4Linegraphia-en

They call it light— those flashy tickers, spinning headlines, but between the lines, it’s just a crown of lies polished with truth. Microphones in hand, they claim honesty is their only language. Yet, when the mic meets the lips, the truth gets lost in transmission. New lies dressed as breaking news, old tricks replayed as viral drama. We watch not for knowledge, but for a performance a circus with cameras instead of clowns. Weekend specials mimic war stories, but the tears are staged, the rage is scripted, and the anchor's stare is more dramatic than sincere. They don’t break news— they break reality. In the space between “allegedly” and “confirmed,” they dance, feeding us fear, fame, and filtered facts. We’re not asked to understand, just to react— to comment, to share, to obey the algorithm of outrage. Truth doesn’t sell, but believable lies do. Their TRPs climb over corpses of real stories. And we—the audience— we’ve forgotten how to ask: "Is this true?" I...

I saw him first, in shadowed news, a distant threat, a twisted fuse, blown by a truth he thought his own, a seed of chaos, blindly sown. I thought, “He's bound by dark design,” never dreamed that hand was mine. But no. That's me. Each dawn, I rise, ritual in bone and breath, to rooms I never chose, to words I never wrote. They call it purpose— sleek, efficient. But I know better. I call it detonation by routine. A slow explosion, veiled in silence— of time, of truth, of all the sparks I called me. I march the aisles, a trench of glass and screen, with spreadsheets clutched like triggers, smiling through the gleam. While underneath this collar, my soul lays bleeding, a red no one dares to name. I carry burdens not my own, truths outsourced, dreams on loan. Morals fed, unquestioned grace, inherited laws in a sterile place. Decisions made in distant rooms, then wrapped as freedom, hiding dooms. And when I doubt, the world insists: “Don’t think. Obey. Persist.” “Cling t...

She wore perfume like a promise, sweet as sugar, sharp as knives— lips that whispered comfort, but her eyes were counting lives. Her laughter tinkled, cold and clear, each note a calculating chime— a future built on polished chrome, and the tireless grind of time. He came with dreams, not diamonds, heart full, but pockets thin— thinking love could still mean something in a world that priced the skin. His hands were calloused, spirit pure, he offered what he had to give— a quiet strength, a loyal truth, a simple, honest way to live. She smiled like she meant forever, but her love had terms and fees— “Show me effort, show me status, show me homes and SUVs.” Her wish list grew, a hungry beast, demanding more with every dawn— a diamond bracelet, grander trips, till every honest penny’s gone. He tried to buy affection with time, with sweat, with pride— but every gift was just a ledger in the business of her bride. He worked two jobs, then three, he strained, his body aching, spirit worn— a ...

This land, my kin, the very breath I draw, A Kaadan's(chieftain's) heart, bound by ancient law. The old ones spoke, their voices in the breeze, Of roots that hold us, deeper than the trees. My people danced, beneath the sun's warm gaze, The drumbeat echoed through our sacred days. We hunted strong, the river's bounty shared, Each creature honored, each life truly cared. This was our world, a harmony profound, Where spirits lingered, on ancestral ground. Then distant ships, like hungry gulls they came, Bringing a smoke that whispered profit's name. They spoke of 'progress,' a word that chilled the bone, And built their towers, on ground that was our own. The forests fell, a mournful, rending sound, As ancient giants crashed upon the ground. Their iron bite, it tore the Earth's soft skin, And poisoned waters, where life had always been. My heart, it weeps, for rivers turned to dust, For hunting grounds, consumed by rust. The animals flee, their...

    The Resounding Call: Bharath’s Eternal Flame The Flame of Ancients From Bharath’s soil, where sages trod, Where dharma stood, upheld by God, A call resounds through time and strife— Of honor, courage, sacred life. Think of Arjuna, calm and true, On Kurukshetra, saw it through. Against his kin, he took his stand, For duty's call, for Dharma’s land. Raja Dahir of Sind stood tall, Though odds were bleak, he would not fall. And Bappa Rawal’s fearless blade, In Mewar’s hills, a stand he made. Lalitaditya’s northern might, Drove back the dark, brought forth the light. And Prithviraj, with lion’s cry, Fought for his land, prepared to die.  Builders of Empire, Hearts of Flame Rana Kumbha, strong and wise, Raised forts that pierced the desert skies. Krishnadevaraya, southern star, Lit Vijayanagara from afar. Pulakeshin of Chalukya pride, Stemmed northern tides that dared to ride. Raja Raja Chola crossed the seas, His ships commanding ocean’s breeze. R...

  He sits beside the roadside bare, A patch of dust, a breath of air. No studio walls, no softened chair— Just quiet craft and sunlit glare. With calloused hands and eyes grown wise, He watches life in hurried guise. Torn soles, forgotten, broken, bare, He lifts with gentle, patient care. From dawn's first hint till shadows creep, He mends the secrets shoes can keep. A worn-out sandal, broken strap, He coaxes life back to its trap. The hammer's tap, the needle's glide, A rhythm born of quiet pride. His earnings thin, a fleeting stream, A fragile balance, a distant dream. For rice, for rent, for children’s books, He stretches time in hidden nooks. Each stitch he sets, a silent vow, To change their fate, if not just now. He dreams beyond the leather’s dust— A life more fair, a world more just. The sun returns, the city stirs, The cobbler’s world, unchanged, occurs. His work begins where journeys end, A guardian of steps to mend. A craftsman bound...

  They come at dawn with dreams in tow, From distant fields where rivers flow. With arms grown strong from village toil, Now grinding wheels on urban soil. A meager meal, a hurried prayer, Before the sun begins to glare. Each knot of muscle, every bone, A silent promise whispered home. Their hands are cracked, their shirts threadbare, Their feet know roads that do not care. Yet still they ride, through sun and rain, Through aching limbs and silent pain. The blistered heel, the searing ache, A constant battle they must make. Through dust that chokes and fumes that bite, They push their weight with fading light. The city looms with blinding speed, But gives them only what they need: A chance to earn, to push, to strive— Not live with ease, just stay alive. Each rupee earned, a weighty sum, For mouths to feed when day is done. A transient life, from dawn till night, Chasing pennies, with all their might. They sleep in corners made of tin, A world of noise, of dust, of din. Their rest ...