By Vanya Srivastava
On a dull, rainy Sunday evening,
as I walked leisurely in my garden
With a hot cup of tea and drenched news paper,
My lungs were soothed by the fragrance of the wet soil.
At once my mind drove into
A subconscious state
A state of deep nostalgia,back into my childhood days.
How in my vivid dreams,
an innocent and ambitious that I was
as a little kid,
Was always charmed by the luxury of a ‘foreign’ place.
The dream to fly high, to live a lavish life.
My young brain had painted a blurry canvas,
the thoughts that bloomed were so naive.
Casually turning the pages of news paper,
My eyes caught something dismal.
"A group of 5 Indian youths deported from US, two dead bodies found"
read the silent headlines,
that made me ponder over,
the sense of disappointment so profound.
Born and raised in a great Nation
of scientists and mathematicians;
of astronauts and politicians;
and of freedom fighters and warriors
Who shed their blood and tears,
to set our nation free;
to make it run on its own gears,
Why this so called "American dreams"
prevails in the heart of Indians.
Suddenly a feeling of contentment
rushed deep through my veins.
Grateful to be with my own people,
In my own place,
Where I can share my joys and my pain
Secure and safe, in peace of mind.
In my Homeland,
An abode so heavenly,a place so divine.