“Life
is like a flower. If we don’t take care of it....
it
can wither and die”.
- Davene Taylor
Time,
it is the only weapon which has been able to defeat the mortal man and his
pride. It is colourful spring that a tiny blossoms into a beautiful flower
spreading sweet fragrance all around. They fragile peacefully by the mossy
stone or under the shadow of the mighty and hasty leaves. These flowers that
spread happiness, brightness and hope into the lives of all, seems wrinkle. The
aroma is drained, the feels and a withered flower awaits to be swept away by a
splash of rain. A life blooms in the spring, lives through the tailing summer
flights back the ruthless autumn, fades in the mourning winter and gets erased
in the torrential monsoon. All these, only to make way to a new beginning.
Life
is not stationary and human relationships upon which we thrives, drives us into
a labyrinth of desires, the need to win every race; to covet and to possess
every laurel. Success many a time makes us an addict. An Addict who breaks all
emotional bonds, kills the soul in him, forgets to love and to be a humane. The
mother who fed us in her womb for nine months soon becomes a burden we wish to
get rid of. Isn’t it strange?
Isn’t
it strange a baby after its birth recognize its mother. It is still strange to
accept the truth that every tiny toddler who took his first footsteps with
wobbly knees in the protections of his parents gets indifferent towards the
dying soul. These hands that rocked our cradle; upon whom we suckled milk, who
spent a numerous sleepless nights just because we sneezed once ,is forgotten by
us. Upon whose back we climbed becomes an annoyance for us. They gave us life,
our identity but all we return back is cold indifference. Our tear drops ached
them the most but we, engrossed to win the trophy of life do not even stretch
out our hands to wipe away the incessant stream of silent tears flowing down
the wrinkled cheeks. All we do is get bitter at them for their slightest
mistakes inheritable to a lot age. How do we forget that they are the same
persons who forgave us for the silliest mistakes we committed. We kill our
conscience; the innocent child in us dies.
About the author: Ms. Rezina Hassen of Tezpur, Assam is a English Teacher
working at Army Public School, Narangi, Guwahati. Her hobbies are reading
fictions, poetry, writing articles, etc...[Read more]
No comments:
Post a Comment