Goat Story

One day, an old and worn-out goat was quietly crossing over a bridge under which a river was flowing. Coming in the opposite direction gallantly, was a sturdy young goat. When they reached the middle of the bridge, they realized there was not enough room for two goats to pass. They halted. The young goat said in a threatening voice, ready to come to thorns-
‘Out of the way you so and so! I am in a hurry!’
The old goat felt the looming sparks of hostility in the air. He had fought several fights in his life and this young goat, he thought, would be K.O in the first round! But wisdom dawned upon him.
‘The bridge is made of bamboo and is not solid. What if it collapses during the struggle? We will both fall into the river with dire consequences!’ He reflected.
‘Look here, young chap!’ He addressed his opponent with diplomacy. ’There is no point in fighting! I will lie down on my tummy and you can walk across on my back!’
No sooner said than done, each goat went off on his way happily!
-Anita Bacha-

The Butterfly 🦋

THE BUTTERFLY
I sit by my window,
I behold a magic butterfly!
A rainbow butterfly!
Gorgeous hues of red, blue, indigo,
Orange, green, heavenly mauve,
Immaculate yellow,
Fluttering loftily,
Flying stealthily,
Flirting with sweet flowers so lovely!
A discreet kiss on the lips of the white pansy,
A soft caress on the dahlia’s cheek,
A gentle stroke on the red nose of the poppy!
Hibiscus, violets,
Budding marigolds,
Chuckle and open their folds,
Engrossed by the magic butterfly!
A fragrant red rose,
Spreads her velvety petals,
Lingers and whimpers!
In the wilderness, disappears the magic butterfly!

Anita Bacha

RESTONS À LA MAISON 🏡

Soudainement, sans avertissement,

Notre beau pays, Ile Maurice, est pris d’assaut,

Un ennemi mortel paraît, on n’est sait d’où,

Il s’attaque à nous,

Il est minuscule mais malin,

Il s’appelle Corona, il est là,

Invisible mais invincible,

Il ne choisit pas, voyons,

Noir, blanc, jaune, marron,

Homme, femme, jeune ou vieux,

Riche, pauvre, vaillant, peureux,

Il s’attaque à tous,

Confinement solitaire,

Couvre-feu sanitaire,

À la maison, pour se taire,

Un peuple uni sortira vainqueur.

Anita Bacha

The Expired Thongs


I embarked on a spiritual journey last spring and headed towards an ashram in search of self enquiry. My destination was India, a country known for its vast spiritual heritage. I carried in my luggage the minimal personal effects including a pair of old thongs. This search for the Truth of Oneself will, in my mind, be restrictive on personal wants and needs.


Two days after I had rambled around in my old thongs, I noticed that part of the right sole was coming off; I brought it closer to my eyes to have a microscopic view of the damage; I then perceived that there was another problem; the strap which run from between the big toe and the second toe to the right side of the sandal was threading off and thinning. I sadly told myself that the thongs had expired due to old age, wear and tear. It was essential for me to look for new thongs before the expired ones left me half-way. Opportunity knocked when the next morning I walked into a store to buy fruit juice. An array of attractive and colorful thongs was displayed on a self. I tried a few pairs until I fell on one which fitted perfectly.


I settled my bill, removed the new thongs from the box, glided my feet into them and placed the expired ones into the carton to throw away. Strangely, I could not find a dustbin and the expired thongs slept in the box under my bed almost forgotten.
Time passed by. For the festival of Mahashivratri, innumerable pilgrims arrived in the ashram from all over the world. One night, I misplaced my new thongs. I immediately run for the rescue of the expired ones. I had been advised by a physician to walk barefoot which was supposedly a good exercise for different types of inflammation and beneficial for my sore knees, but accustomed to the western way of life, I found it hard to hop around like a grasshopper without footwear.


Eventually, the expired thongs silently resumed their job of transporting me. Every time I came out of a hall or canteen where footwear was not allowed, my eyes fell on them waiting for me, tattered yet so warm. They were serving submissively and devotedly like old wives. I left them here and there, under the nose of everyone but nobody touched them. They were too old to draw attention or to be stolen. Expired they were, in the eyes of all except in mine. What a startling spiritual lesson to learn! Respect and hold on to the old; in times of need, they are the most helpful.


Further, nothing ever happens accidently or mysteriously, spiritual life shows us. For every happening, there is a proper reason. Moreover we are taught that inanimate objects too have feelings and emotions. For instance, it is told in the sacred Hindu book ‘The Ramayana’ that when Lord Rama went to rescue his wife Sita from the demon King Ravana, an army of monkeys came to his help. They built a bridge by plucking mountains from the Himalayas and throwing them into the seas to allow Rama to walk from his land to the realm of Ravana. When the bridge was done, one mountain cried because it was plucked from its original place but not used. Lord Rama then promised the mountain that in his next Avatara, it will receive his blessings.

This very mountain was the Govardhana Peak which Rama as the Avatar Krishna lifted on his finger and held aloft for seven days in order to save the inhabitants of Gokul from the devastation of torrential rain.
To cut a long story short, I returned home with the expired thongs, having learnt that self enquiry leads one to detach from people, mundane life and affairs by opening one’s eyes to the deficiencies in them.

Anita Bacha

Photo credit: Anita Bacha

A SAPLING

In her garden
Grandma planted a seed
She fenced around the earth
Water it before the sun is high

In her garden,

Grandma planted a seed,

She fenced around the earth,

Water it before the sun is high;

With her tender keep,

The seed grew into a sapling;

In the middle of the field,

Mom moved the sapling,

Fenced around the earth,

Water it before the sun is high;

With her tender keep,

The sapling grew into a tree;

In our field, there is a tree,

Giving us shade when the sun is high,

And, a thirst-quenching fruit with a seed,

That will grow into a sapling,

If like grandma and mom, we heed.

 Anita Bacha

Photo credit : Anita Bacha

How to tell you (3)


How to tell you,
What is softer than the skin of a baby,
Softer than the feel of snow,
Softer than the petals of a rose,
How to tell you,
Nothing is softer than your hand,
Lying under my cheek,
When I sleep;
How to tell you,
What is a hand without warmth,
Or warmth without a hand,
Or a 🌹without petals,
Or petals without a 🌹,
Or me without you,or you without me.

Anita Bacha

Photo credit: Anita Bacha.

This is the third poem entitled ‘How to tell you’ that I have penned down. I thought my readers would be confused to read (3) in the title. Enjoy! The picture was shot by me at the wedding of my friend, the groom,in Rajasthan. His hand decorated with henna in the picture. I am using the picture to illustrate my poem. There is no connection between the poem and the picture.

Onset of Spring

Sunday lunch in a friendly bistro,
On the outskirts of Brussels;
A hanging smell of blubber,
Roast, mash and stew,
A man in an old over-coat,
Others in woollies and stoles,
Silently bent on their plates,
In their eyes, hope twinkles and smiles,
Shafts of sunlight
Break through closed windows,
Heralds the onset of spring;
Like man,
Nature too is keen on change.
A new coat, cheerful and light,
A scarf painted with colors, beautiful and bright.

Anita Bacha

Photo Credit: Anita Bacha.

I lived in Belgium for some time, more particularly,in Brussels for work and in Linkebeek with family and friends. I love the Belgian people both the French and the Flemish. I adore the food. I have left a piece of my heart in Belgium and I entertain the sincere wish of going back one day when the Spring breaks through.

  • Anita Bacha-