I almost forgot what day it was today, until I read this really lovely post by K on her Indian Independence Day memories. She writes:

"The best year was the one where I got to be Jhansi ki Rani. I got my own green sari, heaps of fake pearl necklaces, a sword (!!!), a baby doll, and my very own chorus. The chorus was amazing, I on the other hand wasn't. I forgot to do the sword swinging thing at the right time and the song was almost over when I finally understood what my teachers were hissing about. I decided to swing the sword during the sad bit of the song. And no, it wasn't as dramatic as one would have hoped."

Since such dramatic possibilities have been too few in my childhood and youth (I suppose this early drama deprivation partly explains why I blindly plow into red flag waving, skull & bones painted tragik drama filled relationships now?), the only Independence Day memory I have is one from third grade. On that glorious morning, I went to school carrying armloads of white roses (my parents had this prolific rose vine; it was later destroyed at my father's orders, thus turning me into an incurable memoirist) to put inside the Tricolor. Subsequent to the ceremony, as I was waiting for my father to pick me and my sister up on his (Bajaj) Chetak, I took to leaping between desks in my classroom, playing an unruly boyish game of rubberband war* with my mates.

As fate would have it, I tripped and fell in such a fabulous fashion that my mouth hit against the edge of a desk, turning me into an instant Hanuman. Luckily neither of my badly bruised lips required stitches. But on second thought, maybe be I was unlucky for had I had a few lip stitches, I could have turned into that brooding hottie Joaquin Phoenix. No luck either, O Bajarang Bali! So this explains why I forget what it is today until K's post reminded me of it. Anyway, Happy Swatantra Diwas mere bhaiyon aur behanon (except all those ladies whom I can still potentially "plow" into).

*Rubberband War: To play this exciting game, you need a couple of strong rubberbands; lots of paper that you roll into fat little V-shaped pellets; the rubberband is wrapped around your index and middle finger; the paper pellet is hooked onto the rubberband; the gunsight-like V formed by the fingers is aimed at the foe; the rubberband is distended as far back as possible and fired; the pellet, usually aimed at the head and neck area, makes contact and causes a welt to be formed. This is paintball for real boys.