She was a model
A model of haute couture.
So high that it was designed directly by God.
Pot-bellied men and voluptuous women
Sat awaiting the next item.
And then, she walked along the catwalk
Not flaunting but apologetic
Of her near nudity.
Tattered clothes barely covering her.
A young body, all of fifteen years.
A small child
In the crook of her left arm,
Held as a prize, a memento for
The depravity and avarice of men
A wonderful fashion statement!
She looked straight ahead
At the pole bearing the tri-colour,
A remarkable symbol of
Sixty-three years of independence.
A sign of our freedom.
Freedom from what?
Well, never mind, freedom,
F-R-E-E-D-O-M and Independence.
She walked right up to the tiranga
And tugged at the rope
And brought down the flag
And wrapped it around her and the child.
And then for the final denouement
She brought out a bowl
And held it out
From beneath the Ashoka Chakra
To the guardians of fashion;
“f”, she said, “Always stood for food”.
Footnote: Let’s not forget it when we celebrate our Independence Day yet again.
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