Annual Celebrations & Perennial Nonchalance

Time: 09:00 hrs

Date: 15.08.2011

Place: Garden Swing

It had stopped drizzling a short while back, clouds and sunshine were busy in their usual duel thereby benefiting the earthlings. Patriotic melodies resounded yet again and 'desh-prem' was once again call of the hour. Beloved 'tiranga' manifested its presence via all possible media. Cell phone inboxes and facebook walls were flooded with Happy Independence Day wishes. Nationalism ruled and with every agency trying to strike the best deal out of the prevailing sentiments, commercialism ruled as well.

I myself had done my bit; by playing one of my favourite Independence Day tracks. As I swayed on the swing, absorbing the environment and allowing the patriotism to strike the right chords inside my heart, I could feel something not so right about it. Struggling hard to figure out the nagging thorn, my mind searched through each one of the 15th August spent in past.

I remembered my pre-primary years, where on every eve of I-Day and R-Day, we painted the tricolour on white sheets. Our teachers added the finishing touches to the flags by drawing the 24 blue spokes. The next day we would hold the flags high and march around in unmatched steps looking as cute as tiny tots do. Though these painting sessions ended with the onset of primary education, yet holding a tricolour high on those days remained a high point throughout my school days. What was to be the fate of those venerated sheets of paper after the patriotic surge had subsided fell under my mother's purview. In those days, I never allowed myself to be burdened by such lesser causes.

Playing out loud 'desh-bhakti' numbers, attending flag hoisting ceremonies at school (and some times at my father's office), watching the 2 p.m. I-Day special movie on Doordarshan, quite summed up the physical activities I indulged into on a regular I-Day. It was followed by an unyielding demand to be taken on a sight seeing tour of the city in the evening. The beautifully decorated government buildings made them quite a sight. All these acts made me feel that I-Day was something special, something to be cherished forever. However, the charm of I-Day was not a consequence of these activities. These pursuits simply added to the flavour. The most prominent feature of the whole affair was the fervent enthusiasm that came from within. And yes, now I had nailed the nagging thorn, the enthusiasm was not as fervent now as it used to be.

A candid confession: from past 4 years I had been looking forward to the national holidays as a method to save leaves and escape the confines of my office. I still feel enthusiastic about the celebrations, but the passion has begun to dwindle. Disillusionment has begun to replace dreams, negativity is eating its way into the hopeful heart, and a sense of helplessness is spreading like a cancer polluting the heart and soul. 'Iska kuch nahi ho sakta' has become the favourite punch line for every situation.

Now, my heart often questions my intent saying 'why do I remember my country only on the 15th of August and 26th of January?' It asks me that instead of flying tricolours only twice a year, why don't I work for country and try to bring about the changes that are needed. Why do, on the remaining 363 days, I take the 'Let it be' stand and am unable to produce a voice loud enough to be heard. Why do I prefer to be a passive observer of the constitutional injustices around me? Why even on the 15th of August, do I feel content by just humming Jan Gan Man in the morning and then proceed to spend the remaining day as yet another holiday? I think that I am simply scared to take an initiative because I feel that I am not well equipped and am alone in my fight; but is this the only truth? Is the only thing stopping me is this monophobia?

As I continued swinging, my heart treaded further on the path of introspection. Done with the scrutiny of carefree childhood I-Days, it was now busy analysing the mature ones, and, let me be very frank, it happens to be my most critical critic. The first finger it raised was towards the language of my thoughts. I tried to deviate it and responded that there were still 45 days for ‘Hindi’ Diwas. It had bigger issues to trouble me and therefore relented on this one. The next issue it mentioned left me speechless. It asked, ‘How much longer do I plan to be the silent passerby?’ I had no replies to offer.

Restless, I left my coveted seat and started strolling. My thoughts all jumbled were quite a contrast to the firm footfalls. I could not recall the first time when missing the flag hoisting had not raised a pang of guilt, but I did know that I have been quite irregular on this front of late. Of course, I have stopped making/purchasing my own tricolour because I am unable to undertake the responsibility of safekeeping them once the celebrations are done with. However, these were not the only things bothering me. In fact, this was just the tip of the iceberg. Attending or missing the morning ceremony doesn’t seem to make much a difference. At heart, I love my country; but then was love alone sufficient? Further, was my duty, as a citizen, limited to standing in attention to the tune of the national anthem when the tricolour flutters high, on the annual occasions and for the remaining year was I supposed to be oblivious to the issues ailing my motherland?

When I was young, I often fantasised about fighting against British for our independence. With a childish sadness I used to regret having been born after 1947. However, even then, I could sense that my country was not fully free from its woes and I made a hundred thousand promises to myself that when I grow up, I shall definitely work towards making a difference. Now, my heart jeered, ‘How more will I have to grow before putting my thoughts into action?’ I retorted that I was struggling hard to do justice to all my responsibilities, personal and professional, and that I tried to do full justice to my systems in terms of quality and longevity. The furious heart, burning with piled up frustrations, snapped back vehemently. ‘So, now doing regular office duty, for which one gets paid, also comes under the category of greatness? These are truly desolate times in that case’, it yelled at me.

The practical mind was still busy devising methods to get the heart off ‘this’ track, however, my conscience knew that I had been a lazy being. Heart and mind continued their debate for as long as they wished, and I became an observer once again. I knew which was right and which was practical and had no courage to side with either. In past, I have resolved and re-resolved umpteen times, however, my resolutions have yet not been powerful enough to bring about a change in my inertial state. Swinging or strolling, debating or distracting, I knew that nothing shall come out of it unless resolutions turned into ideas and ideas were shaped into action.

Engrossed in this mental mess, I struggled hard to come out, but to no avail. Perhaps my conscience was regaining some of its strength, however, just then I heard the main gate being thrown open. With a jerk I came back to practical realm and watched my husband returning from the flag hoisting ceremony at his office. The heart had just one last observation to make, ‘Amidst the nonchalant behaviour upheld throughout the year, at least some had not given up on annual celebrations as well.’