Where does it come from? The fire in their eyes. What sapling of fear turns into defiance in the eyes of a protestor, quivering in the morning breeze like a peepal leaf? What drives this anger that simmers before boiling over into the streets, into feet that will continue to beat to the rhythm of their conscience, even after you turn them into mausoleums?
Today i think we all need to hear Allama Iqbal's fiery recasting of identity. His reminder that inside this sack of skin