Honored by Usha Ma'am & Rukhiya


>> Aug 13, 2010

In a suave Indian lounge some people gather to party. Posh as they are, and as is the word, they show all of it and much more than you may wish to see. With some Peter Colonial Country shirt and with a perfume that arrogantly bosses over the air of a third world country, they laugh and fall over each other, 'unnecessarily' is a word so true to its own existence. Beyond their attire, they are conscious of keeping their feet on the ground and so bring plastic flags which feebly depict a tri-color a third world country should. They take positions, one after another, finding their partners as only a neon light glows inquisitive of the emotions, pride or lust.

There starts the National Anthem. Importing independence and democracy onto themselves, some fold their legs, some lean back, some talk over a boring lyric and the others, if left, sing along. After that, all clap, more as a relief than of a passion. Even the big cotton flag, despite the artificial wind around, embarrassingly hangs without wings. In small groups they talk of boutiques, outsourcing, global warming and Page 3. Patriots as they are, their country's poverty gets two or more 'uh-oh's. Intricate, the conversation is, and some 'plastic' flags get walked over. Respect their sincerity though, even unknowingly they help environment.

They party with soft liquors, pastries and many things which can help them touch each other, of course being straight. No leaning back now. All this and much more of it spells and smells of countries that do not include the one, they are celebrating of. And the heroes' photos, as uninvited as they look, get appreciation by a sleeveless conscience, not for the sacrifice they have gone through but for the rigid and glowing manhood. Blame it on neon light and some queen's country's liquid.

While the show goes on, some shadows come out of them and invisibly walk out of the door, where humiliation has got a new name by celebration.

Out on the street under a lamp, two children, newly and fully dressed, where such adverbs are still uncommon, make a paper boat on which a hand made flag stands. It radiates cheap colors painted by immature hands. They sail it through the river that flows through the country which is in need of a respect today. The boat sails. The flag stands proud as the shadows watch.

As the boat dilutes in the horizon, the innocent souls scream, 'Jai Hind'. Somewhere, a Mother sheds a tear or two and smiles.


[ Thanks to Usha ma'am for being a perfect teacher :) ]

2 well-wishers:

Usha Pisharody August 15, 2010 6:26 AM  
This comment has been removed by the author.
Usha Pisharody August 15, 2010 7:06 PM  

Soumya, reading this again, after the first time earlier makes it just as haunting. I do wonder endlessly at what makes some of us, us.

Today at school, watching the unfurling of the Tricolour, singing along with the band, the National Anthem, and saluting the flag, were precious moments. And I simply cannot understand how adults can even expect a modicum of respect either for themselves or their country if they do not feel even an iota of respect for their own?

And yet they do. Ironic isn't it?

But, I still hope. Because mothers still shed tears, and because when they do, miracles happen.

Typos... so I deleted earlier comment and reposted :D

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