"Bengal’s Cry, Swadeshi’s Flam

A dagger drawn, a line so deep, In Bengal’s heart, it made her weep. Not by war, nor by the sword, But by decree—a foreign lord. In nineteen hundred and five they came, With cunning hands, they played their game. “To divide,” they said, “for better rule,” Yet India knew—she was their fool. But hearts that bled refused to break, From slumber, rose a mighty wake. The cry of Vande Mataram soared, A fire lit, a pledge restored. No foreign cloth, no foreign chain, Swadeshi shone in sun and rain. Spinning wheels and voices strong, A love for freedom, a rebel’s song. Through strikes and chants, through cries and tears, They fought with hope, they crushed their fears. And though the chains had held them tight, The flame of freedom burned so bright. The lines they drew, they had to bend, For Bengal rose, it would not end. And though the wound took years to heal, The Swadeshi soul they could not steal.