As a Delhi commuter you see, on the side of the roads, various economic ventures according to the calendar. Winters bring trolleys of boiled sweet corn, poorly knit “Adibas” beanies and the ‘oh so famous’ naankhatai from Meerut. Summer with it sees flimsy sunglasses, shikanji stands and raw mangoes with enough spice on them to make the Europeans jealous. But twice a year, the omnipresent product on Delhi roads is the Tiranga; around 26th January and 15th August. And why not? It feels pleasant to see the flag flutter around at every corner. Right now, I am choosing to withhold commentary on the destitute hawker who does not have enough food in his belly to understand the sentimentality of the Tricolour.
I was on my bike, a few days before 15th August, when I came across a woman selling our flag. There were many sizes to choose from; the size, if you did not know, bellows your depth of patriotism. I wanted to get a flag for myself to attach to my bike. I did not warrant a “why”. I stopped a safe distance away from the sight of the woman, on being struck by a question. It was distinctly from myself. “The Big Fool demands every citizen to carry a flag in order to prove their love for the nation. Are you bowing down to such absurd jingoism?” I shook my head, deeply saddened. The social and political meltdown has reached such a point that I cannot even express my sentiments in my own way.
I was sad that I had to even ask such a question. Is this nation, which is mine through and through, becoming an everyday maze of questions? Only a day back, on Instagram, a woman had bestowed me with terms that I cannot state here, ending with “Pakistan chale jao (go to Pakistan) *laughing emoji*”. I have become used to the slurs. As a writer, I must. But the questions linger. My grandparents could have, had they wanted to, easily migrated to Pakistan. My parents could have, had they wanted to, easily stayed back in Saudi Arabia. But they chose this land, over and over again, in spite of alternates being available. And if given a choice, I would still choose this land over any other. I am an Indian. I am a Muslim. These identities are not vertically aligned, one above the other. They are superimposed.
The Independence Day celebration, in itself, holds nostalgic fervour for me. Wide-eyed teens sitting in the auditorium heckling at performances, smuggling in food and using the parade practice as an excuse to skip classes. I used to say Bismillah before devouring the precious annual laddu, before trying to extort more at the expense of an absent mate. My Arabic dialect is distinctly Indian in flavour. My family weddings have a mehendi ceremony. My kurta is always subcontinental in its tailoring. My hands go up in prayer when Virat gets out.
I should not be asked to license my love and carry it around for the perusal of Big Fool and his individuals who have somehow granted themselves the status of nationalistic gatekeepers. Love is too pure a thing to be diluted by fear.
I did not put the flag on my bike. I put it up in my room. Right beside something I call my ‘revolution memorabilia’. Whenever I look at the Tiranga, I am reminded of the values I must fight to protect.
My love; my way.