The Hero

A poem I wrote while sitting in the bus in a snow-storm in New York City.

The Hero

One may reckon and let it go
What mettle and spirit makes a hero.
One may dream and even fly high
Thinking he can be someone, capture a sigh.

A thought like so hit me of late--
I happened to be passing near an iron gate
And then, as if it was a dream
I heard behind me a frightful scream.

The scene was typical and the setting right.
"Help!" shrieked the maiden, her eyes shut tight.
Notorious seemed the thugs who made her cower
But the spirit in me did not go lower.

With a fiery battle cry and ominous words
I leaped forward: "Leave her alone, you turds!"
The maiden smiled as I swung at one
My macho heroics made the villains shun.

My coat was tattered, torn and misfit
As I staggered to her, fire in my heart lit.
Her eyes were closed and lo! they bloomed
Alas! She was the village witch--I was doomed.

I glanced at the sheriffs I had killed
And then at the witch, her teeth all frilled.
She bared her claws and lunged at me
All at once I could not see.

No words of thanks, no compassionate hug
The hero lay paralyzed like on some kind of drug.
The hideous witch beat him with all her might.
"Help!" shrieked the hero, his eyes shut tight.

Where are the leaders?

Mayank Maheshwari looks at and laments the lack of leaders in India's burgeoning education sector. Article link