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I wake up to the chorus of the good old hindi song
“Jahan daal daal par sone ki chidiya karti hai basera
Woh bharath desh hai mera! Woh bharath desh hai mera!”
coming from the loudspeakers in the gully. The music ringing in my ears, of veena, of violin and of the sweet nightingale voices of chorus singers singing in unison, fills me with hope of a bright day to look forward to.
By the time I am brushing, the song changes to “Hai preet jahan ki reet sada” and I start humming along, with the toothbrush in my mouth.
I can hear the hustle bustle in the gully, outside. My vivacious aunty, “Chittakka” as we all used to call her, is constantly shouting orders to Kashi anna, Virenderanna, Sureshanna and numerous other “annas” of our gully, who were trying hard to match the pace of their work, with the pace of my aunty’s commands. Small size paper flags were being glued to long ropes, which would then be tied high up, from one electric pole to another. A huge bamboo pole from our house was being decorated for flag hoisting, which was reserved for this special purpose for as far as I could remember.
As I pour hot water on my head, the song changes to “Mere desh ki dharti sona ugle” and I start doing bhangra in the bathroom. By the time I am all dressed up in the school uniform, neatly ironed by my mother the previous night, tiffin is ready on the table. I struggle with the hot idlies, and the even hotter milk, while my mom is tying my shoelaces.
I shout “Amma, veltunna!” from the gate and start walking speedily up the gully, hearing my mother in the background scolding me, “Velli vastha anaali”. I look up at all the annas, some tying up ropes on electric poles and some tying the flag to the bamboo pole, and they all smile back at me. I approach and hug Chittakka, who is more than happy to give me three chocolates, which are strictly for after-ceremony distribution only, and I feel special and elated. But halfway up the gully, I meet the evil Rambabu who scares me by saying that I would shit in my pants if I eat those before the flag hoisting. I say “But I already ate one!”. He gives me some small stones and says “Put these in your pants pockets! These will stop your bowels from excreting” and takes away the rest of my chocolates.
As I stride towards the school, I am joined by my classmates coming from various directions. By the time we reach the school front gate, an announcement is already being made to assemble on the terrace for the prayer. We hurry upstairs, struggling to make our way through the crowd. Our teachers pick each one of us and fill up the empty positions in the rows of students.
The principal pulls the rope and the flag opens up flapping in the wind, like the petals of a sunflower spreading wide upon seeing the sun. Then commences our national anthem. We all try to sing in unison, some closing eyes, some looking at the flag, and some looking down and admiring their shining shoes, but the result always comes out as a cacophony of voices. The cultural programs start, testing the patience of us young minds. After what seems to be an eternity, when even our teachers get irritated by the burning sun, they put our suffering to an end, much to our pleasure and the disappointment of the students who were still waiting to perform on stage. Then comes the best part – chocolate distribution. We depart in the same way as we entered, starting in one queue, and exiting in many.
I have no time to waste, as I have one more Independence day ceremony to attend to, my own gully’s. We live in a small basti, with many gullies, each one leading to ten others, making it more confusing than a maze. Each gully has its own flag hoisting ceremony. My friends and I pick up chocolates from two more gully ceremonies as we pass through them. I finally reach my gully and every one is assembled in front of our gate. There are Kashi anna, Virendranna and Sureshanna who are hard workers. They come collecting for chanda’s two days before, and my mom’s chanda would always be the same : 10 Rs. only. And there is Chittakka, the supervisor of all celebrations.
The flag on the big bamboo stick, is ready to be pulled out of its hibernation. Sometimes the Basti President would come and hoist the flag. Sometimes some MLA would tour around the basti, before an election of course, hoisting up flags in all the gullies serially, like a raging bullet. This time there was none. I run and stand up beside my grandfather. He smiles at me, and then proceeds to pull the rope. I almost feel like a chief guest, as though they were all waiting for me. The flag waves high in the air, showering flowers on all the persons below. As I relish the taste of Eclairs in my mouth, I hope that these good times shall never end.
But all good times do. The number of gullies hosting the flag in our basti started decreasing year by year, until our gully was the only one. Kashi anna and Virenderanna’s family moved out. My aunt Chittakka got married. By the time I was in 10th even my gully had stopped hoisting the flag. Patriotism was dying in the heart of the common man. Perhaps the growing regional and religious identities took over its place. There were no Lata Mangeshkar’s singing “Aye mere watan ke logo” nor any AR Rahman’s composing “Maa tujhe salaam”. Flag hoisting was now, just limited to schools and political party offices.
The idea of a community was being dissipated. Public grounds were being converted into parking places. Community life, which was the central piece, common to all the civilizations which took abode in India, is now being destroyed in the mask of globalisation and westernisation. And the advent of computers has aggravated this. A person’s community life is now limited to the apps on their phone. He likes the status of his online friend, but he gives a “mind your own business” look to his next door neighbour. I wonder now, if the world around me has really changed, or is it just my view of the world that has. And if the world has really changed, am I a part of the change? Am I responsible for the change?
These pieces are being published as they have been received – they have not been edited/fact-checked by ThePrint.