The sun had just risen on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the street. People bustled along, and among them were students in crisp school uniforms, some clutching small Indian flags as they walked towards their school. A few students had already settled on the ground, while others stood, gazing at the Indian flag fluttering proudly in the sky.
If you haven't guessed yet, today is Republic Day.
I sat on the school ground in our designated row, surrounded by my classmates. Just moments ago, we had gathered for the flag ceremony, our voices mingling in unison as we sang our national anthem, "Jana Gana Mana." Now, I watched the stage intently, where our teachers sat lined up, their expressions a blend of pride and anticipation.
Swara stood at the microphone, her voice clear and confident. "In this beautiful moment, I request our principal ma'am to come forward and guide the students," she announced.
As our principal approached, the chatter among students hushed. She exuded an aura of authority mixed with warmth. "Good morning, dear students!" she began, her voice resonating with sincerity. "Today, we gather not just to celebrate our Republic, but to honor the values that make our nation great."
The principal's speech seemed to stretch on for hours, each minute feeling like an eternity. I shifted restlessly on the ground, wishing for the ceremony to move along. While I respected her dedication, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of frustration.
Finally, she wrapped up her long-winded address, and a wave of relief washed over the crowd. One by one, students took the stage to deliver their speeches. Swara stood out as she spoke passionately about 'Veer Savarkar.' Her words flowed beautifully, capturing the spirit of courage and resilience that reson deeply with all students.
As the speech section came to an end, Swara stepped up to the microphone again. "Now, I request Yash from Class 8(A) to come and sing a song for us," she announced, her voice ringing clear in the morning air. I noticed the brief flicker of hesitation on her face, as if she wanted to say something else—perhaps "pig" instead of "Yash"—but she quickly composed herself.
Yash, sitting just in front of me, stood up and made his way to the stage. I couldn't help but remember how his recent viral video had brought him unexpected fame. The principal had praised him publicly, saying kind words that now seemed to echo in his mind as he walked to the front. She had asked him to perform on Republic Day, and with no way to decline, he reluctantly agreed.
As he climbed the steps to the stage, I stifled a laugh at his misfortune.
As the ceremony drew to a close, I heard Kulkarni ma'am call out, "Gadkari, come here—and bring Yash with you." Her voice carried through the dispersing crowd, and I gave a small nod in acknowledgment. Glancing at Yash, I muttered, "Let's go." He simply nodded back. Together, we got up from the ground and made our way toward Kulkarni ma'am.
As we approached, I noticed Swara and a few other students standing beside her, a small cardboard box held in Swara's hands. Her gaze flickered to me as we drew nearer, but she quickly looked away. Kulkarni ma'am gestured towards the box. "These are pens and biscuit packets. Distribute them among the students," she instructed, her voice brisk yet kind.
I let out a quiet sigh. Of course, another task. I nodded in agreement, watching as she walked away, leaving us to handle the distribution.
Turning to Swara, I offered a smile, trying to lighten the mood. "I'll hold the box, and you can distribute them," I said, reaching out to take it from her hands. For a brief second, our eyes met, and as always, she didn't say a word—just gave a soft nod in her usual, silent way. It was something I had come to expect from her, yet it always left me feeling a little curious about what was going on in her mind.
Yash, still silent, picked up another box with the other students, and we made our way back toward the field, starting to hand out the pens and biscuit packets.
As Swara and I handed out the pens and biscuit packets to the girls, one of them smiled at me and said, "Thanks, Hari." I gave a nod, returning her smile. Then another girl chimed in, "Thanks, Hari." Before I could react, another echoed, "Thanks, Hari," followed by yet another, "Thank you, Hari."
With each "thank you," I could feel Swara's gaze harden beside me. She kept her expression neutral, but I knew her well enough to sense the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Finally, unable to hold back, she turned toward the girls and said in a flat tone, "Don't you girls see me? I'm the one distributing the stuff to you. Hari is just holding the box."
The girls didn't respond, but the tension was palpable. I looked over at Swara, catching the briefest flicker of irritation in her eyes. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she turned toward me. "And why are you smiling? Does it feel good to hear them all say 'Thank you, Hari'?" she asked, her voice carrying an edge of annoyance she couldn't quite hide.
I couldn't help but chuckle softly, shaking my head. "I'm not smiling because of them," I said, still grinning. "I'm smiling because I get to help you."
Her expression softened just a little at my words, though she didn't say anything. It wasn't much, but I could tell she wasn't quite as upset as before. Swara looked directly into my eyes, as if trying to gauge whether I was being genuine or just playing around. After a moment, she shifted her gaze back to the girls, continuing to distribute the packets without a word. Her silence said enough.
As we moved along, a group of senior girls approached us, all smiles. One of them spoke up, "Hari, are you free after this? Do you have any plans? If not, you can come with us."
Before I could even process the question, Swara cut in with a calm but firm voice, her face completely unreadable. "Hari is busy. He doesn't have time. Please move aside, we still have to distribute these to the other students."
The girls exchanged quick glances, their smiles faltering slightly as they turned to look at me, then at Swara. Without a word, they moved on, disappearing into the crowd.
Swara glanced at me, her expression as neutral as ever, but I could sense something beneath the surface. "Did you have any problem with what I just did?" she asked, her voice steady, almost challenging.
I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Why should I? No, I don't have any problem," I replied quickly, not wanting to stir any unnecessary tension.
She gave a small nod, then looked away, but I noticed the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It was subtle, but it was there. Seeing that, I couldn't help but let out a quiet sigh.
After we finished distributing the packets, Swara, Yash, and I, along with the other students, walked over to Kulkarni ma'am. I asked, "Ma'am, where should we put the remaining things?"
Kulkarni ma'am glanced at the boxes in our hands and replied, "Put them in your classroom."
We all nodded and began heading toward the stairs. As we reached the staircase, I suddenly heard a sharp thud behind me. Swara had slipped, her foot catching the edge of the step.
"Swara!" I exclaimed, immediately placing my box on the ground and rushing to her side. Kneeling beside her, I felt my heart race. "Are you okay, Swara?" I asked, my voice laced with concern.
The others quickly gathered around, echoing the same question, but my focus was entirely on her.
Swara winced, looking up at me with a pained expression. "I think I hurt my foot," she murmured, trying to hide the discomfort in her voice.
Without thinking, I gently took her hand, trying to offer some support. "Try to get up," I said softly.
She gave a small nod, and with my help, she slowly stood, her face tight with pain. Once she was on her feet, I kept a steady grip on her arm. "Can you walk?" I asked, my worry still evident.
Swara tried to take a step, but immediately winced, her face contorting in pain. "Ouch, that hurts," she muttered, unable to put weight on her foot.
Seeing this, I glanced at Yash and said, "You take the box, I'll help Swara." Yash nodded, but before anyone could react, I let go of her hand and, without thinking, scooped her up into a princess carry.
For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Swara stared up at me, wide-eyed and unblinking. I caught her gaze, my heart racing a little faster than I expected. Her face was so close, and for a second, the world around us felt distant.
"What the hell are you doing, Hari? Put her down!" Yash's voice broke through my thoughts. "If any teacher sees this, we're dead for sure!" he added, looking genuinely worried. The others nodded in agreement, clearly unsettled by what I'd just done.
But Swara didn't say a word. In fact, she was glaring at Yash, her expression sharp with irritation. She didn't seem embarrassed, just... annoyed that they were making a fuss.
I let out a small sigh, shaking my head as I smiled slightly. "Don't worry. No one's going to see us. Her foot is hurt, and the classroom is right there," I said, nodding toward the door just ahead of us. "It's not a big deal."
Yash hesitated, glancing nervously between us, but said nothing more. The others followed his lead, falling silent, though I could still feel their curious stares on us.
As I started walking, Swara's arms tightened around my neck, and for a brief moment, I felt her lean in closer. When I looked down at her, I saw something I wasn't expecting—a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Our eyes met, and the moment felt strangely intimate, as if we were the only ones there.
But Swara didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She just rested her head against my chest, quietly holding on. I could feel the warmth of her breath against my shirt. I let out another sigh, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness between us. I focused on reaching the classroom, forcing myself to ignore the way my heart raced every time I felt her arms tighten around me.
As we reached the classroom, I carefully set Swara down on the bench. I took a seat on the floor beside her, wanting to make sure she was comfortable.
"Why are you sitting on the ground?" she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.
I smiled up at her, trying to lighten the mood. "Don't worry, just give me a moment. Your foot pain will be gone in no time," I said, reaching out toward her foot.
But she quickly pulled it back, her expression shifting to annoyance. "What are you doing, Hari?"
I blinked in surprise, my hand hovering in mid-air. "I'm just trying to help you," I replied, still smiling, but my confusion deepened.
"NO! You don't have to. Don't touch my foot!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of frustration and insistence.
"Why?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.
Swara crossed her arms defensively, her cheeks flushed. "I just don't want you to touch my foot. Don't you have any self-respect?"
Hearing her protest, I let out an exasperated sigh. "What are you, a child? Stop talking nonsense. And yes, I don't have any self-respect, so close your mouth and stay still." I reached for her foot again, but she pulled it back defiantly.
"Now what?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I'll remove my shoes myself," she retorted, her determination shining through.
"Do whatever you want," I replied, leaning back slightly.
With a quick flick, she removed her shoes, and I gently took her foot in my hands. As I began to massage it, I felt a warm energy radiating from my peacock feather locket, its soft glow reflecting my desire to help her heal. A smile tugged at my lips as I looked up at her, noticing her eyes soften, the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit.
"By the way, I really liked your speech on Veer Savarkar," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "You know, he was more than just a revolutionary figure. He had a profound artistic side that often goes unnoticed." I continued, my fingers working gently on her foot. "He was an exceptional poet and writer, capable of weaving deep emotions into his works. During his imprisonment in the Cellular Jail, where conditions were brutal and isolation was immense, he didn't let despair crush his spirit. Instead, he turned to poetry, memorizing and reciting thousands of lines since he had no access to pen or paper. This act of creation became a form of resistance for him."
As I spoke, I noticed Yash and a few other classmates starting to gather nearby, intrigued by my words. They leaned in, curiosity evident on their faces. The atmosphere shifted slightly, turning our small moment into something communal.
Swara's gaze flickered between me and the growing group, a mixture of surprise and pride blooming in her expression. "You really think so?" she asked, her tone softer now, almost shy.
"Absolutely," I replied, keeping my voice warm and encouraging. "Your passion for the subject really came through. It inspired me—and clearly, it's inspiring others too."
I could see her chest swell with a mixture of pride and embarrassment, and I felt a warmth spread through me. She smiled shyly, and I couldn't help but grin back, the locket's glow subtly illuminating the space between us.
I smiled and continued, my words flowing with conviction. "His poetry wasn't just about patriotism; it reflected a deep connection to spirituality and the struggles of his people. Each verse echoed the pain and longing for freedom, inspiring countless individuals in their fight against colonial rule. He didn't stop at poetry, either—he penned plays and historical novels, like his account of the 1857 uprising. In that work, he portrayed it not merely as a rebellion but as a grand struggle for independence, framing it as a powerful narrative that rallied the spirit of nationalism."
As I spoke, I glanced at Swara, whose eyes were shining with newfound enthusiasm. "Savarkar's songs were infused with devotion and love for the country, often sung at gatherings of revolutionaries. They weren't just entertainment; they were calls to action, resonating deeply with those yearning for freedom. What's truly remarkable is how, despite facing unimaginable hardships, he transformed his pain into art."
My voice softened, allowing the weight of my words to settle. "His ability to channel such profound emotions into his writing and music speaks volumes about his character. It's a reminder that even in the darkest times, creativity can serve as a powerful tool for resistance and hope."
I continued, a smile illuminating my face as I shared the rich tapestry of our history. "You know, our country has been invaded by several foreign powers over the centuries. Take Alexander the Great, for example, who crossed the Indus River in the 4th century BCE, marking the beginning of a long history of foreign influence. Then, in the 1st century BCE, the Parthians from Persia swept in, seizing control of the northwestern regions. Following them were the Kushans, Central Asians who established a vast empire in northern India in the 1st century CE."
As I spoke, I could see my classmates leaning in, their curiosity piqued. "Fast forward to the 5th century CE, and the Huns invaded, leaving their mark on our land. In the 7th century, Arab invaders introduced Islam to India, particularly in Sindh. Then, from the 11th century onward, we faced the Turkic invasions, with leaders like Mahmud of Ghazni and Muhammad Ghori paving the way for Muslim rule in India."
I paused for a moment, letting the weight of history settle around us. "The Mughal Empire followed, founded in the early 16th century by Babur, a descendant of Timur and Genghis Khan. They established one of the most influential empires in Indian history. Then, in the late 15th century, European powers began to show up. The Portuguese arrived with Vasco da Gama in 1498, establishing trading posts along the western coast, while the Dutch entered the fray with the East India Company in the 17th century, focusing on trade."
The energy in the room shifted, and I could feel the anticipation building. "And then came the British, who gained control of large parts of India in the 18th century through the British East India Company. This eventually led to direct British rule after the Indian Rebellion of 1857, lasting until India's independence in 1947. The French were also part of this narrative, especially in Pondicherry, competing with the British for influence. And we can't forget the various Afghan and Persian invaders throughout history, including Ahmad Shah Durrani in the 18th century."
My voice softened, and I looked around the room, gauging my classmates' reactions. Their expressions reflected a mixture of awe and contemplation, as if they were connecting the dots of our shared history. "It's incredible to think about how our culture has been shaped by these encounters, how every invasion brought with it a blend of traditions, ideas, and resilience."
Swara's gaze met mine, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "It's like our history is a patchwork quilt," she mused. "Each piece tells a story of struggle and survival."
Hearing this, I smiled, my heart swelling with pride as I said, "But you know, despite all the challenges we've faced, our country still stands tall and proud." I glanced around, meeting their curious eyes, but when no one answered, I continued, my enthusiasm growing. "Because this is a land of gods, saints, sages, warriors, kings, and freedom fighters. Here, the sky itself paints a vibrant canvas of our identity, showcasing the colors of unity and diversity that define us."
As I spoke, I could feel the energy in the room shift, the weight of my words settling over my classmates. "In this land, spirituality flows through our rivers, and the whispers of ancient wisdom can be heard in our temples. Every corner tells a story—from the sacred chants of our gurus to the valor of our warriors who fought bravely for our freedom. Our country is a tapestry woven with threads of countless cultures, languages, and traditions."
I paused, allowing the imagery to resonate, and then added, "It's a place where festivals burst forth in a riot of colors, where the aroma of spices fills the air, and where the warmth of hospitality makes every visitor feel at home. This is a country where different religions—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, Buddhist, Jain, and others—coexist, sharing their lives and dreams."
Swara's eyes sparkled with intrigue as she listened. "Even amidst our differences and occasional problems, we've given birth to great kings like Chandragupta Maurya, Ashoka the Great, Raja Raja Chola I, Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, and Chatrapati Sambhaji Maharaj as well as remarkable warriors like Maharana Pratap. Our sages and philosophers—Vyasa, Adi Shankaracharya, and Chanakya—have left indelible marks on our culture. Saints like Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Swami Vivekananda continue to inspire us, while poets like Kabir, Mirabai, and Tulsidas remind us of the power of love and devotion."
The room felt charged, and I could see my classmates nodding along, captivated by the tapestry of history I was weaving. "Let's not forget our brilliant scientists—Aryabhata, Brahmagupta, Bhaskara I, C. V. Raman, and S. N. Bose—who expanded the boundaries of knowledge. Even King Porus, who ruled a region called Paurava in present-day Punjab, is remembered for his epic battle against Alexander in 326 BCE."
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a more reverent tone. "It's because of these legacies that our country continues to stand proudly. Whenever this Bhumi of gods falls into darkness, great souls are reborn time and again, reminding humanity of its true essence, urging us to remember our humanity."
As I finished speaking, a heavy silence settled in the room, the weight of our shared history hanging in the air. Just when I thought I'd captured their hearts, a loud sound of clapping broke the stillness. I quickly turned towards the classroom door, my heart racing, and saw Kulkarni ma'am standing there with several other teachers and students, their hands coming together in enthusiastic applause.
Kulkarni ma'am smiled warmly and called out, "That was a wonderful thought and speech, Gadkari! Why didn't you share this on stage before? It's truly inspiring!"
A flush of warmth spread through me, and I grinned, replying, "Thanks, ma'am! Maybe next time."
She nodded approvingly, her eyes twinkling with encouragement. But then her smile faded slightly as she asked, "But now, can you tell me why you're sitting on the ground holding Swara's foot?"
Panic surged through me as I glanced down at my hand, still gently cradling Swara's foot. My mind raced, and I looked up to find Swara's face flushed bright red, her eyes wide in embarrassment. My heart sank as I realized how this must look, and I quickly shifted my gaze back to Kulkarni ma'am and the other teachers, a nervous smile plastered on my face.
"I, um... I can explain!" I stammered.
(A/N: I want to talk about Hari's peacock feather locket. This locket fulfills Hari's good desires, such as helping others, and sometimes it works on its own due to Hari's subconscious mind. Since Hari doesn't have any supernatural powers, you can think of this locket as his soul bond artifact.)
(Word's Count:-3668)