“What does independence mean, papa”, the ten-year-old asked his father.
“It means having freedom, of the individual and of the country.”
After thinking over the response for a while, the child replied dubiously, “We’ve all got it wrong then. Because we’re celebrating Independence Day, but I still don’t have the freedom to have ice cream or chocolates whenever I want to!”
A typewriter lay in the corner,Reminding of old thoughts and yonder,It had memories,Of old or golden stories.I knew my dad used those,To type letters or prose,He wrote love letters to my mother,And stories to reporters.It lay in the dustAnd had got rust.After my dad’s death,His