Old world nationalism

Ira Pande

As the 75th anniversary of our country’s Independence draws near, there is a burst of patriotism — perhaps the more appropriate word is jingoism — as all political parties try to upstage each other in celebrating it. There is a Tiranga yatra with people zooming across towns and cities waving the Tricolour, public buildings are going to fly huge national flags (for the first time they are made of polyester, not khadi), while private homes and cars will be encouraged to display mini Tricolour flags. There is nothing wrong in doing this: after all, we have all seen just recently how USA celebrates the Fourth of July with spectacular fireworks and private homes proudly draping a flag on their front doors or postboxes.

What worries some is the scale and encouragement of a state-supported national fervour. If, for instance, someone of another faith decides not to follow the trend, there is always a possibility that it may mark him out as anti-national. This is not a good feeling to have about a neighbour or of someone who holds an independent view. In these fraught times, this is a slippery slope and we must be aware of it. On the other hand, participating in this movement must not be construed as endorsing everything that the present government is doing. So, instead of being a wave that unites us all, the Azadi Ka Amrit Mahotsav may end up as an event that creates unpleasant divisions amongst us Indians.

My mind goes back to the time when I was a little girl. The radio was then our window to a world outside our remote home in the hills. I can clearly recall how we all listened spellbound to the Prime Minister’s speech delivered from the ramparts of the Red Fort, described by voices long stilled: Melville D’Mello, Surajit Sen and such commentators. The scene came alive as a wave of oneness united us all in every part of the country. Similarly, the President’s Address on the eve of Independence Day was heard by everyone, master and servant alike. Dinner was cooked and served early so that we could all listen to the speech without disturbance. Phones were thankfully not the intrusive presence they have now become and for days people would talk about the erudite Sanskrit quotations in President Radhakrishnan’s speech or the warmth in Nehru’s stirring words. That circle of a shared warmth is now a fading memory and as some later prime ministers were terrible orators, the magic gradually lost its hold on us.

Every little town had its own flag-hoisting ceremony and all its eminent citizens were expected to take part in it. I well recall the golden jubilee in 1997, when I had to drive my mother and mother-in-law around India Gate to show them the impressive sight of Raisina Hill, with Rashtrapati Bhavan flanked by North and South Blocks — all lit up and the collective ‘Aah’ that could be heard. Traffic was grid-locked for hours around that circle but no one complained. That spontaneity is a fresh memory.

Later, when my husband was sufficiently senior, we used to be invited to the reception the President held in Rashtrapati Bhavan for senior members of the armed forces, the bureaucracy, Parliament, the diplomatic corps, eminent citizens as well as members of the Press. Despite the sultry and often rainy weather, no one complained about wearing bandhgalas and uniforms. I recall President Kalam freely mingling with the invitees even as the senior members of the Cabinet and other such worthies sat in an enclosure and made no effort to greet guests. So, a subtle social hierarchy was gradually established where some Indians became more equal than others. Changing times, changing attitudes and changing aspects of entitlement have long roots.

A word now on an institution that we have almost forgotten: the public broadcast system, the All India Radio or AIR. I am still haunted by its opening music and by some programmes that are unforgettable. No other country has an acronym that proudly lays claim to the air waves floating over us. Equally impressive is its Hindi version, Akashvani, which has a divine echo subtly embedded in it. In a country where it provided news and entertainment to the common man, the farmer and the simple village folk, its pronouncements were once regarded as gospel truth. What divine classical music we have heard on the national programmes and what entertainment such as the popular Binaca Geetmala (earlier the Binaca Hit Parade) by the one and only Amin Sayani. In those days, the radio brought us closer as families and neighbourhoods because we all heard the same Akashvani. How can I forget the cricket commentaries by Vizzy and a host of later commentators? In fact, often when I listen to the prime-time debates where news anchors intervene shamelessly, I can almost hear Vizzy shouting, ‘And that’s a six!’

Those days and that kind of national bonding will perhaps never return, what with entertainment and news in the hands of rival political parties and corporate houses but it is time we tried to bring back some semblance of civility and responsibility into our air waves.

Let the Akashvani style of reportage once again become the voice of sanity in this country. 

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