Siddhartha was born in the month of monsoon, in a small sleepy hamlet called Thione. He was a cute and a healthy boy born to a decent couple. The father was a craftsman and mother was teacher in the town school. They lived in their cottage by the green mountains of Thione. There universe was always peaceful and happy. Siddhartha grew up in an environment that was filled with love and care. He was an efficient learner and was quickly taking his baby steps. The first word he uttered was “Maa..” that left tears of lasting joy in his mother’s eyes. He would play for hours with his toys and would then have his lunch made by his mother. The courtyard in the house had a swing. A baby Siddhartha would swing like a pendulum sitting over it. One day his gaze fell on the green mountains behind their cottage. “Maa, what’s there in the green mountains? For how long they have been sitting there still?” He asked with an unmatched curiosity. “They have been there since a very long, long
As I sit beside the balcony, I see two earthen pots one besides the other, light brown, freckled and same, but still there lies a difference none the less. There was a blossoming flower once, with its ripening petals of red, being watered daily it grew slowly, maturing into a mesmerising rose. But now in the earthen pot lies dried leaves, shrive l led petals, and lifeless roots, all turned into the dust, with one cruel swipe of death. Dancing to the tunes of wind, a sapling grows in the other earthen pot, watered with care and love, life finds its way out through the mud. Life and death is a cycle, one takes place after another, the old becomes one with the sands of time, and the new blossoms with eternity.