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A Poetic Fragment
Who says our Mother is a beggar-woman, the whole universe is her foothold, Her sons are the armies of Sikhs, Jats and Rajputs. The song of Vande Mataram infuses strength into Bengal. Even till today the glory of Shivaji is awake in Maharashtra. Each mountain-rib of hers embodies millions of her invincible sons, The band of the Bhils, Gonds and Kharwar and free Nepal, Malias and Khesias and Garos—how to enumerate all— The Mughals, Pathans and Nagas—the sands of the beach. There is no end to the treasure that is Mother’s children, Sindhu and Ganges and their sisters—the Mother clad in paddy green. Even today Riks and Samas resound in the Vindhyas and Himalayas, Till this day our Mother remains unreachable to us in the , high hills and spring-heads.
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