The Red Letter Day Poem by neha sharma

The Red Letter Day

That day of 1947,
The end of suzerainty,
Breaking the shackles of suzerainty,
Did we decide to move on,
Did we see a new dawn shining over us,
Did we resolve to carve our niche on the world map,
Did we go ahead to reach the pinnacle of success.
That day of massacre and wanton destruction,
Blood flowed as if crimson hues,
Bogies loaded with dead bodies,
Roads filled with mutilated organs,
Craters on the roads,
Walls blasted with bullets.
Mother’s womb chiseled,
Two children from the same womb parted ways.
That day did bring with it,
The everlasting strife and animosity.
Many children did this land lose,
Fighting for the country, against the intruders,
Many did sacrifice their families and lives,
But who did know that,
The country would get parted,
The savageness would overpower people,
They would point daggers at each other?
The children did not die for the divided land.
The day got mentioned in golden letters,
As the Independence Day,
With passing days and years,
Atrocities were forgotten,
The importance of the day became foremost.
But as the years are passing,
How many partitions and wars have we had,
1962,1965,1971,1999...... And more to come,
How many children has the mother lost and will lose?
With each passing day,
The I-Day is striving for its significance.
Has freedom become meaningless,
A taken-for granted fact,
The 150 years of struggle a documentary?
Wars are forging internally too,
Linguistic chauvinism,
Casteism,
Red-tape,
Corruption,
Terrorism,
The litany goes on.........
Various groups taking the reins,
Maligning one against the other,
Directing the horse astray,
And so go on the wars.........
My grandmother tells me the struggle,
This is no more than the fable for me.
The old lady enlightens me with the facts,
Which are dumped in some dark corner of my heart.
Probably the death of the children,
Do not leave the tinge of red anymore.
Probably the wars,
Have become a daily affair.
Probably the crashing of bullets and gnashing of teeth,
Have become the melodious music to the ears.
Probably the mangled, half-bodies of the children we get,
Have become the beautiful sight for the eyes.
Probably the pride we took in martyrdom,
Is no more than a matter of e a few processions and a few tears.
Probably the red letter day,
Has become just another day.
A day that has run into oblivion,
A day present in bleak corners of India,
Where little girls prepare flags,
Where young men prepare kites,
Where boys generally cut their fingers while cutting the threads,
Where they work in dingy cells to provide you with various things,
Where they get no air and light but still work to earn something,
After all, everybody marches on his stomach,
A day registered as a matter-of-fact,
A day of another holiday to recline and rest.
Isn’t it?