My grandmother, Janaki, was a treasure trove of memories that she cherished until the end of her life. She was born in pre-Independence India, and she never knew her exact date of birth. She always calculated her age with India’s first Independence Day as reference. “Manaku swathantram vachinappudu (when we finally became free), I think I was eight or nine.” I always found it very interesting. Though she couldn’t recall much of her early childhood, the memory of her first Independence Day never faded.

It was the morning of August 15, a couple of years ago. I woke up and went to the balcony to see my grandmother, (we call her Ammamma) looking fresh in a khadi saree and intently creating a pattern, a muggu (also called kolam in Tamil) of flags and charkha, which she  drew every year on Independence Day for as long as I could remember. Her hands were steady despite her age. I had never thought about asking her earlier, but that morning, I was very curious about the pattern and the story behind it.

As she began to speak about the specific muggu, her face lit up with childlike innocence. In that moment, I could visualise the young girl she once was, growing up in a lower-middle-class, large family in a small village in the Guntur district of Andhra Pradesh, overwhelmed in the joy of freedom. The sun shone brighter than ever as the whole country awoke to a new life. “The entire village knew from elders who were a part of the freedom struggle that independence would soon be declared,” she recalled. “When the news broke on  August 14, 1947, a roar of excitement swept through everyone.”

She continued her story: “On the evening of the 14th, as was customary before festivals in Andhra, all the children were given an oil head bath. My mother and aunts cleaned the house, arranged the flowers and tied mango leaves at the entrance of their homes. My father and elder brothers came home carrying heavy bags. Calling all eight of us inside, my father handed each one new clothes. ‘These are made with the blood, sweat, and tears of our people,’ he said. The clothes were made with khaddaru (khadi), hand-spun and stitched by our villagers.” Though they were thick and rough in texture, they were worn with pride the next morning. Ammamma continued, “The elders knew we would get freedom sooner, and all the elders used to spin these secretly in their houses. Khaddar was the fabric symbol of the freedom movement and self-reliance,” she told me. “Do you know it is hand-spun on a charkha?” I said yes. I instantly remembered the portrait of Gandhiji with his spinning wheel.

Her mother and aunts woke up very early on the 15th and cleaned the entrance, then drew designs of flags with muggu powder (limestone powder) on the floor. “Every house, rich or poor, created a flag muggu, the same design, at their doorsteps and you could see them all over the village. Since that day, we have drawn this flag muggu every Independence Day,” she said with pride.

Everyone wore their new khadi clothes. Tiny cloth flags were pinned close to their hearts on their clothes. She remembered how some people cried, not from sorrow but from joy, as the flag was hoisted (jhanda vandanam). Patriotic songs filled the air. Everyone chanted “Swatantram vardhillali (freedom should flourish)" and sweets were distributed.

My Ammamma’s memories stretched beyond that day. She told me how my great-grandmother Mahalakshmi had once seen Gandhi tatha (grandfather), who was travelling  to Madras (today’s Chennai). I smiled at the term 'tatha'. In Delhi, where I was born and brought up, we called him Gandhiji, the father of the nation.

She explained that his train was to stop at Ponnuru, near her village. “We did not have pedda patti (broad gauge) in our village, only chinna patti (narrow gauge). The Madras trains usually ran on the pedda patti.” That was an interesting piece of information for me. 

“When the news spread, the entire village, people of all religions, castes, and ages, rushed to the station, including my great-grandmother, Mahalakshmi. When the train arrived, an old, frail man with a stick, a towel on his bare shoulders, and round glasses stepped down. He waved, folded his hands, and smiled at the crowd for a few minutes before boarding again. Hundreds of them all shouted “Vande Mataram!” and 'Swatantram maa janma hakku (freedom is my birthright)' as the train pulled away.”

While she was reminiscing about her experience, a small group of young men and women with a loudspeaker, waving flags, passed by our house in Delhi. I took her frail hand and led her to the balcony. She watched for a while, then said softly, “Those days were different. Those feelings were different.” With a sigh, she went inside.

I stood looking at the muggu she had drawn with flowers. We didn't have muggu powder, so she used chalk, flowers, and leaves to create two flags and the charkha wheel in the centre, in the traditional style that only she could do.

For seventy-seven years, she had created it with love and pride, an emblem of her personal connection to India’s freedom. For her it was a symbol of unity where each one, regardless of religion, caste, or class, was together in the freedom struggle. Yes, Ammamma was right; this muggu represented the shared history and spirit of her village, reminding us of our collective struggles, resistance and strength.

Ammamma passed away last year. I am not sure I can recreate her muggu, but I will try, keeping alive her memory of that first dawn of freedom, and with it, a reminder to all of us of the true meaning of “freedom”.

Ragini De is an aspiring journalist and a former student of ACJ with training in classical ballet. She finds interest in writing about art, culture, personal histories, and occasionally on public health.     

The author acknowledges her mother for helping with Telugu words.

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