The Birth Of India's Soul

 B R Ambedkar, 

With steady hand,  

Crafted justice for a divided land.  

With ink and thought, 

Through day and night,  

He shaped a future, 

Clear and bright.

Constituent Assembly, 

Wise and grand,  

Gathered from across the land.  

Debates and drafts, ideas entwined,  

To build a nation, just and kind.

The Preamble spoke of liberty's flame,  

Equality and justice, 

Its eternal claim.  

A Republic, sovereign and free,  

With Fraternity, 

Its binding key.

Fundamental Rights, 

For every soul,  

To live with dignity, 

Freedom whole.  

The law would guard, 

The law would guide,  

For every citizen, 

Far and wide.

Directive Principles gave the course,  

A vision of social justice force.  

To lift the poor, 

To heal the land,  

A guiding light, 

A steady hand.

In 1950, 

The day had come,  

The Constitution, 

Our victory drum.  

A document of hope, 

For all to see,  

The foundation of our democracy.

And thus was born, 

In wisdom's grace,  

A nation's heart, 

A sacred space.  

The Constitution of India, 

Bold and strong,  

To guide the right, 

To right the wrong.

Legal Battles

 A tale of cases, day and night.  

Where rights and rules often collide,  

The courts of justice act as guide.  

Kesavananda stood with courage bold,  

Defended the Constitution’s fold.  

The Basic Structure was declared,  

Beyond amendment, it was spared.  

Maneka Gandhi, with her plight,  

Fought for liberty’s expanding light.  

Article 21, once narrow and small,  

Now protects dignity, life, and all.  

In Golaknath, rights were found,  

Too precious to be tossed around.  

Amendments stopped by a firm decree,  

Until Parliament found another key.  

Minerva Mills, in wisdom deep,  

Balanced rights and DPSPs to keep.  

Judicial review, a steadfast guide,  

To keep the Constitution alive inside.  

SR Bommai, with his fight,  

Protected federalism’s might.  

No President’s rule without review,  

States’ powers kept strong and true.  

In Vishaka, women took a stand,  

For safety in workplaces across the land.  

The court's decree, a guideline pure,  

For justice and equality, they endure.  

The shadows dark of ADM Jabalpur,  

Showed how emergency could obscure,  

But lessons learned, and laws restored,  

For rights can never be ignored.  

Through all these cases, lessons flow,  

The Constitution’s strength continues to grow.  

In every ruling, in every fight,  

Justice shines, with steady light.

Schools of Jurisprudence

A myriad schools of thought arise,

Each one a lens,

A pair of eyes.



Natural Law stands tall and firm,

A beacon in the stormy term,

Believing in a higher might,

Where moral truths align with right.



Analytical Positivism reigns,

In logic's cold and clear domains,

It claims that law's a sovereign word,

Devoid of morals,

Quite unheard.



Historical tells of time's own flow,

How customs shape the law we know,

It binds the past with present ties,

In every rule,

Tradition lies.



Sociological shifts the gaze,

To life and law in social maze,

It molds the rules to serve the needs,

Of humankind in all its deeds.



The Realist school with sharp insight,

Declares the law is what courts write,

In judgment halls where power sways,

They craft the law in subtle ways.



Each school,

A path to justice’ door,

A way to see,

To ask for more,

In every theory,

Truth we find,

A mirror to the human mind.



So walk these halls with open heart,

In law and life,

They play their part,

For in the search,

The wisdom lies,

Where every school of thought applies.

In the Halls of Justice

 

In the halls where laws are penned, 

Actus non facit reum, nisi mens sit rea

They commend, 

For deeds alone are not crimes, 

Without the guilty mind,

Entwined in time.

 

Audi alteram partem, hear the other side, 

For justice blooms where voices collide. 

In every case,

Both sides must be heard in full,

For fair decree…

 

Nemo judex in causa sua,

None should judge their own, 

For bias blinds the fairest throne. 

To judge with clarity,

True and bright, 

Impartial minds must guide the light.

 

Ex turpi causa non oritur actio,

From a wrong,

No rights emerge, 

In tainted claims,

Justice won't surge. 

Volenti non fit injuria,

To those who consent, 

No injury arises,

No lament is sent.

 

In dubio pro reo,

In doubt,

We lean, 

Towards the accused,

In shadows unseen. 

For in the balance,

When truth is slight, 

We tip the scales towards the light.

 

Ignorantia juris non excusat,

Knowledge you must own, 

For ignorance of the law leaves none to atone. 

Res ipsa loquitur,

The thing itself speaks, 

In silent evidence,

The truth it seeks.

 

Stare decisis,

Let the decision stand, 

Precedents guide the learned hand. 

Yet, Fiat justitia ruat caelum,

Let justice be done, 

Though the heavens fall,

We fear none.

 

In these maxims,

Old and wise, 

The law in its essence lies. 

In every court,

In every plea, 

They guide us towards equity.

Where?

Where are you, my love, where are you?  

In the warm embrace of your memory,  

I've waited endlessly—where are you?

When I open my eyes, it's your face I seek,  

In every breeze that whispers by my window,  

Your presence lingered like the scent of jasmine in the night.  

But now, without your gaze to meet mine,  

Days stretch on, shadows deepen,  

Have you slipped away, leaving my heart to wither?  

Where did you go—where?

My heart beats only to echo your name,  

I carry you in every breath I take,  

Thoughts of you bloom like wildflowers in my mind,  

I nurture them, hoping they'll guide you back to me.  

But still, the distance you've carved—where is it?

I wandered like a hunter in a forest of dreams,  

Each step heavy with the hope you'd call out,  

Believing every path, every turn, would lead to you,  

But somewhere along the way, you vanished—where?

You've stolen not just my soul,  

But the very essence of my being,  

Now this world, once vibrant with your presence,  

Feels hollow, like a song without a melody.  

Just like your love,  

It overwhelms me,  

Have you hidden yourself away, taking the light with you—where?

Oh, love that once filled my every thought,  

Now a void, echoing with your absence,  

Where are you, my love, where have you gone?  

In every corner of my mind, in every beat of my heart,  

You dwell, but your form eludes me.  

I search the skies, the stars, the winds,  

Yet you remain a shadow, a whisper on the breeze,  

Where are you, my love, where are you?

In the silence of the night, I call out to you,  

Hoping my voice might reach wherever you are,  

But all I hear is the echo of my longing,  

Reverberating through the empty spaces you've left behind.  

Where have you hidden, my love, where?  

Come back to me, fill the void,  

Let your love once again be the light in my darkness,  

For without you, I am lost,  

Forever searching, forever asking—where are you?

The Walk

 TW (2015), directed by Robert Zemeckis, is a visually stunning and emotionally resonant film that tells the true story of Philippe Petit, the French high-wire artist who famously walked between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in 1974. Based on Petit's memoir To Reach the Clouds, the movie stars Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the charismatic and determined Petit.

Zemeckis' direction and the film's visual effects are nothing short of spectacular. The 3D technology is used to full effect, especially during the high-wire scenes, which are breathtaking and vertigo-inducing. The cinematography captures the grandeur and peril of Petit's walk, making the audience feel as if they are right there on the wire with him. The attention to detail in recreating 1970s New York and the Twin Towers is remarkable, providing an authentic backdrop to Petit's daring feat.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt delivers a captivating performance as Philippe Petit. His portrayal is infused with the right mix of charm, passion, and audacity. Gordon-Levitt's commitment to the role, including learning to walk on a wire and speaking French, adds depth and authenticity to his character. Ben Kingsley, as Petit's mentor Papa Rudy, offers a strong supporting performance, bringing wisdom and gravitas to the story.

The narrative structure of The Walk is both a strength and a weakness. The first half of the film, which focuses on Petit's preparation and recruitment of his accomplices, is engaging but occasionally drags. However, the film truly soars in its second half, culminating in the exhilarating high-wire walk. Zemeckis builds tension masterfully, and the payoff is an edge-of-your-seat experience that highlights the sheer audacity and beauty of Petit's achievement.

TW is not just a film about a high-wire stunt; it is a tribute to the human spirit and the pursuit of dreams. Petit's story is a testament to ambition, creativity, and the willingness to take risks to achieve the seemingly impossible. The film also carries an emotional weight, especially in its depiction of the Twin Towers. For many, the film serves as a poignant reminder of the building's significance and the loss felt after 9/11.

Overall, TW is an inspiring and visually captivating film celebrating human determination and artistry. While the pacing may falter in the first half, the film's climax is an unforgettable cinematic experience. Joseph Gordon-Levitt's performance, Robert Zemeckis' direction and the film's stunning visual effects, make TW a must-see for those who appreciate true stories of extraordinary human endeavors.

Monsoon Magic

Father arrives with cod, a fisherman’s pride, 

From his shop, where ocean secrets hide, 

Mother’s kitchen smells of black coffee, rich and bold, 

Warms the soul as stories unfold.

 

The warmth of home, with love so profound, 

Having parents around, safe and sound, 

In every moment, a memory’s blend, 

In monsoon’s embrace, joy has no end.

 

Vaduthala’s soul, so deeply tied, 

To monsoon’s heart, its rhythmic stride, 

In every drop, a tale unfolds, 

Of beauty, wonder, life retold.

 

The heavens darken, clouds amass, 

A symphony of nature begins at last, 

Kerala wakes to monsoon’s call, 

As raindrops dance, and rivers swell tall.

 

The coconut palms sway to the tune, 

Of the wind’s whisper, a monsoon croon, 

Backwaters gleam with a silver light, 

Reflecting skies in day and night.

 

Pitter-patter on the tiled roofs, 

A lullaby with gentle proof, 

Of life reborn in every shower, 

In every leaf,

In every flower.

 

Green carpets spread across the land, 

Emerald hills, where tea leaves stand, 

Rice fields drink the sweet rain’s gift, 

In this wet embrace, spirits lift.

 

Children splash in puddles wide, 

Frogs and crickets sing with pride, 

A rhythm ancient, yet so new, 

In monsoon’s kiss, the world renews.

 

Spices scent the rain-kissed air, 

Cardamom, pepper, aromas rare, 

Market stalls with vibrant hues, 

Colors deepened by the dew.

 

Boats glide on rain-fed streams, 

Through landscapes lush, like vivid dreams, 

Fishermen cast their nets with hope, 

In waters where the fishes lope.

 

Temples cloaked in misty shroud, 

Offer prayers with heads bowed, 

Seeking blessings from the skies, 

Under monsoon's watchful eyes.

 

The fragrance of sardines, fresh and fried, 

Fills the home as the raindrops slide, 

Sizzling in the pan, a savory delight, 

Monsoon evenings with flavors so bright.

  

Tribute to my friend Shyam Parakkat on Friendship Day

I came to office on Saturday. When I got the shock of my life…Ignoring the bulk of forwards, which my friends had sent to me on Friendship Day….My sight fell on the word condolence. The mail was from the librarian at MASCOM, where I had done my post-graduate diploma in journalism.
Curiously, I opened the mail and what I read failed to register. Still, the news is unbelievable. For the first time, I wished so desperately that the news is false but coming from the librarian, I knew it had to be true. And since it was sent to all, I knew that the chances of it being a sad joke were remote.
Hoping against hope, I wish the news of my friend and brother Shyam Parakkat drowning in Marina Beach in Chennai was untrue. As journalism students, we were both the fiercest of the competitors. Both of us loved reporting and the professional rivalry always prompted us to give our best shot. We both were always pitted against each other. Though we had difference of opinion, we respected each others space and never crossed our boundaries.

He was passionate about literature and said, "I am in love instantly with someone who comes across me and starts Keats and says ‘Thou un-ravished bride of quietness’." He was a well-read journalist. He admired Arun Shourie for unraveling Bofors scandal and for writing eye-opening books on Islam and Christianity.
Shyam Cheta had great political contacts. I owe my meeting with the chief minister to him. Though I was politically naïve, I still remember how we both were the first student journalist to arrive and meet the then Kerala Chief Minister Oommen Chandy.
It was a Herculean task to maneuver through the human barricade of political followers, and relatives who were present at his home. I was squeezed and surrounded by men who were double my size. I still remember, one look by Shyam Cheta was all it needed to set those miscreants right. I felt so protected.

Cheta had a great sense of humour and was all the time playing pranks with other women journalist. Luckily, I was in his good books. He always had a soft corner for me and I was saved from his sarcastic witty remarks, which most of my friends were victim of.
He never had a smooth-sailing in his profession. He started his career with Indian Express at Chennai and was a great sports writer. His articles were full of adjectives and the language was flowery. May be that was what was expected of a sports or a political writer. Then he joined The Telegraph in Calcutta and later went to Gulf. I was in touch with him through chat. He came back to Kerala and joined The Pioneer. Again, because of his outspoken nature, he lost his job.

A few days back when I was chatting with him, he was upset about not having a job. I wanted to tell him to come to Mangalore and apply for PA. But before, I could convey that he suddenly went offline. And I never expected that it would be the last time I was interacting with him.
Death is the most unpredictable thing. Pray that God gives his mother and sisters the strength and courage to face this ordeal. If God had not cut his journey short, I was certain that he would have brought home lot of accolades for journalism. Personally, I lost one of my greatest friends, well-wisher and a unique person. It is so ironical that I lost him a few days before Friendship Day. You have given us so much. Love and miss you always. Your loss cannot be described in words.

Dance of Democracy

 In the heart of India's sacred land, 

Where ancient rivers kiss the sand, 

Democracy thrives, a vibrant dance, 

Of cultures, voices, circumstance.

From Kashmir's peaks to Kerala's shores, 

In bustling cities, rural doors, 

A billion dreams in unity, 

Embrace the hope of liberty.

The ballot box, a sacred rite, 

In every hand, a guiding light, 

In temples, mosques, and humble homes, 

The power of the people roams.

In every vote, a story told, 

Of pasts remembered, futures bold, 

From farmers' fields to tech's bright gleam, 

A nation's pulse, a shared dream.

Debates in halls, in streets, in minds, 

A kaleidoscope of humankind, 

From many, one, yet still unique, 

A tapestry of tongues that speak.

Through challenges, through storm and strife, 

Democracy's the breath of life, 

It bends but never breaks apart, 

The soul of India's beating heart.

For in this land, both vast and wide, 

Where history and future collide, 

The spirit of democracy, 

Is woven in our destiny.

From every corner of the land, 

Together, united, we stand, 

In India's democratic embrace, 

We find our strength, our pride, our grace.

Oh Women! My Women

 

In a world where shadows speak of strife,

Where echoes of pain cut through the night,

Women whisper tales of quiet fights,

Their strength concealed in silent might.

A history etched in wounds and scars,

Their voices hushed beneath the stars,

Yet still they rise, with hearts aflame,

In every language, every name.

To demasculinize, to break the chains,

Means hearing cries in heavy rains,

Listening close to whispered pleas,

The broken dreams and shattered seas.

From fields to homes, from streets to halls,

Their labor builds, their spirit calls,

For recognition long denied,

For justice, peace, their endless guide.

The tragedy of abuse laid bare,

A global wound we all must share,

To heal, to mend, to bring the light,

To honor women’s endless fight.

So open eyes, let blinders fall,

Acknowledge voices, hear them all,

Appreciate their boundless worth,

The hands that shape and tend the earth.

In every heart, in every hand,

In every corner of the land,

Women’s courage, strength, and grace,

Deserve our reverence, our embrace.

For only then can we unite,

And banish darkness with the light,

To build a world where all can thrive,

Where love and justice both survive.

Black Rose

In the garden of life, where blossoms awake,  

A black rose was born, in beauty's own sake.  

Her petals were velvet, her stem, pure grace,  

In the morning light, she found her place.

As seasons danced on, the sun kissed her face,  

She stood tall and proud, in that sacred space.  

But life is a whisper, a fragile refrain,  

And beauty, it seems, is married to pain.

Her petals turned dark, from crimson to night,  

As years spun their tale, in shadow and light.  

Health's fickle hand, in cruel jest,  

Chose the black rose to put to the test.

With each passing moment, the battles were fought,  

In the still of the night, in the thoughts she wrought.  

Yet, through every thorn, and every deep sigh,  

Her spirit remained, refusing to die.

For beauty, true beauty, is more than the bloom,  

It's found in the heart, in light through the gloom.  

The black rose endures, in strength and in grace,  

A testament to the trials we all must face.

Though petals may fall, and colors may fade,  

The black rose stands firm, unafraid.  

In the garden of life, where shadows repose,  

Lives the enduring tale of the black rose.