Republic, With Blood on the Tricolour

When we say India,
they tell us to remember culture,
the cradle of civilisation,
temples older than time,
resilience stitched into our skin.

But my mind remembers
burning brides before bedtime stories,
dowry wrapped like tradition,
rape files aging better than justice,
and fear learning to live inside women—
even inside their own homes.

This is a republic
where a child is not spared,
where wrinkles don’t earn mercy,
where a four-year-old learns pain
before the alphabet.
They say development.

I see fugitives throwing parties abroad,
calling themselves businessmen,
while degrees here beg for work,
and hunger wears a graduate’s face.

What kind of republic is this
where religion shouts louder than rape,
where caste is a distraction tactic,
where hatred campaigns better than hope,
and ignorance sits on thrones
while intelligence packs bags to leave?

We wave flags,
but forget the North East
is not a foreign land—
yet their faces are still questioned,
their belonging still debated,
in the country that claims unity.

They say we’re
the world’s fourth-largest economy—
but what is the use of numbers
when safety is a luxury,
jobs are a lottery,
and silence is the national anthem?

Yes, we love India.
But love without
accountability is betrayal.

So this Republic Day,
before you post pride,
ask yourself—
Do you feel safe here?
Do you feel heard here?
Do you feel free here?
Because a Republic is not made
by flags or slogans or speeches—
it is made when its people
can live
without fear.

~Adhira~

I am Adhira. I write to tear through silence, to expose the rot behind polite smiles, and to hold a mirror to the world’s darkest truths. My pen does not whisper—it strikes.