I want to be a patriot
But it's very difficult
Because we aren't really independent
That's the harsh truth
Divided by thousands of castes
And a handful of religions
Steeped in poverty
Hard to find humanity
In this third world nation
Easier to find depression!

I want to be a patriot
However, I am hurt
By the sheer apathy
Ever present in our society
Towards the sufferings
Of the depressed and so-called backward classes
As well as mental health
Not to mention, so much filth
Leading to countless diseases
And thus deaths of thousands!!

I want to be a patriot
But nothing to be patriotic about
Most people are selfish
For gossip, they fish
However, when you truly need help
You don't get help
In this society, only pain
Not a single gain!!

I want to be a patriot
But no use for it
This country protects the corrupt
And the morally bankrupt
The good people suffer
Especially the women
And of course, the needy and poor
I am ashamed to be an Indian!!

I want to be a patriot
However, I cannot
All I care about is my close circle
Of family, cousins and friends
Call me anti-national
I won't give two hoots
I'm done
With this so-called nation!!

Let’s take a pledge Now,
To keep our land neat and clean.
Even our authorities truly know,
We also dream, grow, live green.

We proudly craft the nation’s fate,
With unity, courage so great.
Also guarding the Nature's age,
Not just attract by MNC's package.

Peace, Sustainability, and innovation's flame —
These will uplift Bharat’s Name.
We stand together, with voices pure,
And make our nation's future secure.

It’s Viksit Bharat’s flight,
Empowering all to shine bright.
our economy must rise at top,
But first, let corruption come to stop.
- Saish Itankar

Some people don’t feel the heat.
It is because of those who don’t feel the heat,
that the empty paddy fields turn green,
the roads and bylanes stay clean.
the vehicles of noisy people move without obstruction.
Because of those who don’t feel the heat,
non-motorized rickshaws still move,
hand-pulled carts still survive.
Because of them,
gift packets, perfumes, birthday cakes
reach homes on time.
Some people don’t feel the heat,
and perhaps because of them
– even though fire and smoke pour daily from your mouths –
the earth has not turned to ash,
the city has not yet perished.
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i don't agree all at once,
having to visit the spiritual corners of this earth,
for they make me see a hope—
one that's been long since buried,
one that i dropped like a crushed piece of paper
aside, a random evening.

and yet, every time i find myself surrounded by the presence of his,
the almighty, the gods that these people cherish,
i look at them, feeling withdrawn—
yet somehow, they call me back in.
(almost like a pied-piper, am i being hypnotised or beckoned forthwith?)

every time i wander,
find myself surrounded by his devotees—
multiple gods, yet just one single feeling:
devotion.
i'd add the adjective 'blind' before it,
but i wouldn't want to disrespect—despite all that i carry.

they cherish him,
surrender at his feet,
beg him for forgiveness,
plead to him for their wishes,

almost like carrying hopes resembling bells ridden with stars,
twinkling, resounding the beats of their (often rotten, mostly pained) hearts.
there's a mix, i know, in their crowd—it's a mix of all those who walk the ground,
except they're equal in here.
perhaps that's one of the powers he carries,
visibly hidden in the plain old sight.
i'm sure he'd be a lot too merry,
seeing them murmur the same chantings,
despite all the differences, they still harry.

my mundane self, surrounded by the divine—
here's what i saw with the same eyes that once shined:
i wonder if the steps of the temple know
who walks upon,
who waits for his own.

i could capture it through the camera,
but to write it down would make me feel seen.
so here it is, kind of like a monologue—
i'll pray upon him, so you won't hate me.

alive with color, motion, scent, and sound—
isn't that the four senses working around?

the man behind the sweets,
who knows which ones vanish first,
which are opted the most—
and the ones people go for.

those who buy—
i, wondering, watching my own family enter,
are they getting the sweets to offer to their gods?
should i too try to please him, to make him listen to me?
is it bargaining—being too cheap,
or is it silently offering him a price to make him believe in my honesty?

there's a child—i'm sure he doesn't even understand.
he spins, in circles,
creating illusions of dreams and stars in bundles,
not knowing why he's happy,
only that he is.
i miss when my innocence had me still.

a father—hair tugged gently by tiny fingers,
trying to steer him through the crowd.
of course, he knows better,
but he'll listen to his son
and his own memories of being carried around.

the same way—
a mother who lifts her child,
the one who carries the world within himself.
he's her world, yet to know his own disguise.

a priest, giving into the glowing screen
while sitting in front of the one he preaches day and night.
i'm sure that's considered minimal,
considering the world out there is built up
of more such people, giving into the illusions
of what the ones around are to offer.
i wonder if they realize the grave truth in its simplicity:
their bodies, which their souls inherit,
are also rented as temporary.

there's many more
that surround—children, aged, middle ones—all of them around.
to zoom out and narrate from their perspective—
i wonder if i seem to be fake?

i look at the feet of people,
showing ways they've walked,
ways they've lived,
and ways they've continued to trot
to find their peace in this world.

as they climb up the steps, in crowds,
holding hands and not missing anything out,
i see it in their eyes.
as they dream, almost child-like,
their hope symbolizes their life.

and to put it in the entirety towards one single entity—
the one who sits at the top,
is flowered, crowned, gifted upon.
i look at him in the eye,
and something about the moment makes me smile.

"alright," i whisper, as if i'm talking to a friend.
"i'll wish this once, once again."

and i ask for something simple, something that i've needed,
something i'm sure he'd understand and agree
and listen to with an intent:

"keep my hope alive,
to you, and to the life alongside.
and i'll return again and again,
be one of the ones surrounding.
i'll pray and hope to you again."

and that's how i leave—
calmer self, lighter chest,
a bit better than before,
maybe with a newly found hope.

i turn around one last time,
knowing i'll be back before long,
and i smile.

instead of waving, i touch the steps
that have carried thousands, including my own.
"i'm leaving for now, but i'll return—
right when i need to be with you, not just by myself."

this was all from the eyes of a hopeful ordinary.
i walk among you. i am one of you.
the lord does reside within me.

My name is Umrao Jaan. I am a Tawaif, an Indian Classical Dancer, Singer
My other names are Saheb e jaan, Nargis, and Anarkali, many names I have
I am trained in fine arts like classical dancing and music by ustaads or teachers

My work was to entertain kings, noblemen and wealthy patrons who visited my court.
My court is known as a kotha in the Hindi Language, my residence and workplace
Here I reside with my family, my sisters in trade and our fellow musicians.
We are financially well off, but what we yearn for, love and respect, we do not get

Trained as artists who entertain kings and nobility, we are sadly now disrespected
Our services now are desired not for their true value but to satisfy desires.
The desires of wealthy men who treat us as concubines but will never respect us
Sadly, the nobility and value of our profession have been eroded completely now.

This erosion started with the British Raj when they colonised India
They never valued our services and degraded us to the level of vaishyas(prostitutes)
The evil that men do lives on after them, and the good they do is buried in their bones
Even after India gained independence, the cultural values of the Tawaifs were never restored
It died with the end of the reign of Akbar, Shah Jahan and other Mughal kings

There once was a guru of Ind
Who fasted and rapidly thinned:
     They offered him Gogurt:
     He said, "That's not yogurt!"
And broke—in disgustedness—wind.

India ;
a country where
approximately, 80 rapes happen in a single day
(78 murders )( 23 fake alimony cases) ( burglery rate 7.2)
the country which allows and rewards rapists
letting them roam free

in a country that is so poor;
"the poor" are not even seen as human beings
killing them; ****** them ; driving a ******* whole car on them ;
and the jury will make you write a ******* essay
the system will blame the driver
and the society will blame the poor
such a pathetic nation

but we still sing
with pride every morning
forgetting every ******* case
every ******* human whose done such thing
and watching movies and other such media made by pedophiles , rapists , molesters , murderers

The clock is still there in the wall
But no-body is there in the room
to see whether it's hands move.

What good of knowing the exact time
When none has time
The ryhms of our child-hood, we had left
in the green-field decades before.

Now, he keeps peeping into the world through the glass of his mobile phone and
As you know,
the world is too big to see in a life.

So, he has no time to see the ancient wall
or the clock fixed to it
But still the clock moves with passage of time
Like those ryhms of our tongues
Still playing in the green --
Days to months and months to years --
Like the clock in the wall or
the wall with the clock.
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