The Morning the Flag Danced

The morning of August 15 always felt different—magical, almost sacred. I remember my mother gently shaking me awake, the comforting scent of starch clinging to my freshly ironed white uniform. My little tricolor badge lay on the table, beside my head girl badge—a tiny emblem of pride that made my heart flutter.

Then came the honk outside, familiar and thrilling—the school rickshaw had arrived. Unlike kids today, we didn’t have cars or buses. The rickshaw was our tiny vessel of adventure. We piled in, trying to balance on its narrow seat, laughter spilling into the still, sleepy streets. The wind carried the scent of spices from early morning markets, the warm aroma of jalebis frying, the comforting steam of chai from roadside stalls, and the faint perfume of flowers blooming along the lanes. Patriotic songs, tricolor flags waved from every corner, and vendors selling tricolor flag called out in cheerful chaos—the city itself seemed to celebrate with us. Every face we passed smiled, and the streets felt alive with joy.

As we approached the school, the faint echoes of the dhol reached us, growing louder, more insistent. Inside, the school had been transformed into a little world of color. Marigold garlands draped the gates, paper flags fluttered from every wall, and a small stage glowed in orange, white, and green. As head girl, I had helped prepare it all, and seeing the results filled me with quiet pride.

Backstage, I checked the final arrangements. Everything was ready. Students gathered and assembled as per their class divisions, voices buzzing with excitement. The principal approached the flagpole, her hand steady on the rope. And then—the flag unfurled, catching the first golden rays of sunlight, its colors dancing in the breeze as we sang Vande Mataram. My voice trembled—not because I forgot the words, but because something warm and profound bloomed in my chest. Pride, gratitude, and joy intertwined, a feeling I have never forgotten.

The cultural program began. Younger children danced, celebrating the unity of India, while seniors acted out Bhagat Singh’s courage. And then came my favorite part—pedha. Warm, slightly sticky, sweet, and comforting, it made the morning feel complete. We sat on the ground, laughing, sharing stories, savoring the simple pleasure of being together.

Even now, decades later, whenever I see a fluttering tricolor flag, I am transported back to that schoolyard—the smell of marigolds, the laughter of friends, the taste of sweet pedha, the feel of the cool morning breeze. I am once again a seventh grader with sparkling eyes, mesmerized by the flag dancing joyfully against a brilliant blue sky. That memory, like the colors of the flag, stays vivid—warm, tender, and alive.