Suddenly my very humble index finger has started getting proud.

All these years, it’s been an obedient little fellow — pointing out directions, poking elevator buttons, stirring sugar into tea, and occasionally wagging at my dog when he chewed my slippers. But this week, with the Bihar and Mumbai municipal elections around the corner, the finger’s developed an attitude.

“I’m the most important one now!” it declared as I reached for my morning cup. “One little press from me can change a nation!”

I tried reasoning with it. “You’re exaggerating,” I said. “You’re just one finger among ten.”

“Ah,” said the finger smugly, “but I’m the chosen one. The Election Commission itself has decreed it. On polling day, they’ll honour me with a royal purple mark — proof that democracy bows before me! No other finger in your hand can claim that.”

It’s true, isn’t it? That indelible ink, placed on the left index finger, transforms this humble digit into a national hero. For a few days, it walks around dressed in violet pride, while all the other fingers look on in silent envy.

And oh, how that ink glows! No amount of soap, sanitizer, or scrubbing can erase it. Not even guilt washes it off if you voted for the wrong person. It’s the one tattoo that doesn’t just show where you’ve been, but what you’ve done — a mark of choice, of voice, of responsibility.

But I must admit, my finger’s pride isn’t misplaced. Because for one brief shining moment, it is democracy itself — standing tall, pointing not to accuse, but to affirm: I have voted.

And yet, how quickly we let that pride fade! Once the ink disappears, so does our memory of what it meant. We stop pointing this finger at corruption, at rapes and lynchings, and broken promises. We use it instead to scroll through social media and forward political jokes.

“Do you know what hurts me most?” asked my finger today, sulking.
“What now?” I sighed.
“That I only matter once in five years! You show me off for a selfie, then forget I even exist!”

I couldn’t argue with that. Because it’s true — this little finger of mine, when used right, can topple governments, uplift the honest, and remind those in power who put them there.

So yes, my humble index finger has every right to be proud. Because in a land full of fingers pointing blame, this one points the nation in the right direction.

And when you see yours inked in that majestic shade of purple, let it wave high — not in arrogance, but in gratitude.

For it is not just a mark on your finger. It’s the signature of a citizen on the story of a nation.

Now wouldn’t that make even the thumb salute?

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