It rains…I bury myself in mind-numbing calculus
trying hard, struggling, to find a way out
of this unseen drabness, disquieting fuss
which neither makes me calm, nor lets me shout.
Hour after hour, night after night, I wage
a silent war with hurdles; the winning ribbon unseen,
as the world wildly celebrates: a mirage
my eyes believe to have an eternal sheen.
Some lives pop sunglasses and relax seamlessly,
as I tire and ache, and yet easily forget
millions others persevere, unfaltering, endlessly;
I see sweet glory of labour and sweat.
My karma, not me, reap the fruits of tilled soil,
Mine’s not to yearn or intend, mine’s just to hush and toil. (I., Sl.47, Ch.2, Bhagwad Gita)
– May 2013