Respect

He was critical, lying on the bed, passive and weak,

The glucose, feeding him bottle by bottle.

But his pen did not give up,

It was slow and it scribbled

but it scrawled words on paper just like a gas fills a jar.

He was a writer and I had immense respect for him copy for everyone.

We aroused hitches out of frivolous issues

he and his pen, metaphor to a knight and his sword

strived to square the macro complications of developing india

we kept trying to convince people and he, he influenced them.

His novels enthralled us, engrossed us like a magnet does to iron,

 they were like accolades for an avid reader .

His articles, columns prevailed over us

his poetries captivated us just like a person

not willing to desert a terrace on a cool breeze night.

We kept trying to change the present, he harmonized it.

he might be lifeless but his work will clinch its readers forever,

his work, which personifies the generations that he will be lived by.