India has been more than a country. She is more human than any of her inhabitants. She is more virtuous than any saint. More womanly than any woman & stronger than any of her counterparts across the globe.
She has identity for herself, an identity which is an amalgamation of childish innocence, serene calmness, spunky sexiness, brazen boldness, head held high confidence, troubled soul sadness, intense passion, gentle love, tender care with a hint of street smartness.
But this unflinching, selfless woman still lives & dies at mercy of vicious wolves pawing her from all sides. They wound her, plunder her and humiliate her. She lies in slums slathered with layers of sickness & filth. She chokes in clouds of poisonous clouds that burns her. She lies rotting within heaps of garbage piled on her. She lies bleeding in every blast and they pass her by without a second glance. Everyday a new story opens a new injury in her body, her every feature lay twisted & the necrophile feasts on her.
She is ruthlessly provoked, tortured, lynched, raped, slaughtered & left to die every single day.
She still breathes and never sleeps
I had written this a long time ago, originally for Mumbai, but guess it’s appropriate for the entire country as well