Sare Jahaan se Achha...
I am patriotic. I may not know how many God-forsaken states we have (is it 26, 27, 28 or 29??), I can't remember the names of their capitals; when I read the morning newspaper, it's 'Calvin and Hobbes' that I turn to first, and not the National Headlines. I don't remember when the Cabinet was shuffled last, Indian History is a vague blur from the little that I managed to learn at school. I don't care too much for politics, and I don't burst crackers when India wins in cricket against Pakistan. I haven't attended a single Independence Day or Republic Day celebration at college so far, and I haven't even mouthed the "Jana Gana Mana" in years.
However, there's something that the plaintive "Ae mere watan ke logon" stirs inside me. Something that makes me smile inwardly when I see grimy, little urchins selling miniature tricolour flags for a couple of rupees apiece. Something that got me piqued when I found China featured as a growing country on the June edition of the IEEE's Spectrum, while I had an unswerving, blind opinion that India is/will be the undisputable leader among third-world (I hate to call it that, though) countries. A feeling of unwavering pride in my motherland, which was seeded unknowingly and stands rooted firmly. A sense of gratefulness to all those millions of un-named people who sacrificed their lives, and most importantly, their dignity; to give us this republic, egalitarian democracy. A republic which is in most ways handicapped, egalitarian with some undefined constraints; and a democracy with a freedom of expression, which lets us gripe about the system and blame it for failings that we aren't ready to do anything about. A country that gives me the privilege to callously run on, about things that most of you (reading this) don't care about; while elsewhere, voices like that of
Glutter Girl are stifled, when they cry out for millions of people, demanding Democracy.
I've grown up, dreaming of doing something BIG for India. But then, I wonder, what/who is India? Is it the people? No, that seems too parochial; I'd want to do something for the starving kids in Africa too, if I could. Is it the place, the land? Sounds fine, but not a very satisfactory answer. Is it the culture? Well, ok! But who said the Zulu tribe didn't have one? Even the Cherokees had a society! (Or so I think) Maybe it is the collective spirit. The spirit that binds us all, and lights up the ceiling lamps in upmarket stores, as well as the cheap, neon signs in downtown markets. The fire that helps make gruel in tiny hovels and sets them aflame on a dark night. The fury that keeps activists fighting, and engulfs them with its intensity, to leave them charred. The fever which is paraded as 'patriotism', while it really is chauvinism.
As a kid, I'd have something akin to resentment, against our
neighbour. But today, there are so many things that I admire about the people. I simply LOVE the nasal voices that make their music unparalleled, I gawk in wonder at the yards of fine fabric that is flown down from there and I see a shining tenacity in their faces that might stun even the suffering that looks them in the eye. There must be a common thread that was woven into the length of our variegated, mutual culture; which hasn't lost it's colour even after fifty-eight years of bleaching with unfounded contempt; the strength of which makes the soldier flinch as he charges across the border, and stretches even more taut while he pulls the trigger. Will it ever snap?
As I post this, there must've been flags unfurled thousands of kilometres away. And tomorrow, there'll be millions of onlookers while a flag is hoisted at the Red Fort, speeches and promises made, military parades cheered, thousands of school-children marching under a scorching sun, the National Anthem sung at numerous ceremonies, sweets distributed, sacrifices remembered and a passion rekindled. While every word is uttered and each consonant enunciated, remnants of a six-decade old struggle are revisited. The same noble sentiments are reiterated, and a resonant sense of integrity cherished. Some of this spirit might still be alive, fighting bravely against the winds of more pressing, personal interests; some will flag, struggling to keep burning; and the rest will die without a whimper, because it was either mere affectation or because it didn't have the strength. And so, I risk sounding juvenile for not matching more eloquent voices and echo my current state of mind; and will witness the spate of activities tomorrow. All done and forgotten until the next time.
I Recommend...
I have an idiosyncrasy, a strange fascination for frivolous humour. I see humour in the platypus' bill, the wriggling, severed tail of the house-lizard, the polyp-shaped suckers of the octopus, the irregular stripes of the zebra, the plumage in the hats (or so I recall), placed atop the heads of florid-faced, roaring fifteenth century warriors and dukes, the illustrations in Russian folk-tale books, the wag in the silly, hairless tails of mottled puppies, the monotony of red polka dots, the costumes of the pantomime and the antics of all those unparalleled comedians & their slapstick (that we LOVED as children). (Well, you know, there are many MORE such inanities that can leave me squealing with joy, however, I do not want to take credit for writing the longest ever sentence that my patrons will have read so far; and neither do I want to abuse the comma or traumatise punctuation freaks) And so, that explains my delight at finding this terrific book that tickled me and sent me into paroxysms of laughter, every page (if that be allowed as a quantum of my literary progress) of the way. I wonder (oh, and by the way, this happens to be one of my
favouritest words as well as pastime. Wonderous Wonder!!) how many times an unabridged G. K. Chesterton has been discovered and devoured with such glee. I shouldn't forget to attribute this
serendipitous opportunity to my room-mate who's had this book with her for seven years now (after winning it for a 'Proficieny' Prize.. whatever that means!!), and didn't know such a treasure even existed. :P
Now, coming to the book, it's called "Napoleon of Notting Hill". That's ironic, considering that my last book was an
epic about Napoleon's exploits in grand, old Russia. This one ain't Bonaparte though.. Well, anyway... think of an age hundred years from now. What would it be like? Cars are faster, and maybe they'll even fly (yeah Hollywood-SF ishtyle). Your maid isn't the same sari-clad lady with the high-pitched voice wearing two-dozen green bangles on both hands, but a poker-faced android who's got contraption for flesh and blood. The night sky isn't studded with millions of stars, but with UFOs and SUVs and what-nots. Your clothes carry sensors that inject tranquilliser when you start getting hyper-emotional (Federal Policy, like the Yanks say). You think so, eh? Well, NO!! That's not what it'll be like, you see... Cuz "it's the old that startles and fascinates".
Think of just how much more fun it'd be if we were ruled by a king. Our kingdom has colourful banners and a blazing coat of arms. Not those dreary bombs and rattling rifles and nuclear weapons to fight with; but real, shining swords set in carved scabbards, armour-clad knights mounted on strong horses. This is precisely what is MY fantasy. It's not grey, dull streets that I want. It's thoroughfares, flagrant with colour and lamps set alight with fanatic patriotism that I dream about. If there's anything that underlines the mediocrity of our times, it's APATHY. There's resignation in everyone's heart, and indifference in everybody's dealings. And, if I were given this miraculous chance to change the world with the sleight of my hand (or a little more than that), I'd paint the whole world with Passion (I hope that wasn't put too indelicately). Passion that kindled the fire in the eyes of our ancestors hundreds and thousands of years ago. And this is what King Auberon Quin, the hero of our 'Napoleon' (Adam Wayne) ventures to do. In a time when people have lost complete faith in democracy, and a bunch of wide girth-ed, quibbling parliamentarians are better substituted by a monarch, Auberon is chosen from a list of citizens of London. And so, our man of crazy whims and stupid humour becomes King.
Notice the protagonist's name: Auberon. It reminded me of Oberon in that wonderful Shakepearean drama, 'Midsummer Night's Dream'. The King of Fairies!! What follows is "midsummer madness".
Our Napoleon, Adam Wayne, is made Provost of Notting Hill (oh, I know you're thinking of Julia Roberts, he he!! But, Notting Hill is just that inconsequential mound where inconsequential people live in inconsequential harmony. To add a little trivia - Notting Hill is just a variation of 'Nothing Ill'). Now, Wayne takes Auberon's large-scale joke a little too seriously, and is ready to spill blood and break bones to defend Notting Hill. He wears his red uniform and carries his borough's emblem with the pride of old. And so, the dull streets of London are set aflame with the colours of Wayne's army and the fire of his enemies' fury. Wars are fought not on open fields like in the 1500s, but on streets lined with shops stocked grocery, toys and curiosities. The art of war is redefined, and the passion of patriotism rekindled.
Sigh!! How I wish I lived in those times!!
