She is India.

By Inesha N. Wahlang

She walks in silks of sun and sand,

A lotus blooming in ancient land.

Bangles chime like temple bells,

Each step— a story, a thousand spells.

Her skin, a patchwork of dusty roads,

Ganga's grace, and monsoon odes.

Henna hands hold sacred lore,

A hundred gods, a million more.

Eyes like dusk in desert skies,

Where Rumi meets a child’s cries.

She laughs in colours— loud, alive,

But weeps in corners few survive.

She sings in seven languages,

Sanskrit hymns and Bollywood rages.

She dances— oh, she fiercely spins,

In Kathak whirls and tribal grins.

She's chai in clay, she's jazz and jugalbandi,

A saree wrapped in strategy.

One braid of science, one of art,

She’s ancient script and startup heart.

Yet don’t mistake her for pure gold,

Her glory bright, her shadows bold.

She bears the weight of caste and creed,

Of hungry mouths and silenced need.

Her daughters fight for rightful place,

While mothers hide in veiled grace.

In boardrooms now her voice resounds,

But still, her fields know harsher sounds.

A paradox in every breath,

She births new life, she mourns old death.

She’s slums and skyscrapers aligned,

A contradiction redefined.

But ask her if she would trade roles,

Abandon her fragmented wholes,

She'll smile, in wisdom not yet dim,

"I carry oceans in my hymn."

For she is India— wild and wise,

A storm of stars in human guise.

To love her is to learn her soul:

Imperfect, vast, yet always whole.

By Inesha N. Wahlang