"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.