The colors our tricolor holds
Are although just three,
But they carry a myriad of memories
With sentiments and emotions in plenty.
It has the sweat of the soldiers,
The vermilion of their wives,
The rainbows of their friendships,
And the blood of the lost lives.
The strands of rakhis that their sisters don’t get to tie,
The kites of their kids which they never together fly,
The kachoris made by their mothers that they never try,
The festivals their families celebrate with a silent cry.
The sands of the deserts that they wet with their tears,
The ice of hills on which they sit with their fears,
The sounds of rifles that sometimes fill the airs,
Their grit, determination, courage, desires, and prayers.
The old photographs, the scribbled slam book,
The memories that lie bare in every nook,
The nostalgia, the moments, and the celebration,
That reminds them of the ones they left for the nation.
The Diwali ghujias, the Christmas cakes,
The winter vacations, the long summer breaks,
The date nights, the funny miffs,
The weekend trips and birthday gifts.
The serenity of mountains, the vastness of the sea,
The mangroves, the caves, and plantations of tea,
The beaches of Goa, the rains of Mumbai,
The heat of Rajasthan and the humidity of Chennai.
The plight of those who died in misery,
The ruthlessness of the ones who killed without mercy,
The courage of those who fought to get the nation free,
And the spirit of the ones who preserve its victory.
Perhaps that’s why every heart,
Resonates with the tricolor and forms its part.
Despite every tear and pain and sigh,
We always want to see it flying high.