Wrinkled, lifelessly she stands,
holding a wailing child in her arms,
Bearing the brunt of sun & rain,
Unflagged, selling the paper flags.
The woman stares at me with lifeless eyes
An abyss of India's growth story,
Holding a bundle of Tricolours;
The Indian flag made in China.
I wonder if those three colours mean
Anything to the colourless woman.
As India soars high to touch the sky,
Her feeble child welters in her soiled clothes.
As India celebrates the Independence day,
Achieving milestones of glory & pride,
The bed of stones awaits this flagseller
Retreating to a slumber of dreamless future.
