Year after year, for decades, I went to Rajpath (nee Kingsway) for the Republic Day Parade. I came to associate January 26 with cold foggy mornings, milling crowds smelling of damp wool and patriotism, and those cruel wooden benches that imprinted slat patterns on your behind. Yet, from the moment the first helicopter rained rose petals till the last fighter jet scrammed into the heavens with an ear-splitting roar, I forgot my numb derriere. And when the band struck up the national anthem, my heart swelled with unearned pride, and I stood up straight—all misty-eyed and patriotic.
Gradually, age, laziness, and a prudent fear of frostbite caught up. I decided the live telecast was invented for people like me: fiercely patriotic and equally lethargic. Why freeze on Kartavya Path (nee Rajpath) when you can cheer the Pilani girls’ band from the comfort of your home? Why jostle at India Gate when you can “Ooh” and “Aah” sipping tea seated in your armchair?
For the last few years, the missus and I have turned Republic Day into a private viewing experience. This year my friend Gopu dropped in just as I switched the TV on. The missus was obviously miffed, so I feigned my usual innocent look. Did I dare confess that I had invited him? Certainly not! But Gopu is such fun and he enlivens even the drabbest programme with his clever comments. Moreover, my devious plan was to use his presence as an excuse for a celebratory pint before lunch.
Soon the first helicopter appeared, complete with rose petals; and then the presidential entourage. As the national anthem started, I stood up—ramrod straight, chest out, stomach in. The familiar lump appeared in my throat.
“Sentimental old fool,” muttered the missus, sotto voce, so Gopu wouldn’t hear.
The parade started and we watched it with half interest—half ennui; typical of the way people watch the Republic Day Parade on TV. Gopu provided intermittent commentary worthy of Jasdev Singh reincarnated as a stand-up comic.
When Parliament appeared on the screen, he pounced. “Have you read the Constituent Assembly debates? Dr Ambedkar and H.V. Kamath had more than one dispute on semantics, with Ambedkar terming Kamath’s objections as ‘mere quibbling’. And our Parliament has inherited this tradition and raised it to championship-level quibbling.”
The missus bristled. “How dare you insult our hallowed Parliament on Republic Day!”
“Especially on Republic Day!” Gopu shot back. “When is it a better time to ask if we actually have justice, liberty, equality, fraternity? Or do we have just excellent slogans? No one talks about freedom of expression, belief or faith. No one mentions dignity of the individual. Where is the equality of opportunity?”
I tried to play peacemaker. “Come on, brother, don’t be so brutal to the Republic.”
But Gopu was in a combative mood. “We live in the Republic of Trivia and Whataboutery. We have a moribund judiciary. A venal executive that executes mostly scams. A media that’s basically on sale. And a vapid legislature that has made itself irrelevant with self-goals like the anti-defection law and walkouts. Parliament certainly illustrates Parkinson’s Law of Triviality: ignore the nuclear reactor and spend three days debating whether the national song is being sung loudly enough.”
The missus, a loyal soldier of the government, tried defence. “What about all the progress we have made? The GDP figures? The forex reserves? The startups? What about our ancient wisdom that is like a beacon to the world?”
Gopu reacted heatedly. “See? See? This is just the kind of whataboutery that we excel at! In a land which has a serious governance deficit, entertainment and obfuscation fill the vacuum. The Republic of Trivia thrives on diversion. The public—that forgotten part of the Republic—is made to worry more about alien invasions than unemployment or the economy. The people overlook the subversion and collapse of institutions when a saffron-clad shyster tells them to wear a rudraksha to become rich. The national discourse is nothing but shrill screaming and shouting. The Constitution? Whether you acknowledge it or not, it is a dead document.”
I had seldom seen this mordant side of Gopu. “What did you have for breakfast?” I asked. “You sound like a terrible old prune. At least today, rejoice! Celebrate!”
This only seemed to incense Gopu.
“Rejoice? Celebrate? What is there to celebrate? I don’t even get safe water to drink! I don’t have clean air to breathe! Corruption is so institutionalised it is practically a cultural heritage. Even in our temples of worship and learning. Gold is stolen from Sabarimala. Crores of laddoos are made in Tirupati with spurious ghee. Universities demand bribes to appoint lecturers. Nothing gets done without payoffs.”
Because of the heated discussions, we hardly noticed the many floats that went past the saluting base. Before we knew it, it was time for the president to leave; the band struck up the national anthem. I stood up again, lump in throat.
“Sentimental old fool!” teased Gopu.
I waited for the last notes to die before I said softly, “Yes, Gopu, sentimental! And not completely disillusioned. Not yet.”
Gopu raised an imaginary glass. “To the Republic then,” he said. “May it one day be worthy of the fools who still stand for its anthem.”
K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com