'Today 15 August,2025 — I Cry And I Write — Awakening' By Ink Soul Poem by Ink Soul

'Today 15 August,2025 — I cry and I Write — Awakening' by Ink Soul

'Today,15 August 2025 — I weep, feeling the pain of a day long past, yet alive every time I look into your eyes, 'Sir'. I am not afraid — in those eyes, I discover a new path to live, a boundless source of courage and inspiration. From them, I draw the strength that once stirred countless hearts to offer their blood for freedom at your words. I find my own courage there, and I write — 'Awakening'.'

No ink stains the pages of history with our anguish. No parchment holds the weight of our mothers' tears, our fathers' blood, our children's silenced dreams. No chronicle captures the honor we lost, the chains we bore, the hearts we broke. This poem is my trembling offering to Subhas Chandra Bose—Netaji, the fire of our wounded nation. It is not enough. It will never be enough. But it is my voice, cracked and raw, my love, my reverence, my eternal lament for a leader who gave us his soul and asked for ours in return. Through these words, I kneel before his sacrifice, my tears mingling with the soil he fought for.

I weep—
O, see my hands, beloved, scarred by chains,
Wrists bleeding rivers that whisper of betrayal.
My tears are not mere water—they are the ache
Of a nation's soul, torn open, left to bleed.
Believe me, I weep, my heart a shattered shrine.
All night, beneath a flagless sky,
I weep, my sobs a hymn to a stolen dawn.
I think too much—
Where is our land? Our soil? Our right?
The answers are ghosts, slipping through my fingers like sand.
I failed my people—O, how I failed.
As a child of this ancient, grieving earth,
I am dust, I am ash, I am nothing.
I weep, I weep, I weep—
My tears are the blood of the forgotten,
Etched in the marrow of this sacred land.
Feel my chest—
Where the bullet of silence pierced,
Where hope choked on the smoke of tyranny.
I failed, and they failed too—
My brothers, my sisters, my comrades in chains.
No solution, no freedom, no justice, no homeland.
I weep.

The rulers mocked, their voices cold as iron:
"Wait, the time is not yours."
They boasted, "The sun never sets in English or British Empire."
Subhash Chandra Bose taught them such a lesson
That their sun set forever.
Yet still, I weep—
For the flag they tore,
For the heart they broke,
For the soil that drank our pain.
Where is our leader?
He came once, a storm in 1943,
His voice a blade, his eyes a burning vow:
"Give me your blood, I will give you freedom."
And we gave—O, how we gave!
From Jallianwala's blood-soaked earth,
From Chittagong's fearless streets,
From the gallows where Khudiram smiled,
From the unmarked graves of the nameless.
We gave in the hunger of our mothers' wombs,
In the silence of our fathers' clenched fists,
In the tiny hands of children
Who learned chains before they learned hope.
Yet I weep—
For the chains may have rusted,
But the scars still scream.
In my veins runs a longing,
A hunger for a freedom
That belongs to every shattered heart.
I weep, not only for the past,
But for the promise that haunts us still—
From every field, every river, every broken road,
Crying:
"Do not forget us.
Do not let our blood dry to dust.
Live the freedom we died for."

I weep—
A cry that splits the earth,
A wail that drowns the stars.
My tears are a river,
Carrying the weight of a nation's grief,
A faceless, voiceless, nameless agony.
I weep a revolutionary cry,
Born of hunger, exile, and dreams
That crumbled like ash in my hands.
I reach for freedom,
But it slips like sand through my chained fingers.
I yearn, I ache, I find nothing.
I weep, I weep, I weep—
Until the world, deaf to our slavery,
Hears the shattering of our souls.
A cry not of sound,
But of a nation's heart torn open,
Its blood seeping into the earth.
A voiceless wound,
Cradled in the bosom of my homeland.
A faceless sorrow,
Unseen, unnamed, yet eternal.
I weep a revolutionary cry,
Not only of rage but of longing—
For a dawn that kisses our wounds,
For a flag that shelters our dreams,
For a home that holds us close.
I search for justice, for light, for my soil.
I seek, and I find only shadows.
So I weep.
Yes, I weep.
I weep in defiance—
Until my tears become a manifesto,
A call to awaken, to rise, to shatter the chains.
I weep until my cry becomes a flame,
Freedom's fire, eternal, unyielding.

But hear me—
Tears alone cannot heal a broken land.
They will break you—
Mentally, as your mind drowns in grief,
Physically, as your body bends under chains,
Emotionally, as your heart splinters,
Spiritually, as your soul searches for light,
Psychologically, as hope becomes a wound.
So fight.
Raise your voice until it shakes the heavens.
Fight until the chains crumble to dust,
Until the flag rises, kissed by dawn,
Until freedom is not a dream but a breath.
No solution, no freedom, no justice, no homeland—
I weep.
The rulers sneered, "Wait, the time is not yours."
That day, when the flag was torn,
My heart was torn,
And I weep still.

I remember Jallianwala Bagh—
The earth drank blood like a mother starved,
Children's cries tangled with the screams of bullets.
General Dyer's guns tore through prayers,
Mothers clutching their babies in death's embrace.
The soil holds their blood still,
Red as the day it was spilled.
I weep.
I remember Bhagat Singh's last breath—
His smile a rebellion, brighter than the noose.
The rope was a lover's embrace,
The gallows a stage for his undying fire.
The air froze, holding his courage forever.
I weep.
I remember the INA, Netaji's voice—
"Give me blood, I will give you freedom."
His call was a heartbeat, a nation's pulse.
But the ships never came home,
And Kolkata's sky wept silence, heavy as stone.
I weep.
I remember August 1942, Quit India—
Streets ablaze with courage,
Women beaten, their tricolour stained with blood.
Batons fell on mothers,
Yet they held the flag tighter than their own hearts.
I weep.
I remember the Bengal famine—
Not war, but hunger stole millions.
Grain was stolen, lives were abandoned,
Bodies curled on railway platforms,
Their last breath a whisper of betrayal.
The air reeked of death's cruel perfume.
I weep.

O children of this ancient, weeping earth—
Listen, not with ears, but with the pulse in your veins.
Freedom was not a gift in silver bowls.
It was torn from the veins of our mothers,
Ripped from the bones of our fathers,
Carried through nights so black
That hope itself trembled,
Hiding behind a candle's fragile flame,
Guarded by hands that burned to keep it alive.
It began in 1757, at Plassey—
Bengal's heart sold for a fistful of coins,
The river weeping tears of shame.
It flowed, but it did not roar,
Carrying the weight of a nation betrayed.
In 1857, the silence shattered—
Sepoys rose, farmers screamed,
The earth shook with rebellion's footsteps.
No graves held the fallen;
Their names were stolen by the wind,
Their last breaths whispering,
"We will not kneel…"

1919—Jallianwala, again.
A garden of prayer became a slaughterhouse.
Mothers fell, their children pressed to their breasts,
So tight that death could not tear them apart.
The soil drank their blood,
And it burns red in the earth's memory.
Khudiram Bose, barely eighteen—
He smiled at the gallows,
The noose a tender embrace from the Motherland.
He stepped into death as if into her arms,
His heart full of love, empty of fear.
1943—Netaji thundered,
"Give me blood, and I will give you freedom! "
And we gave—sons, fathers, brothers,
Their blood a river, flowing into the tricolour
That flew over Free India's dream.
They marched, knowing they would not return,
For the Mother's voice was louder than death.

1930—Gandhi walked to Dandi,
Salt in his hand, heavier than empires.
It was the wound of a nation,
Pressed against the heart of tyranny.
"You may chain our bodies,
But not our hunger, not our breath."
In the Andaman's Cellular Jail,
Veer Savarkar whispered to the sea through iron bars.
He could not see the waves,
But he trusted them to carry his hope
To the shores where India wept.
1943—Kolkata's famine.
A city became a graveyard under the sun.
Children's bellies swelled with emptiness,
Their eyes too heavy to close.
They fell, silent as forgotten prayers.
The world looked away.
Then the riots—
Hands that once broke bread together
Clutched knives in the dark.
Temples wept, mosques mourned,
And the gods themselves turned away.

Punjab—Partition.
Trains carried not passengers, but ghosts,
Not songs, but a silence that crushed the soul.
Rivers ran red,
And their waters have never cleared.
Bhagat Singh, Sukhdev, Rajguru—
They kissed the noose like a lover's lips,
Their hands steady, writing letters
To a Mother who could only weep.
Tagore sang a dream:
"Where the mind is without fear…"
That dream lived in farmers' bleeding feet,
In mothers who stood at doorways,
Watching sons vanish into war,
In workers whose sweat wrote freedom's name.

15 August 1947.
The air held its breath.
The stars bent low, as if to touch the earth.
The flag rose, heavy with the sighs of martyrs,
Its threads woven with their last breaths.
In the wind, faces flickered—
Khudiram's fearless smile,
Bhagat Singh's unquenched fire,
Netaji's thunderous defiance,
Gandhi's quiet, stubborn steps,
The farmer who fell nameless,
The mother who waited forever,
The child who died without whispering "freedom."
India awoke—
Not to a gift, but to a vow,
Etched in the blood of millions:
This light will not fade.
Not while one heart beats on this soil.
Not while rivers carry their red.
Not while we dare to call this earth…
Mother.

Feel my chest—
Where the bullet of silence struck,
Where hope bled out,
Where my heart lies broken.
I failed, my comrades failed,
And the weight of that failure
Is heavier than any chain.
I weep.
No solution, no freedom, no justice, no homeland—
I weep.
The rulers sneered,
"Wait, the time is not yours."
They boasted, "The sun never sets in English or British Empire."
Subhash Chandra Bose taught them such a lesson
That their sun set forever.
Where is he now?
He came once, in 1943,
His voice a fire, his heart a storm,
Raising the tricolour on foreign soil,
Proclaiming freedom when the world doubted.
Why not twice? Why not thrice?
He did not return,
And my soul is a wound that will not heal.
I weep.

O children of this bleeding soil,
Listen with the pulse of your heart.
Our freedom was not a gift—
It was carved from the bones of our kin,
Forged in nights so dark
That hope was a trembling child,
Clutching a candle's dying flame.
Netaji's voice still echoes—
"Give me blood, I will give you freedom."
His cry is ours, eternal,
A fire that burns in our veins,
A wound that weeps in our dreams.
I weep for the India that was,
For the India that is,
For the India that could be.
I weep for the mothers who lost their sons,
For the children who lost their laughter,
For the land that lost its breath.
But in my tears, there is healing.
In my sorrow, there is strength.
In my cry, there is a vow—
To live the freedom they died for,
To carry their fire in our hearts,
To hold their dreams in our hands.
So I weep,
And I will weep,
Until my tears become a river
That carries us to the dawn.
Until my cry becomes a song,
And that song becomes freedom.

This is my offering to Subhas Chandra Bose, to the countless who fell, to the Motherland who still weeps. It is not enough. It will never be enough. But it is my heart, my soul, my eternal cry for the India they dreamed of—a land where every heart is free, every wound is healed, every tear is a spark of freedom's fire.

Thank you, Sir Subhas Chandra Bose, for blessing the land of Bengal with your birth. Your presence has not only graced Bengal but has illuminated the hearts of its people and all of India. Your courage, unwavering determination, and selfless love for the nation make you an eternal light in our history. You will live forever in my soul and heart as a great leader whose spirit continues to inspire generations, immortal and ever-revered.