An odyssey for the generation awaiting.....

A Generation Waiting

In lanes where broken classrooms stand,
With dust instead of dreams in hand,
The children walk through crowded streets,
Where hunger and ambition meet.
A notebook torn, a faded pen,
A future paused again, again.
The school bell rings, but what is taught?
A race for marks, not how to thought.

The youth of India rise each dawn,
With hope that somehow lingers on,
Yet every exam, each endless test,
Feels less like growth, more like a jest.
Degrees pile high like paper towers,
But jobs dissolve like monsoon showers.
A million hands are raised each day,
But work and dignity drift away.

The farmer’s son in silence waits,
Outside the city’s rusted gates.
The engineer drives cabs at night,
The scholar sells her dreams outright.
Applications flood the land,
Rejected by an unseen hand.
“How much experience?” they demand,
From children barely taught to stand.

And in the hospitals dim and cold,
Stories break before they’re told.
A mother counts her final notes,
To buy the air her child now owes.
The poor man dies outside the ward,
Because survival costs too hard.
Machines may shine, the buildings grow,
But mercy struggles far below.

The leaders speak on glowing screens,
Of progress, pride, and grander schemes.
They build tall statues, roads, and claims,
While youth are lost in borrowed names.
Each speech arrives with thunder loud,
Yet silence grips the waiting crowd.
For promises are cheap to make,
When others bear the weight they break.

In villages with failing light,
The children still attempt to fight.
One studies under lantern flame,
Still hoping life may someday change.
Another leaves his books behind,
To feed the mouths of those confined.
The girl once dreaming to become
A doctor now must stay at home.

And somewhere in a crowded train,
A tired graduate hides his pain.
He folds his résumé once more,
Like thousands folded it before.
He tells his parents, “I am fine,”
Then stares in silence through the night.
Because the burden of despair
Is heavier when none can care.

Yet even now, beneath the scars,
This generation carries stars.
Not weak, not lazy, not undone,
But wounded by what they’ve become.
A nation rich in youthful fire,
Still fails to lift its own entire.
For talent blooms in every street,
But systems crush it at their feet.

Still voices rise from dust and strain,
Refusing chains, refusing shame.
The youth still write, still speak, still try,
Still dare to question reason why.
And maybe one day truth will stand,
Not bought by power, fear, or brand.
When schools will teach and healers heal,
And jobs reward the honest skill.

Till then the youth walk restless roads,
Carrying unfinished loads.
Not asking wealth, nor throne, nor fame,
Just equal chance, just rightful claim.
A country cannot truly grow,
While half its dreams are buried low.
And history will one day ask:
Why did the young inherit ash?