Sheel Param Bhushanam – Not for Ornament, But for Purpose

By Ananya Misra

My dream

is not a flowery ornament

to hang in halls of reputation,

not a trophy for dinner tables,

nor a line on paper

in a race running nowhere.

It is a pulse.

It is purpose.

It is quiet resistance —

softly burning.

Jobs —

we call them success,

but aren’t they only vehicles?

The destination?

Stillness.

Service.

Change.

Yet I wonder

What are we chasing?

And what are we missing?

With every headline, my heart breaks

“IAS officer caught rigging files…”

“MLA found in fraudulent trials…”

“The girl who topped — now sells bread…”

“A child of ten in a factory shed…”

And I…

I grow afraid.

Afraid of stepping

from the world of crayons

into the world of careers —

from painted clouds

to paper walls,

from open skies

to cubicles and corridors

lined with compromises.

Still I ask, in midnight’s hush 

Will I be cattle, led to crush?

But then —

my ambivalence spoke.

A whisper:

I am  privileged.

I am loved.

I am fed.

So i don’t just thank God —

but live that gratitude.

Live it

by serving those

who had no breakfast,

no father’s hand,

no desk to sit at,

no roof to dream beneath —

no fair choice

to begin with.

What I become —

that doesn't matter.

Which chair I sit on —

doesn’t matter.

What the world calls it —

that, too,

doesn’t matter.

What matters

is whether I serve the ones

whose voices never reached a mic,

whose grief never made the news.

I’ve read

of soft powers,

diplomatic ideals,

the sermons of books —

they gleamed in theory.

But then I stepped outside

and saw truth

grow like weeds

in the fields where dreams

once bloomed.

And I…

was angry.

Not at the world —

but at myself,

for living in the candy-shell of illusion,

where the worst pain

was a rainy day

without dessert,

while she,

on the other side of this same earth,

stood barefoot

pulling water from dying wells.

And every day,

the question drums:

Do I chase comfort?

My luxuries,

built on backs of those

I pretend not to see?

No….

I will not silence their cries

so my own music can play.

I will not shrink my conscience

to fit inside a paycheck.

I won’t let my ego kneel

before the whispers of my instinct —

that hungry, ambition-fed id.

I will not trade my voice for pay,

nor bow where virtue rots away.

Competence I’ll carry as light.

Integrity, my guiding sight.

Where systems rot, let courage breathe.

Let justice bloom beneath the wreath.

I see them 

so many of them 

each morning in the metro blur,

stuffed in steel,

their dreams folded in lunchboxes

and timecards.

They race for wages,

bargaining breath

for survival.

They risk their lives

just to reach

jobs

that keep them breathing —

but never living.

I refuse —

to be a 9-to-5 bull,

clocking in,

clocking out,

while my soul waits

by the window,

forgotten.

Will I spend decades

saying “yes”

to superiors

and their superiors,

till I forget

what “no” feels like?

What “why” means?

No.

I won’t let empathy

be drained dry

by dead protocols.

Resilience shall become my spine,

when temptation

asks me to resign.

I will not ask,

“What’s the salary tier?”

but,

“Did I wipe away a tear?”

For service is not fame or gold —

it is character,

not badge or role.

For me,

‘Sheel Param Bhushanam’

rings louder and truer

than any six-figure salary

ever could.—

Let others chase the glitter I’ll walk the ground.

Let others build empires —I’ll build equity.

Let others rise in titles —I’ll rise in truth.

For this I vow 

not as a choice,

but as soul’s command,

my inner voice.

And if one day,

I sit beneath the very system

that failed so many —

I vow to be

the voice

it always needed.

By Ananya Misra