A beautiful day after a sunny morning. Again I woke up to the horns of passing buses, which are like life-line to the commuters, who begin their day much earlier than me. May be I am the most relaxed guy, most fortunate in the city, who is still not bound by time, distance and money. As a beautiful week passed, I had time to reflect on many things including the way I feel right now. I wrote a poem, which brought some delight to me. I also thought about this beautiful country, which I am blessed with. I don't know why it always keeps growing on me. The other day somebody told me, people will come to know it, will get lost in it and will still never be a part of except a few like Mother Teressa. Because India only reveals to those, who have ability to stand by its wounds, who have that depth in their hearts to stand by truth and surely if its your destiny. As I will be traveling lots of it in coming months, I am pretty sure she will keep making me feel blessed. The other day again some Muslim terrorists attacked its soul, and some lives were lost. What did they get besides a few lives? They can never kill its soul, no matter how brutal they are. It moves on with the same vitality, with same energy, with same happiness. May be I have already learned something from it. It will still remain the beautiful country, where I will take birth again and again. An Australian poet wrote a few lines which touched my heart and I will share it with you.

In a dream
I flew across the blue ink heavens,
Through the air
Passing Broome red underneath as
Garuda crossing the Indian Ocean
To India.

As the sun rose
And unsettled the grey mist on the Ganges
I sat in a boat
With rhythmic creaking oars
To the slap thud of washing clothes
On stony steps,
To the ringing bell of funeral pyres
Vultures flapping, rose petals following
In the wake of burning dead

And on into the fumed traffic
Crimson-saried women flying in the air
Scooter taxis with alto horns
Rushing through crowds and sacred cows.
Computers flashing
In canyons of glass and stone
White smoke curling, incense
Floating like the women bathing,
Combing jet black hair
While the Ganges ran down their shoulders

And in the dark of the fiery furnace
Men and women slept where they worked
Making black iron for bread.
Sweet smells of Madras
The rushing Calcutta streets
Moon shadows on flute tunes
In the temple
The four-clap beat and the hum of the drum
Dusty men sleeping on stone
And balancing women with baskets of rubble.

Rolling camels in Rajasthan
Two-humped shadows in the slipping sand
A thousand mirrored fragments
Held in the palm of my hand,
Like infinity
`And eternity in an hour'