Title : India Through My Lens

When I close my eyes and whisper the name “India,” I don’t see maps. I don’t see lines drawn in ink or boundaries carved by history. I see emotions—raw, unfiltered, and deeply human. I see the trembling hands of a mother, worn by years of waiting, lighting a small diya at dawn. Her lips quiver in prayer, her heart quietly breaking with each passing moment, as she hopes—no, pleads—with the universe for the safe return of her son stationed at a snow-clad, unforgiving border. Her faith is her weapon; her hope, unshakeable.

I see a little girl in a dusty village lane, her feet bare, her slate tucked tightly under her arm. Her eyes, wide with wonder, gaze at the distant school building like it’s a palace. She is the first in her family who will learn to read, who will learn to write her name—each letter a rebellion, each word a revolution.

I see pain. The kind that hides in silence. The kind that stays in the lines of a widow’s face who still sets an extra plate at dinner, just in case. I see pride—the unspoken kind—in the cracked palms of a father who sells coconuts by the roadside but tells his daughter she can become a scientist, a leader, anything.

Through my eyes, India is not merely a land.

It is not a political entity or a geographical space—it is a living, breathing, feeling soul. A soul bruised by centuries of invasion, of colonial chains, of caste scars and gender injustices—but a soul that has never bent, never broken. A soul that sings lullabies in Bengali, writes poetry in Urdu, whispers prayers in Sanskrit, and dances with abandon to Tamil beats. It is a place where silence during a two-minute tribute resounds louder than a thousand war cries—because we understand the language of sacrifice.

I see India in the chapped feet of a rickshaw-puller, whose own children might go hungry, yet he still offers a free ride to a school child with a hopeful face. I see it in the chaiwala who shivers in the Delhi winter, his fingers blue with cold, but his smile unshaken—because he knows his tea offers more than warmth: it gives comfort, familiarity, a moment of peace.

I see it in the eyes of a soldier at the border, standing motionless in sub-zero temperatures, hiding tears behind his salute. I see it in the fearless protester, hoarse from shouting truth through fear. In the weathered hands of a farmer who sows seeds in parched land, not just of crops, but of hope. He believes in the monsoon, in the soil, and in tomorrow.

But India is not just surviving.

India is healing.

And not in hushes, but in harmonies.

Our youth are rising—not to rebel with rage, but to rebuild with purpose.

I see them painting broken school walls with their own hands, turning dull walls into dreams. I see them teaching slum children by streetlight, writing lines of code in between household chores. I see them reviving dying dialects, composing verses in forgotten languages. They are not waiting for change—they are becoming it.

India is a country where an atheist and a priest can sit beneath the same banyan tree, sipping the same cutting chai, debating life, death, God—and still walk away smiling, bonded by the respect of a shared humanity.

It’s a place where colors do not divide—they decorate. Where a thousand religions bloom, not in rivalry, but in rhythm. Where wounds do not break us—they define our strength, our resilience.

Yes, sometimes we get lost. In the deafening noise of politics, in the haze of pollution, in the grief of injustice. But India—my India—always whispers beneath the chaos.

In the rustle of a grandmother’s saree as she rushes to temple at dawn.

In the echo of a cricket ball hitting the bat in a gully too narrow for cars but wide enough for dreams.

In the chants of “Bharat Mata Ki Jai” rising with candles in hands and tears in eyes.

In the quiet “Shukriya” shared between strangers on a late-night train platform.

India, through my eyes, is not a headline.

It’s a heartbeat.

It stumbles. It falters. Sometimes it bleeds. But it never forgets how to love.

And that, to me, is our greatest strength—not our missiles or monuments, but our ability to endure… to rise… to feel.

Because India doesn’t just exist in constitutions or capitals.

My India lives in people. In tears, in laughter, in the poetry of our souls.

And if you ask me where my nation resides, I’ll place my hand over my chest—and say,

Right here. Always.