My Hindustan is a mural painted with various hues of blood of the freedom fighters.
My Hindustan is a tapestry woven with the threads of fervid lives.
Threads that are doomed to be severed from the spool, lives doomed to be sundered from
their loved ones.
Their blood like elixir to the azaadi of our Bharat.
A thread severed, imprisoning a wife’s love to a white Saari.
A thread severed, the word ‘orphan’ at his heels instead of his father’s love cocooning him.
A thread severed, leaving an old woman’s dua, beseeching Gods to protect her son
unanswered.
But without these threads, it would have been impossible to weave Bharat, to do justice to
the kaleidoscope of cultures, languages, love and diversity.