'Refuge For My Soul' Poem by Hindukush Ojha

"Refuge For my soul"
-Hindukush Ojha



There were books that we cherished,
And writers stood tall.
Then, they were so few,
We believed we had read them all,
Or so we thought—
Always hoping to discover something anew,
Hunting in book stalls
For intriguing reads,
For selling them was a noble profession.

A decade or two down the lane,
The first quarter of this century gone,
We have practically stopped reading,
And there are fewer bookshops.
Now, influencers abound, all pseudo,
I wonder if they, deprived of
Hidden crutches, could even walk
Upon social media platforms or TED Talks.

Remember how proud we felt
To follow in the footsteps of a few
Daring great minds
Who, when others crawled, flew,
Bringing humanity to its sublime culmination?
They had original thoughts,
For better or worse, as we knew.
The bookshops are but memories now,
And our minds seem in a mess.
Why so? That's an easy guess!

In these modern times,
Ethics and philosophy,
And rocket science,
Cannot contain
The evil essence of greed.
It's the video cameras, darling,
Watching a bipolar domain
That has empowered the masses
By their numbers and creed.
For hero worship and hatred
Spring forth across the globe,
While politicians pander patriotism,
And godmen offer spiritual dope,
Turning solid logic into mushy gel.

A common mantra for inner peace,
Baldness balms and jingoism sells.
This happened earlier too,
But then it occurred pel mel—
It's far more organized now,
And all one needs is a camera.
Videos are made to circulate,
Echoing trends like a marketplace
For commerce on a global scale,
Promoted ad nauseam with incessant themes
On our screens,
While a dead army of bots leads
The minds of those who do not read.

I, personally, feel nauseous—
Unfit for such modernity.
I too am hooked on watching reels,
And I confessed to friends and family,
Unbeknownst, they share my infirmity.
So how could they wean me out of this?

I thought of working in a new direction.
I must rewrite to relearn
Even the simplest nursery rhymes;
Creating diagrams, drawing charts
Instead of wasting my time
Understanding what seems absorbed
So easily by all others—alas, but me.
The underlying currents of reels
Dictate extraordinarily,
Warping my mind eventually.

There are all sorts of people,
Dogs and cats, even amphibians,
They have not spared little children
In this thumbs-up alliteration of fun.
Yet, so insignificant & obviously forgotten,
At the drop of a hat—
Such incredulity and parochialism
That I have never enjoyed more
Than watching the village truants and simpletons,
Filled with glee
As people chase hens.

If Nobel invented dynamite,
Curies studied radioactivity,
Then the flying attempts
Of Wilbur and Orville
Made Napoleon look puny—
Chasing foes on his white steed,
With imperial guards in hussars' hats,
Bayonets affixed upon muskets.
Don't those battles look familiar,
In the Donbas, along similar lines,
Different from the days of the USSR
In the glorious era of Yuri Gagarin?

Or is it that we modern humans
Have a new bug in our minds,
Having lost our sulci and gyri—
Essential for an intellect refined,
To discern what is fit for reverence:
Humanities, Math, or Science?
Now, these subjects take a back seat,
Replaced by chatter and silky sheens
Of some voluptuous figure on our screen,
Some sexy talking mannequin.

Are we scavengers,
Or just a bit better,
Like a horde of honey collectors
Digging for treasure in a beehive,
Or billionaires and fortune seekers
Out for fleeting pleasure and pain,
Sought from the spoils of war,
Ready for some long-term gains?

I feel unfit, really, now to tow any line,
Unless it brings credibility in its echo.
I know for sure it will harm my mind—
The content on social media
Leaves me disgusted,
Overwhelmed by words of maniacs,
Brazen even in this age of rocket flights.

The precise, challenging principles forged
By those who labored to shape our world
Are simply ignored by garrulous throngs,
Unkind to our humanity, striving to remain divine.

That is why I prefer to write, draw, and paint—
Creating a refuge for my soul,
Untouched by boasts and braggarts,
Ignoring the fervor of politicians and hustlers,
Without whom it is projected as if
The modern world cannot run.

I feel honored to be thus,
Have not missed my bus
For any reason at all.
I seek not unknown spaces,
Content to be
With pen, paper, and words
That I can cherish,
Easier to comprehend
Than the fleeting chaos
Of the world outside.