It is all contradictions and bullshit cultural glory. Its a love-hate story. Between India and her people.
Its an idea. Cultivated over a millennia if not more. Its a dream. Of a million people. For self respect and dignity.
Its a wasteland. Of ideas and ideologies adopted and thrown away. Of blurred borders and boundaries. Ambiguous limits and morals. Of virtues earned and lost. Of countless divisions to earn the occasional unity.
Its a minefield. A casual dismissal of human life.
Its spiritual. A transient passage of the soul. A karmic score that is never settled.
Its a compulsion. To define what being Indian is. Who the Indian is. What India is.
All heart. All mind. Of Self. Of Others. She is no ones. No one is truly of her. Yet a millennia of magnet for invaders, curiosity seekers, knowledge seekers. She is all that yet none of it is her present.
It works. Barely survives. It is home. It is hell. It is ours.