Some twenty years had gone since Caring, a well known couturier in his town, had last seen his small but beautiful country, Machismud.
By then, Caring had turned a quinquagenarian, though he had been still getting visions of his youthful days that had passed by him since his migration from his country to a distant country, Nevadud. He had the distinction of having had designed & tailored (first of) his country's national flag for which special reason solely he had developed in his patriotic heart a unique nostalgic attachment to the flag. Two decades before, he would always in obeisance salute & kiss Machismud' flag wherever & whenever that was hoisted, unfurled and waved by the Machismudians amid playing of bugles, chanting of slogans & clapping of hands from all sides.
He had also placed a stick-flag of his country in interior showcase of his shop which he would salute every morning by a silent gesture of loving smile. Honestly, the flag was worth adoration as it was enchanting & alluring like heart-captivating picturesque sight of Nature or stunning beauty of a woman.
But then, misery fell, when Machismud started getting continual incursions by Barbarud, a belligerent bordering country, disturbing its whole life wholly; and from that time on, Caring was no more receiving clients for designing or tailoring of clothes & after total invasion, & ultimate usurpation of Machismud, by Barbarud, he struggled hard for long to revive his old business or get a job but could not make either. So, ultimately and compulsively Caring, a tramp, had to migrate to a faraway country, Nevadud, where he found a cutter's job in a small garment factory. But the painful memory of the fall of his beautiful country, Machismud, to an aggression of aggressor, Barbarud, in which his country had lost its existence, like a smooth young-face getting lost behind shadowing-wrinkles of its old face, had been bombarding his mind all the time.
Every single view of Nevadudian flag in that country had been reminding Caring of his own country's flag which was his creation and admiration.
He madly yearned to hoist & salute his own country's flag in Nevadud whenever he was occasioned to see the Nevadudians waving & cheering their country's flag on their important days. But, the cruel rules of Nevadud prohibiting display of his country's flag there augmented his pain like that of a lovelorn.
He had been eagerly awaiting someone in Nevadud carrying a flag of his country so that his eyes would get comforted by its blessing-sight. And then, one fine morning when workers were arriving at the garment factory, he saw a lady co-worker walking down the factory-hall clad in a dress that fully tallied with the colours and contours, designs & symbols, of his former country's flag.
He, thus, in a frantic state of mind grievously mistook the elegantly walking-lady as his former country's flying–flag by standing up from his seat, moving towards, saluting and suddenly hugging 'his flag'. He then broke down in ceaseless stream of tears like torrents pouring down from a ruptured-nimbus on a summer afternoon or water gushing out from deep crevices of cold rock of an old mountain; the scene was like the life being restored to a dead man or youth being returned to an old man.
The gasping young 'flag-lady' finding herself miserably in an inexplicable predicament by Caring' wild action repulsed his 'assault' by pushing him away from her hourglass-body, followed by sobs on her lips, tears in her eyes and redness in her cheeks. The co-workers watching all that had happened, but that should not have happened, said to the sobbing-soul, 'Caring is a maniac; he is obsessed with flag-love of a country that has lost its existence two decades ago……he being a maniac understands not.