With voiceover by me (& apologies for the background noise. I erred somewhere).
For the first time in my life I am feeling like writing about India1 and how it feels to celebrate Independence Day. That itself is an achievement, considering that I usually shy away from this subject. I have made no secret of the fact that I am not a nationalist and can just barely call myself patriotic. A lot of times, I really am indifferent to being in India or outside it. I have no special affection or bias for someone just because they are Indian and I can make friends just as easily with people of any nationality. In other countries, I do not suddenly feel like talking to someone just because they are Indian. I don’t always “vibe” with people just because they are Indian. I do not “hang out” with people just because they are Indian. I do not long for dal-roti-chaval outside India. I can eat anything vegetarian2. I do not have tears in my eyes when I see the Indian flag. I do not tune into Indian TV channels or listen to Bollywood songs outside India just to feel “okay”. I do not miss speaking Hindi anywhere.
I will admit to eating a lot at Indian restaurants outside India—but mainly because they have more wholesome vegetarian food choices.
But when I am returning to India after being away for some time, at that one moment of touchdown, something rushes through my veins—a feeling of being “home”—India! I remember this one moment from 2007 (I think). I had been away for almost 2.5 months or so. The flight landed in Mumbai in the middle of the night. A light drizzle was pattering on the plane window. At that moment of touchdown, I felt fully awake and excited. I was back. I was home.
So then what is it that makes us sometimes exasperated and sometimes proud to be in India? To be Indian?
I believe it is not the people or their habits, or the institutions or the government or even the land by itself that makes someone happy or proud to be a part of this country. It is something else. Something far more subtle.
At this point I will refer to this poignant quote from The Last Kingdom.
“What binds a man to a land? You have a poor wretch, toiling in the fields. Burning in summer, shivering in winter. He works all day every day for nothing more than a loaf of bread and a pot to piss in. His children die of disease, his wife dies giving him children. Yet when that land is threatened, something stirs. Why?
It is the land that feeds him.
More than that.
That the trees off the land are used for shelter, fire.
More than that.
Is it love, Father?
Oh, for the Lord's sake, can you not remain quiet? But, yes, the bastard has it. It can only be love. It is a powerful thing.—The Last Kingdom
It is a love we grow over the years without even being aware of it. In a way, we love a thousand little little things, all of which have roots in this land. It is an unbroken bond of love. Love over the centuries, passed on from one generation to another like an invisible baton. Not something verbally said. Not some object gifted. Just a feeling that one imbibes from the others and so on and so forth.
Many who loved this land and their freedom gave their lives for it willingly. They knowingly put their lives in threat and when the moment arrived, they jumped into the fire of sacrifice. Our “rulers” were shocked and jolted to see this daring, this bravery, this fearlessness in the face of death in our people. They were not soldiers. They were not warriors. They were ordinary people, fighting for their right to exist as per their values, their culture, their minds. They had had enough. Enough of the suppression, enough of the insults, enough of the “holier than thou” highhandedness. They were ready.
This love which hundreds of thousands gave to this country is what nurtures this land. Their high values, extreme bravery and sacrifice is what we have imbibed through the centuries. We may not even know who these people were. But they left their marks in the hearts of those around them. This love is what we all continue to keep as a legacy in our hearts, without knowing it. And some day, when the moment suddenly arrives, you may get goosebumps at touchdown. And then wonder—where did that come from?
I will not rant about how Indian culture still needs a thousand reforms—both, institutionally as well as individually. We all know that. We hate people spitting in public places. We hate people breaking queues, not following traffic rules, cutting corners, pushing files around, and so and so forth. But that alone is not India. To be Indian doesn’t mean you are a part of that shoddiness. No. Being Indian means that you are somehow a part of that circle of love of all of our ancestors, sometimes without even knowing it. Love has no logic, is not bound by time or space and is not explicable. It just is. You can’t deny it when you see it there. That, to me, is what it means to be an Indian. I have an inexplicable love for India.
I do not believe that “India” is somehow less authentic a name for the country than “Bharat.” Both have history to them. Megasthenes first wrote a book “Indika” circa 250 BC describing this land. The word had origins in the Sanskrit word “Indu”, from which come the words “Indus” and “Hindu” as well. “Indu” is related to “Sindhu” which has been mentioned in all our historical and sacred texts. “Bharat” is an ancient word as well, and refers to the land of King Bharat. Both the words are just as important to me and I will not entertain half-baked comments on what I should be addressing my country as.
Not exactly “anything” vegetarian. I do not eat items with yeast or mushrooms.
Beautifully written
A true civilizational state, well captured in "Love over the centuries, passed on from one generation to another like an invisible baton. Not something verbally said. Not some object gifted. Just a feeling that one imbibes from the others and so on and so forth".