My Culture. My Pride.

The sandalwood tilak pressed in the middle of my forehead, each day in the morning,

is no different from the zebibah or black mark on my friend’s forehead, endured after repeated namaz.

This is my country. This is my pride. This is the celebration of the culture where I reside.

I don’t need any fireworks to celebrate my culture. No, I don’t!

The lights, the sweets, the dance, the music; they are all futile in front of the faith and belief I have,

in my culture, in my heritage, in my country.

“Who makes this culture?”, you may ask.

I make it. You make it. We make it!

This is my country. This is my pride. This is the celebration of the culture where I reside.

From touching my parents’ feet in the morning, to having a spoonful of curd and sugar prior to something eventful,

it is all celebration- celebration of culture.

My culture doesn’t see the divide between saffron and green.

My culture doesn’t favor the rich and ignore the angst of the poor.

Alas! The essence of the word culture has started to diminish.

And people who actually understand it have become fewer and fewer.

My culture is the child of unity and brotherhood.

My culture is a parent to harmony and peace.

My culture is a rope so thin,

a tug of war between differences might cause it to tear.

O people of this land! I beg you with folded hands.

Celebrate this culture, celebrate it before it is left empty and bare.

This is my country. This is my pride.

This is the celebration of culture, where we all reside.