A white strip seperated two steel gates. A few hundred of us stood on one side of the first gate, a few hundred on the other side of the second. The evening sun painted the sky a marvellous shade of orange, a shade that spread equally beyond both the gates, as if bringing a message from the heavens, a message of what was meant to be, and not what actually was. Ironically enough, the potrait of the man stood atop a pillar beyond the other gate, the man because of whom it actually was. The people on the other side, they looked so much like us, any of them could have been standing next to me and I would not have been surprised. But they were not, they were on the other side, seperated by a white line and some black text. I stood at India's close, and saw India's reflection in those eyes that looked at me curiously from the other side, just as I looked at them, with a bit of regret, a bit of hatred and a bit of hope.
'Hindustan Zindabad' we would say loudly.
'Jeeve Jeeve Pakistan' would be their reply.
 We danced to Rang de Basanti on the last part of the road that was rightly ours, oblivious to their shouting, oblivious to all our problems, celebrating our country, no matter how good or bad it has been to us. And I saw the spirit of India, as it rejoiced in its unity, in its freedom and in its existence. We were not celebrating a festival, we were celebrating ourselves and showing our neighbours what we truly are. Maybe I am biased, but we were so much louder and definitely better dancers ( they didn't dance, you see ). But there was just that pang of regret at what could have been if that potrait had not been there, if we had shared all the shades of our lives, like we shared the shades of the skies.