His yesterday’s guilt made him wake up dot at four in the brahm mahurat. Even though he left home at five. We reached on the Rajpath in the darkness of the dawn.
Never was Delhi be heard and felt from the pride and the energy with which they marched past. With the bands of each regiment leading the way. The drums, the beats, the smell of the young sweat, the valor in the air. The discipline, the clacking of the iron bar beneath their marching boots to the tar ground woke us all up. The mist, vapours coming out of mouths while a woman officer commanding against the street lamps of Rajpath takes you close to colonial India’s cold faced armies. The varieties and improvisation that has gone through in making them could be seen. It was there day. It was our day. It was a day to feel Indian when only wind moved when the national anthem rang through our nerves together. Every being was still but the wind.
A day that turned long. A self-imposed salt restriction that later allowed only the monkeys for a probable lynching, earning saffron in the milk before the ruins arrived. One has to act tough and particularly merciless with the unemotional. I couldn’t have sliced and stabbed their stomachs from my ever present knife, yet I for a tap drop moment was ready to even do that.
Coming times are going to be exciting. We are in a good flow.
Pic courtesy: Hindustan Times