Order online or call us +91 7068940295
C-15/320-1, Lallapura, Varanasi-221010 (U.P.) INDIA
Founder
Jhillu Prasad Motiwala
As a traditional ancestors of primitive beads manufacture in Varanasi (India) as a whole we are proud to our founder late Shri Jhillu Prasad this whole personality, business, wistfulness, simplicity, generosity and humanitarian quality is the guideline of our present business (Manufacturing & Exporting) in all type of beads.
Make beautiful beads not war
We are of the bead for the bead from the bead
I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.
Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
Emancipation from the bondage of the soil
is no freedom for the tree.
In love i pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art. – “An adaption from Rabindranath Tagore”
We are of the bead for the bead from the bead
I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.
The butterfly counts not months but moments,
and has time enough.
Let my love, like sunlight, surround you
and yet give you illumined freedom.
Love remains a secret even when spoken,
for only a lover truly knows that he is loved.
Emancipation from the bondage of the soil
is no freedom for the tree.
In love i pay my endless debt to thee
for what thou art. – “An adaption from Rabindranath Tagore”
Music is silenced, the dark descending slowly
Has stripped unending skies of all companions.
Weariness grips your limbcs and within the locked horizons
Dumbly ring the bells of hugely gathering fears.
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
It’s not melodious woodlands but the leaps and falls
Of an ocean’s drowsy booming,
Not o grove bedecked with flowers but a tumult flecked with foam.
Where is the shore that stored your buds and leaves?
Where the nest and the branch’s hold?
Still, O bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
Stretching in front of you the night’s immensity
Hides the western hill where sleeps the distant sun;
Still with bated breath the world is counting time and swimming
Across the shoreless dark a crescent moon
Has thinly just appeared upon the dim horizon.
–But O my bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
From upper skies the stars with pointing fingers
Intently watch your course and death’s impatience
Lashes at you from the deeps in swirling waves ;
And sad entreaties line the farthest shore
With hands outstretched and crooning ‘ Come, O come ! ‘
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
All that is past: your fears and loves and hopes ;
All that is lost: your words and lamentation ;
No longer yours a home nor a bed composed of flowers.
For wings are all you have, and the sky’s broadening countryard,
And the dawn steeped in darkness, lacking all direction.
Dear bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings! – “Buddhadeva Bose”
Has stripped unending skies of all companions.
Weariness grips your limbcs and within the locked horizons
Dumbly ring the bells of hugely gathering fears.
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
It’s not melodious woodlands but the leaps and falls
Of an ocean’s drowsy booming,
Not o grove bedecked with flowers but a tumult flecked with foam.
Where is the shore that stored your buds and leaves?
Where the nest and the branch’s hold?
Still, O bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
Stretching in front of you the night’s immensity
Hides the western hill where sleeps the distant sun;
Still with bated breath the world is counting time and swimming
Across the shoreless dark a crescent moon
Has thinly just appeared upon the dim horizon.
–But O my bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
From upper skies the stars with pointing fingers
Intently watch your course and death’s impatience
Lashes at you from the deeps in swirling waves ;
And sad entreaties line the farthest shore
With hands outstretched and crooning ‘ Come, O come ! ‘
Still, O bird, O sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings.
All that is past: your fears and loves and hopes ;
All that is lost: your words and lamentation ;
No longer yours a home nor a bed composed of flowers.
For wings are all you have, and the sky’s broadening countryard,
And the dawn steeped in darkness, lacking all direction.
Dear bird, my sightless bird,
Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings! – “Buddhadeva Bose”
