The Lie That Becomes the Truth

My thoughts on how we communicate with our kids vs Americans, and how that affects our children’s confidence even as adults.. and how we have let the world make us believe we as Indians have too many flaws, although we are one of the best

Let the Lie Not Become the Truth
(A poem for those who remember who we are)

They say—
A lie, said a million times,
Becomes the truth.
And so we swallowed it whole:
That they are freer, smarter, stronger.
That we are shadows of what we could be.
That confidence belongs in accents not our own.

But I saw it—
There, in the belly of the Grand Canyon.
A child, no older than mine,
Struggling. Breathless. Small.
Yet his father didn’t say,
“You’re strong,”
Or “You did well,”
Or “We’re almost there.”

**He said—
“Look around. You’re the youngest here.
You’re inspiring them.
Do you know what an example you’re setting?”**

And in that moment,
A story was born.
Not of struggle,
But of significance.
Not of tired legs,
But of leadership.
He didn’t just hike that canyon—
He became it.

And I stood still—
Not from awe of the rocks or river—
But from the weight of what we’ve lost.

Because what do we tell our children?
That we are victims?
That we are late to freedom?
That we are daughters of fear,
And sons of silence?

But listen:
A war was fought for Sita.
Another for Draupadi.
We are born from fire and justice.
Our gods bow to goddesses—
Durga, Annapurna, Bhoo Devi.
We are not a land of shame—
We are a land of storms.

We were the first to elect a woman.
We wrote laws for working mothers
Without debate.
We legalized love
Without burning flags.
We honored courage in black and white frames
Long before hashtags and headlines.

And still—
They call us the rape capital.
Yet I walk my streets at midnight, unafraid—
More than I ever did
In sunlit corners of foreign cities.

Do you see?
America taught its children
That they were the greatest—
Not because it was true,
But because it was told.
Again and again.
In every book.
Every flag.
Every father’s voice.

And we?
We strip ourselves in front of our children.
We mock our temples.
We shame our tongues.
We speak of our country
As if love for it were ignorance.
We confuse pride with arrogance.
We hand our children a cracked mirror
And ask them to smile into it.

So—
Let the lie not become the truth.
Let our stories not turn to ashes
On the tongues of our sons.
Let our daughters not believe
That power comes only
In borrowed names.

Tell them—
Of battles and beauty.
Of softness wrapped in steel.
Of a heritage that does not shout—
But stands.
Still.
Strong.
Unshaken.

Let pride not be a weapon—
But a spine.
A quiet certainty.
A sacred weight.

Say it.
Sing it.
Write it.
Rage it—
Until the next time a child climbs a mountain,
They already know:
They are not lucky to be here.
They are meant to be.