This is a love letter. Like all love letters, this is full of emotional truths, however much one may quibble about facts.
My dear India,
I’ve been meaning to write this letter for a long time. Don’t be alarmed. I still love you. But there are things I need to tell you, if this relationship is going to work out. You might not change. That’s up to you.
My words may sound pretentious and judgmental. So be it. But I need you to hear me.
Ever since I heard of you, I wanted to meet you. The way your people dress, with their colorful robes and swirling turbans. Their amazing cooking, with cone-shaped towers of powders—reds and yellows, sizzled into the juices of a subji. Or seeds of cumin mixed among cauliflower-parathas. Your amazing life and history, with philosopher kings and queens roaming your lands, bowing down to sages giving divine benedictions. Incarnations of gods and God have brushed their feet over your grasses. Green fields burst with bounties in your south…
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