Vande mataram

As I walked towards my bus-stop to catch the bus to work, I looked at the big clock at Chuen Chuen Café. “FRI 15 AUG” it said. It tells me the day and date every day, but today felt special. I was dressed in a white salwar kameez with a colourful bandhni dupatta (it has all colours of the tiranga except blue), and was armed with my signature low-cal gulabos (gulab jamuns) that I had made for my team. I’d badly wanted tiranga bangles (last year I saw someone wearing them on Zee TV and had been enthralled since) but didn’t manage to get hold of them.

Suddenly, I was reminded of a whole bunch of things related to this date, specifically Independence Day celebrations at school. A stark contrast to the dignified celebration I have now. I don’t quite remember specifics from all the seven schools I studied in, but the two years I spent in this tiny little school in a tiny little town in what is now Jharkhand, were very special.

It was one of the days when we would wake up all excited to go to school. No books. No school bags. No classes. No homework. We did look kinda silly armed only with water bottles though, but they were important for us to survive the parade in the hot sun later. And we wore the Saturday-wala white uniform even when it did not fall on a Saturday.

The flag-hoisting ceremony in school was pretty much the same every year. I’d look at the bundled up flag and wonder what would happen if the big shot guy whom no one really knew (no Laloo Prasad for us) tugged and tugged at the rope but the flag still did not unfurl. What if the knot was funny and the bundle stayed a bundle? Would he climb up the pole? But it unfurled, every single year, and tiny marigold petals descended on our heads as we began our off-key rendition of “Jana Gana Mana” while the music teacher winced in agony.

Then there was the pledge (which happened every day during assembly anyway), and I’d wonder, just like I did every day, why anyone would write something like “All Indians are my brothers and sisters.” And inevitably someone in the queue would crack the predictable “Why did Rajiv Gandhi marry an Italian?” joke. “Because all Indians are brothers and sisters.”

Then the chief guest would give a speech that would put everyone, who had not already fainted from the hot sun, to sleep. And then came the student speech. I don’t know why they always got the class nerd to do it. Two days before, I’d ask Dad for help with the speech and frantically scribble whatever he was saying. It was a pity that I’d spend two days memorising and reciting something that no one actually cared to listen to. Hmmph!

Then they would make us queue up and give us sweets in square cups made of leaves and held together with toothpicks. On a bed of savoury crisp stuff (which was far from crisp by the time we got it), would be a tiny yellow banana, and an extremely sweet boondi ka laddu that left a greasy layer of vanaspati in the mouth.

The frantic teachers would try to get us to finish eating and get us in line for the Independence Day procession through the town’s streets. The loudest boy in the school was entrusted to yell, “Bhaarat mata ki…” and “Vande….” during the parade, while everyone else went, “Jai!” and “Maataram!” respectively. The yells were loud and passionate for approximately seven minutes. As the sun ascended, the pitch and passion in the yells descended.

And of course, there was the famous club of Fainters Anonymous, of which I was the President. I remember one of my teachers saying, “Sayesha, try not to faint this year. You’re holding the flag and leading the procession.” Yes, I was one of the taller girls in class and had been entrusted with the flag that year. Also, the aforementioned loud guy would walk just behind me, so I wasn't quite sure what really caused my fainting - the sun or his yelling. “Miss, I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee.” So she decided to walk by me armed with my water bottle, watching me the entire time. That year, I actually did not faint.

Random kids would disappear from the procession when it was in the vicinity of their houses, and surprised teachers would hear, “Bye! See you tomorrow!” interspersed with the now meek “Bhaarat mata ki jai!” and “Vande Maataram!”

And the rest of us would complete the parade, tumble onto our bicycles and break all (bicycle) speed limits as we raced home to enjoy our ‘half-day’.

Cliched as it may sound, those really were the days.