One fine morning, on my way to work, saw a school bus with the sign "Silicon Valley School"...
Silicon Valley, some remote place in the US of A, being eponymic of a school in another corner of the globe.. This led to the following train of thought which I attempted to record in Rhyme.

 Dare I Dream....

Generally insomniac at half past eight,

My blurred focus took this bait.

Something bright and yellow,

With words difficult to swallow.

 

Carrying scholars and toddlers

As well as charming cradlers

Was this bus riding away to glory

To a school by the name of Silicon Valley

 

A smirk crossed my face

Breaking the early morning daze

Bangalore they say probably

Is India’s Silicon Valley

 

So goes the Metaphor

Without much of vigor

And Coimbatore lackluster

India’s own Manchester

 

Why not  USA's Bombay

A place, par remarkable, to say

A Calcutta of Germany,

Residence of wonders so many.

 

When will the day come?

Pioneers will call India their home.

Searching hither thither for the answer

I concluded on this bouncer.

 

Grappling with new found liberty,

Anxiously asking alms of Almighty

Our fledgling democracy,

Had an education system that was hazy

 

Second hand technology

Handed down after a lengthy eulogy

To the wealthy, powerful nations

While we were groping for rations.

 

Little did our young minds mind

Devouring all that they could find

Dutifully mugging and memorizing

Getting scores that were mesmerizing.

 

In came the Information Highway

Creating magic in its sway

Throwing open doors

Enlightening the crores.

 

Every Tom , Dick and Harry

Had a degree to carry

But there remained an aspect to be sorry

Yet no one bothered to worry

 

Years of submission to the Whites

Had left even in the brightest of brights

A sense of servitude

That was inherited in their attitude.

 

The guts to stay afloat

Sunk by the habit of the rote

The ability to think

Nullified by the coin’s clink

 

Innovation committing suicide,

Strength visible only in genocide

Sadly, towards doom

We head, shrouded by gloom.

 

When will we awake?

Giving our creativity a shake

Great things for us to make

Conventions that we must break.

 

Anguished and Cynical,

I looked up the bus at the spherical

Young faces , chattering,

Oblivious of things that need mattering

 

Talking the language of the American Soaps,

Scaling the skies with high hopes,

They still haven’t broken the thread

Extolling the ersatz that I dread.

 

 

 

                                                  Sukanya- the Lunatic Bard.