The newspaper had never wanted to be one. But perhaps it was so destined. And so, one fine morning it reached the doorstep, slid through the gap above the doormat and lay silently anticipating the worse. Suddenly it found itself hurled onto the top of the table unmindfully by a lady. It knew more was to come. And soon began rounds of careful scrutiny, dirty glances, serious considerations and discussions.The content might not have been its will but the comments were certainly its predicament. People kept it carelessly upon the tea table, as they exchanged opinions. Some commented upon the nature of the event, some expressed shock and awe, while some simply chuckled. Horror reached its climax when a rebel of sorts within the house rolled it into a cylindrical entity and began beating it upon the table expressing discontent about some injustice. Vernal showers - nothing was left out - from amusement to sympathy to disrespect and finally, dismissal. And it was a lengthy day. But even the night brought no peace. When all excitement was over, a bored member of the household took upon the desire to scribble on the little white space available. Silent submission was the only option available, with ardent prayers to reach the shelf of old useless newpapers.   

The prayer was granted at long last. Faces disappeared, voices faded and darkness reigned supreme. Tomorrow would be a new day for sure, with a new substitute to go through this burden of civilization. And just when life seemed to draw towards that much desired end, the lights went on once again. A little girl came out and walked towards the shelf. Hadn't it been enough for the day, it wondered...! And just as feared, it was dragged out of the shelf yet again. There seemed something new this time. The girl handled it differently. She was, unlike the others, so not-interested in the content. She tore off a section, opened the folds and gently added to its being new marks of existence. It found itself turned and folded in various patterns, until a result was achieved to her satisfaction. She now called it a boat.   

She then placed it upon her table in her room and looked up at the sky.

"Ma'am I could not attend the class because I was dancing for independence"

"I'm sorry, you were what?"

(A Pause) "I was dancing for independence day"

Most comedies these days begin on a sombre note. 

This child isn't alone in her dancing for independence day. You wake up to sales, offers and discounts being offered by mega merchants on the pious occasion of independence day, which never forget to add "offer valid till stocks last" or, better still, "conditions apply". No one quite clearly specifies the conditions which apply. There are parades, speeches, songs, Bollywood releases and, not to forget, intellectual debates, conversations and discussions. In short, the river of 'patriotism' overflows. Martyrdom is not a narrative. When narrativized, it severs the passion and faith which had led the one being represented, into the act of sacrifice. Stories are sensitive things, especially those about martyrdom in an age when the line of demarcation between a scapegoat and a martyr has become very thin. While the former four categories of performance are motivated towards a particular school of mainstream indoctrination, the last category is potentially disturbing in bridging the gap between the ridiculous and the dangerous as organizers and speakers pat each other's back and an elitist educated audience claps in approval certifying the fruitfulness of the endeavour. Funny. In-house circus of sorts. Futile nonetheless, for being an exercise in self-gratification of refined egos - quite self-contained and all-knowing. 

The child that dances for independence day doesn't realize the expanse of this date-specific national dance.

Alas! This dated-ness of independence!

The children who perform on independence day return to their smartphones and self-congratulatory social networks thoughtlessly, like everyday. The people get an additional holiday and return to work mechanically the next day, like any other day. Rivers are polluted, crimes are committed, violence is inflicted, like everyday. The child who sells balloons at the traffic signal each day, sells miniatures of the national flag on this occasion. His customers are few, like everyday. The woman who sits on the footpath asking for food has few to look at her, like everyday. 

Only, the smell of water droplets on the dry earth, astonished at its own dryness perhaps, feels just the same, any day.

A day isn't hours; neither thoughts nor deeds. It seems to be more like a bouquet of random snippets. Fleeting sights internalized, rather thoughtlessly. Like busy people scurrying down the streets - earphones intact, as if the world were to end shortly and survival is at stake, while silent blooms sway to the breeze, almost cracking a joke at the agitation around. Revolutions are rampant these days. Intellectual proclamations stating God is dead have opened up new vacancies for many haloed beings. Lesser gods reclaim the Ptolemaic system - just that this time the logic behind earth being at the centre of the universe is supported by notions of self-supremacy and authority. Science can mind its business for purposes of theory. For, earth isn't just a planet anymore. It is the abode of the lesser gods - alpha males and females. They rule, they oppose, they establish, they contradict - till death draws a finishing line to this self-driven circus.

A little girl in a striped shabby blue tunic, on her way back from school in the desolate afternoon, quenches her thirst from a roadside blue drum reflecting the sun still. Her software isn't updated. She hasn't heard of the new world order yet. Her tattered ballerina stop in front of a local temple as she bows her head in reverence. Another child crawls by, heading towards the corner of the footpath also known as, home. Leaves fall at random in the wind and a little golden pouch with 'Statutory Warning' printed on it, emptied of its contents, flies across  haphazardly.