Love is a responsibility that matures you, and if you are in love, you cherish the greying.
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A new generation of historians are bringing the subject out of the shadow of Marx and Nehru, fulfilling its role of restoring civilisational pride among Indians.
The BJP, with its insistence on the purity of Hindu Rashtra, would sadly reduce the soaring generosity of their founding vision to the petty bigotry of majoritarian chauvinism.
Historiography under previous governments can, and should, be contested. But history that’s being rewritten under the present government is not merely to eulogise some leaders, but also, and more worryingly, to condemn several chapters of the past.
If love is blind, as it should be, it sees no colour, and its own shade is on display for those who are not in love. I began my love in blue and pink as defined by the gender-police. My own colour was green, albeit the season of spring had rolled out since paving for the winter where shades of grey had gained notoriety and grace.
If love is blind, it reads the temperature. Rainbow is a warm black. Smoking gun. The sacrifices stream gooey penumbra.
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