Painted in hues of the Tricolour,
My motherland screams of patriotism today.
Colonial folklores are being retold,
While the Tricolour gracefully sways
In synchronisation with every goosebump
That the Anthem has provoked.
Across the border , a country man with years worth of experience
Wonders what would have life been
Had they not cut the country into two halves.
The familiar feeling of nostalgia
Churns his stomach into knots
And a stray tear falls down his face.
The footpaths are festooned with paper and cotton tricolour flags
And in a nook of the bazaar
Sits a lone boy tracing the borders of a torn flag ,
Astonishment flashing in his eyes
For the taste of freedom is one that he has never known,
Shackled in the chains of poverty.
50 pairs of booted legs rise and fall with every beat of the drum.
The jets daub the sky in beautiful colours and scads of petals descent from the above.
The Indian Flag is adorned in shades of three, but the multitudes of shades of the 15th August often go unnoticed.