It is kind of fashionable these days to assert that this thing or that thing has not been done in the past 70 years. In keeping with this trend, I hereby declare that never in the past 70 years had I been asked by anyone to hoist the national flag at any function. Yet, there was no dearth of opportunities; after all, Republic Days and Independence Days come around with clockwork regularity. There are sports meets and founders’ days and whatnot parades, too. But never, not once, had I been invited to unfurl our flag!
Even the ‘Har Ghar Jhanda’ campaign was hijacked by the missus, who made it her personal tamasha by flying the flag at the end of a curtain rod and poking it out from our balcony. She manipulated the support of Phulwanti, the maid, and Bassa Ram, our driver, by promising them a bonus. No wonder they gathered around and cheered while she did the honours.
I would have forever remained a virgin in the matter of unfurling flags, had it not been for the residents’ association of our condo. This organisation honours old residents by inviting them by turn to lead the Republic Day and Independence Day celebrations. This August 15, I was the one chosen!
A week ahead, the president of the association visited our home to formally invite me and to brief me about the programme. He informed me that after I hoisted the tricolour, the children would sing Jana Gana Mana, and I would need to say a few words. Very patronisingly he added, “If you don’t know the national anthem, just move your lips.” The pompous bloody ass!
After the association representative left, my wife smirked, “You don’t look impressive. The flag should be hoisted by someone smart.”
“Let me guess. You mean someone like yourself, right?”
“Well, yes. But the thought hadn’t struck me till you mentioned it,” she said, ever her modest self.
“I’ll look smarter than you ever could if I wear my black bandhgala. Where’s it?” I asked.
“That old thing? You haven’t worn it in the past twenty years. It won’t fit, silly. Moreover, you will look ridiculous wearing a woollen suit in August!”
On my insistence, however, the following day the little woman dug out the old button-up coat and trousers from the big trunk in which she stores woollens. I tried the coat on, and it was not a bad fit. If I pulled in my paunch, I could almost close all the buttons. The trousers were fine, too, provided I did not close the belt hook. I would have to, however, avoid sitting down, otherwise the consequences would be drastic.
“Please air these for a day or two, so that the mothbally smell goes away,” I instructed.
I searched out my black Oxfords and was chagrined to find them covered with mould. I dispatched Bassa Ram to the mochi to get the shoes polished. Then I spent many hours writing and rewriting my speech. I monitored the weather, too, checking the meteorological forecast four or five times every day. I did not want anyone (the missus) or anything (clouds) to rain on my parade, either figuratively or literally. Notwithstanding a yellow alert by the Met department for the whole week, it remained bone dry. And for Independence Day, the Met department categorically promised me a bright sunny day.
On the 15th, I woke up bright and early and reached the saluting base even before the chairs were arranged or the dhurries laid out for seating the kids. I waited impatiently, gloating over how smart I looked in my black bandhgala—even though it still smelt strongly of mothballs. Soon everyone gathered—the residents, the elders, the children. The whole world was looking at me! With a flourish, I took the flag rope and gave it a mighty tug.
And then it happened!
It was as if I had deliberately pulled out the drain plug of some celestial bathtub, because the heavens opened up. It started to rain, not just raindrops but a torrential downpour!
My spectacles fogged over, and the halyard slipped from my fingers. I lunged to grab the rope, which made one coat button pop off. More devastatingly, I heard my trousers tearing at the back.
The children cheered and clapped wildly—whether it was for the unfurling of the flag or the ripping of my trousers I will never know. The deluge intensified.
I stood there under the flagpole, in my drenched woollen bandhgala reeking of mothballs and my trousers split at the back. Water trickled down my neck to the inside of my collar. Puddles were collecting in my shoes, making my toes go squishy-squashy inside my socks. My wet spectacles allowed me to see the world only through streaky patches. I felt bedraggled and totally overwhelmed.
Then I looked up—and there was the tricolour; soggy and limp from the rain yet valiantly waving in the breeze! I heard the voices of the children uplifted in song. My heart then swelled with pride and joy, and I joined the children in lustily singing the national anthem!
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com