In streetswhere morning spices rise,
and dreams are stitched in tired eyes,
India breathes in many tones—
temples, traffic, ringing phones.
We walk where ancient rivers run,
beneath the same unyielding sun,
yet shadows fall on equal ground—
some lost, while others wear the crown.
A child learns letters on a wall,
another studies in a mall-lit hall,
two worlds that pass but rarely meet,
sharing the same restless street.
We celebrate our festivals bright,
diyas dancing in the night,
but somewhere voices go unheard,
their silence heavier than a word.
Technology blooms like monsoon rain,
yet hearts still carry olden pain,
between progress and the past we
stand,
with hope and worry hand in hand.
We speak of change in speeches loud,
lost sometimes in a restless crowd,
but every step, however small,
is still a step—it matters all.
Let unity not be just a phrase,
lost in slogans or fleeting praise,
but lived in kindness, choice by choice,
in every unheard, human voice.