India Through my Eyes

Not just a place on a map,

India lives in the hum of a morning raga,

in the rustle of sarees drying on rooftops,

in the smell of rain kissing parched earth

the scent of mitti and memory.

She is the child with ink-stained fingers,

learning to dream in three languages.

She is the grandmother by the temple gate,

telling tales of gods with tired eyes and timeless faith.

I see her in contradictions

in skyscrapers beside slums,

in hands folded for namaste and fists raised for justice.

In the silence of a martyr’s statue

and the roar of a protest on a Delhi street.

She is not perfect.

She is wounded, healing, loud, quiet, chaotic, calm

but always alive.

She teaches me to break, to bend, to rebuild.

India, through my eyes,

is not just mine.

She is every voice that refused to be silenced,

every step that danced in defiance,

every heart that still believes

we are more — together.