.
Though born of faiths in separate forms,
Their bond stood fast through sun and storms.
They laughed, they fought, as brothers do—
But hate was never theirs to brew.
II. The Foreigner
Then came a boy with eyes of blue,
And hair like wheat in morning dew.
He spoke in songs both sharp and sweet,
With polished boots and marching feet.
He brought them sweets in paper folds,
And tales adorned in threads of gold.
He showed them maps with colored lines—
New borders cast from old designs.
He taught them how to bow and stand,
Then took their fruit, their field, their land.
He crowned them kings in borrowed speech,
Then mocked the songs their mothers preached.
He taxed their salt, their cloth, their grain,
And sold it back with calm disdain.
He split their schools, their tongues, their creeds,
And sowed division with his deeds.
He turned them each against their truth—
Their names, their gods, their sacred youth.
And for a time, he played their kin,
Until his envy slipped within.
He whispered thorns from seed to root:
"Which one rose first? Which bore the fruit?"
He made the boy in saffron shove
The one in green, once full of love.
Their tempers flared, their voices flew—
A quarrel none could quite undo.
They paused, then laughed, as brothers might—
Still blind to how he shaped the fight.
Then said the guest with icy pride:
"You bowed to me. You cannot hide.
One lie was all it took to part—
And now I hold your broken heart."
They rose in rage to cast him out,
But found themselves in chains of doubt.
For while they fought with fire and pride,
He built the cage where both abide.
III. Servitude
He ruled with ledgers, guns, and ink—
While temples burned, and gods would shrink.
He sent them off to foreign wars,
And etched their names on distant scars.
Their backs grew bent in fields of flame,
While he sipped tea and played his game.
He drew a line through flesh and land,
And called it peace with sleight of hand.
He told them which one first had erred,
Then laughed when neither voice was heard.
He sold their story, page by page,
And bound their youth in silent rage.
They rose in protest, flame, and shout—
But every fire he stamped out.
He’d crush their hope, rename the pain,
And steal their silence once again.
IV. Freedom
Yet time, relentless, wore him thin,
And drained the fire that burned within.
At last the brothers rose in flame—
Through ash and blood, they spoke his name.
Together still, they struck the ground,
Their voices fierce, their purpose sound.
The world stood still to hear them speak—
Their chains were gone, but left a streak.
But even as he turned to go,
He left them seeds he’d made to sow.
He said, “You’re free—but mark this truth:
You’ll lose it fast if shared by both.”
“One prays to prophets, firm and wise,
The other sees gods in earth and skies.
Why tempt the storm you can’t contain?
Why live in love to fight again?”
And with a grin, he slipped away—
His pockets full, his skies turned gray.
He left them split along a seam—
A quiet tear in a louder dream.
V. Partition
They tried, at first, to stitch the tear,
To meet in light, to breathe one air.
But pasts returned in cloaks of flame,
And called each other thief and shame.
They fenced their fields, rewrote their skies,
And raised their sons on sacred lies.
They built their walls from dread and dust,
And shattered what had once been trust.
They taught their boys to load and aim,
To fear the other’s face and name.
They waged their wars on borrowed hate,
And fired across the garden gate.
They burned the books they once had shared,
And cursed the tears they might have spared.
They lit their torches in the frost,
And never paused to count the cost.
Each blamed the other for the years,
Each soaked the soil with silent tears.
They might have ruled the world as two—
But never saw that vision through.
And while they fought with thundered breath,
They never saw what lay beneath.
The world moved on, unbound, unbent,
While both grew old and impotent.
VI. Hope
Two brothers once who ruled one street
Now pass as strangers when they meet.
Their chains are gone, their wounds remain—
Yet roots recall the summer rain.
They bleed on ground they both once loved,
While others watch from heights above.
Their strength, once feared, has turned to shame—
And no one speaks their shared old name.
Yet deep beneath the ash and rust,
There stirs a seed—a stubborn trust.
A mango tree, a monsoon song,
A world where both could still belong.
And if, one day, their hearts should see
What once they were, what still could be—
The world might hush, the earth might wait,
To watch them walk through hope, not hate.