He was a patriot, he knew all the songs,
that were sung on Independence Day.
He stood up and saluted the flag,
when the anthem played.
He paid his taxes.
He cheered the team with the blue jerseys.
He raised his family with pride.
For he was an honorable man.
His neighbors were a bit odd.
They painted their house green.
They cooked and ate cows.
And did not salute the motherland.
They even burst firecrackers,
When the team in the green jerseys won.
Or it may have been Eid.
But who really knows anything about them.
He and his kin were the saviors of honor and tradition.
They, were leeches.
With such breakers of dharm,
how can the country progress?
Years passed, festivals were celebrated.
Every Diwali, homemade sweets were sent to the neighbors'.
For we were civilized. We were noble.
Their house seemed quiet today.
The goats and the chickens were all gone.
They were selling their property.
"Good riddance," said our educated son.
We went over, as kindly neighbors.
We muttered words of farewell, but we didn't inquire why.
They were moving, they said, back to where they came from.
Now, what was left for them here?
I felt they never belonged here, with us, anyway.
A hearse drove in just then, with a coffin draped in the Tricolour.
The neighbors were saluted by stiff soldiers, who had done this before.
And then they left, leaving the coffin behind.
The mother looked away. The father told us their son was killed in Kargil.
Oh, I said. For I, was an honorable man.
