60 Years Later
15th August, 1947:
Its midnight. Three wails and cries were heard.
Three umbilical cords were cut. One with the precision of a surgeon, one with a scissor operated by a sophomoric nurse and the third with a blunt knife allegedly/ruggedly by a midwife.
One at a posh hospital in Delhi, the second at a rundown dispensary in Mysore, the third at an unknown village near Gorakhpur, UP.
The only string that bonded them was that they were born free.
15th August, 2007:
The first one, whom I would name Pravasi has just come back home. To see the land of his birth. To extract from the far recesses of his memory, the childhood he had spent here. He is a tad disappointed that he is not able to remember the local dialect fluently. All those 45 years spent abroad in comfort. A California seaside duplex. Interacting with the who's who of the world. Munching tacos and burgers at every go. But never completely accepted. And the mother still willingly opens up her arms for him. He made the right decision. With that, Pravasi unfurles the Tiranga with a cautious euphoria. The Mother is proud of Pravasi's contribution.
The second one - India - had to work his way out to be what he is. Getting educated was the biggest prize of his life. He owes that a lot to his parents, who despite all the hardships, saved enough to send him to school. His English speaking skills attracted a government job, where he fought the license raj. Starting with a basic of Rs 300 a month, he worked his way up the ladder the hard way. Today, he is optimistic of his children's future. A nice bungalow in Bangalore. Married children working in top notch IT organizations. Life's good. With that, India unfurles the Tiranga with unbridled enthusiasm. The Mother adores India.
The third one, Bharat does not realise the importance of his birthday. Was it fate? A life gone awry? Hard work never reaped dividends. Back breaking work at the fields. Countless days of hunger. Droughts. Floods. Why were the Gods so agnostic to him, when he has tended to Him every single day of his life? Why hasn't the price of pulses gone up all these years? Why are the shehari-babus getting richer? He thinks of his three children. Maybe he should have dispatched them to the city to work in inhuman sweatshops. With that, the emaciated Bharat still raises the tiny paper Tiranga in his hand and salutes it - with no hope. The Mother loves Bharat and is very concerned.
This is the story of my lovely country.
Jai Hind!
Its midnight. Three wails and cries were heard.
Three umbilical cords were cut. One with the precision of a surgeon, one with a scissor operated by a sophomoric nurse and the third with a blunt knife allegedly/ruggedly by a midwife.
One at a posh hospital in Delhi, the second at a rundown dispensary in Mysore, the third at an unknown village near Gorakhpur, UP.
The only string that bonded them was that they were born free.
15th August, 2007:
The first one, whom I would name Pravasi has just come back home. To see the land of his birth. To extract from the far recesses of his memory, the childhood he had spent here. He is a tad disappointed that he is not able to remember the local dialect fluently. All those 45 years spent abroad in comfort. A California seaside duplex. Interacting with the who's who of the world. Munching tacos and burgers at every go. But never completely accepted. And the mother still willingly opens up her arms for him. He made the right decision. With that, Pravasi unfurles the Tiranga with a cautious euphoria. The Mother is proud of Pravasi's contribution.
The second one - India - had to work his way out to be what he is. Getting educated was the biggest prize of his life. He owes that a lot to his parents, who despite all the hardships, saved enough to send him to school. His English speaking skills attracted a government job, where he fought the license raj. Starting with a basic of Rs 300 a month, he worked his way up the ladder the hard way. Today, he is optimistic of his children's future. A nice bungalow in Bangalore. Married children working in top notch IT organizations. Life's good. With that, India unfurles the Tiranga with unbridled enthusiasm. The Mother adores India.
The third one, Bharat does not realise the importance of his birthday. Was it fate? A life gone awry? Hard work never reaped dividends. Back breaking work at the fields. Countless days of hunger. Droughts. Floods. Why were the Gods so agnostic to him, when he has tended to Him every single day of his life? Why hasn't the price of pulses gone up all these years? Why are the shehari-babus getting richer? He thinks of his three children. Maybe he should have dispatched them to the city to work in inhuman sweatshops. With that, the emaciated Bharat still raises the tiny paper Tiranga in his hand and salutes it - with no hope. The Mother loves Bharat and is very concerned.
This is the story of my lovely country.
Jai Hind!
Labels: Bharat, Independence, India, Pravasi, Story
posted by Tejas at 1:31 PM
6 Comments:
words can flow beautifully and uninhibited only when you feel this strongly..
Thats one of the best words I've read on our Independence day ..
Just superb ..!
lovely write!:)
i agree with u totally...
jai hind! jai hindustan!:)
I salute you, and the Tiranga.
You've got a lovely blog. Keep writing :)
By far the most beautiful piece have come across
@All
Thanks a lot! Such is the paradox of our beautiful country.
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