Patriotism? Racism? Simplism

 

When I hold my daughter - so gold and fair,

With her grey eyes and bright hair,

(For you know not - in India - what it means.

To be fair is exotic, not in native genes!

To make you whiter, here creams are sold!)

It’s such a pleasure, my daughter, I behold.

She came running to me, in my arms

Her eyes were bleary and cheeks warm.

“They call me foreigner, I don’t know why?”

Her complains were many and sobs high.

"I don't want fairness, make me wheatish;

For I am an Indian, I am no British.

They have ruled over us for so many years.

But I will only love.” She was in tears.