An anonymous poet aeons ago said, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” to which I humbly add, “yonder and distance.” It’s natural for us to take our mothers and motherland for granted when we are near them, and pine for it when far away.
During my schooldays in the dam town of Nagarjuna Sagar and later in Hyderabad, Independence Day was an event during which we swelled with pride as we sang the national anthem when the national flag was unfurled and with our tender hands saluted it—however sloppily—but with genuine respect. As I moved to Delhi as a teenager and saw our national edifices like the Red Fort, the Parliament House, the majestic Rashtrapati Bhavan and other buildings of power all the way to the India Gate from where its millions-turned-a billion were governed with the tricolour directing them as an ethical and moral compass, with wide-eyed wonder.
I have crisscrossed the Vijay Path, Raj Path, Rafi Marg, a thousand times on foot, by bus, cycle, motorcycle and later in my car in over two decades. Drifting into journalism bred a bit of cynicism. I, like many took the Tricolor for granted. I don’t wear my patriotism on my sleeve—I’m neither a pyjama patriot nor a knicker nationalist. But the latent and dormant pride of being an Indian came to the fore when I proferred my passport at the immigration counters and later when I stood in front of the Indian Consulate in Sydney locked in a row of commercial buildings. The Tricolour hung on the pole in an acute angle. Instinctively, it was feet together, chest up and my hand went up in a smart salute. A few passersby gave curious glances but moved on.
Cut to the present. As governments vie with each other to erect taller flag posts with bigger and bigger flags breaking records, it doesn’t mean anything but a sham symbol for its citizens that live and die for it if it doesn’t give the basic security, the dignity and hope.
When I look at the Tricolour with my hand on my heart I can say that I have neither lost hope nor faith. It stands tall, tall enough for me to reach it and touch. Don’t make it taller than I can reach it. Let it be within our reach. It’s my haven, my refuge, my comfort and my strength. Else, it would become what Saint Kabir pithily said: “Bada hua to kya hua, jaise ped khajoor. Panthi ko chhaaya nahi, phal laage ati door.”(It’s of no use to be great like a date palm tree as it neither gives shade to travellers nor does it allow its fruit to be plucked with ease. In other words, exhibition of greatness does not benefit anyone.)