Why Don’t We All Celebrate our Freedom?

I have two very distinct sets of memories of Independence Day. The first still brings joy, while the second leaves me untouched. The two memories are separated by almost a decade, the first is from the second half of the 1950s almost 60 years ago and the second is from my early teens, the former is a memory of a celebration, while the latter is a recollection of an observance.

Though we belong to Delhi, the family shifted to Aligarh in the early 1950s because Dr Zakir Hussain, the then vice chancellor of Aligarh Muslim University (AMU), had asked my father to do so. Since my siblings and I had our early schooling in Aligarh, my earliest memories of Independence Day celebrations are rooted in my memories of Aligarh. We went to Abdullah School, started in 1906 by Sheikh Abdullah, a close associate of Syed Ahmad Khan, the founder of AMU, and it was there that we became aware of the significance of ‘15th August’.

On that day, we would gather not at the regular assembly ground but in front of the open-air theatre. The Anglo-Indian headmistress of the school, the white-haired Miss Ram – dressed always in a crisp starched sari, very proper, very strict and a mother figure for generations of students – would hoist the flag. As the flag unfurled, petals of rose and other flowers would flutter to the ground, some landing on the heads of the little ones in the front rows.

The flag hoisting ceremony and the singing of the national anthem was welcomed with enthusiastic clapping. Either Miss Ram or the history teacher would talk to us about the freedom struggle, the sufferings and, finally, the victory. It was always a short speech, followed by songs and small skits prepared by students with the help of the music teacher, with other teachers and seniors chipping in.

Also read: How Can We Understand India's Fractured Independence?

The programme usually lasted about an hour and everyone was given motichoor laddus to eat. For us, the little ones, this was the high point of the event and we would return home happy and contented. Halwais prepared tricoloured burfis and hawkers sold tricoloured sticky candy, and these sweets found their way to our home. Comrade Jaikishan or Aftab Saheb, Babbu Babu or Pandit Kamta Prasad, friends of my father, would bring us these mouthwatering eats on Independence Day, as they did on the occasion of Diwali and Holi. I can’t recall if kite flying was a big thing in Aligarh, but what I do remember is that Independence Day was a day of fun for us more so since it was a holiday, and nothing brings greater joy to kids than to have an extra day off from school.

In February 1964, we shifted back to Delhi and I joined the NDMC middle school in Lakshmi Bai Nagar. Six months later, it was time to celebrate independence. And it was then that a joyous celebration turned into an observance. All the joy was squeezed out of the Independence Day programme; what we were left with was a drab militaristic affair. Everyone was made to rehearse staying in step during playtime, the physical training instructor suddenly developed a business-like air and the school playground was covered with white lines drawn with limestone powder. On August 14, just before school closed, everyone was asked to march to the ground and stand in straight lines as the flag was hoisted and the national anthem sung. After that, it was time to go home.

No speech about the importance of being free, no talk of the struggle for freedom, no mention of those who fought and suffered so we could be free and, what was worse, no motichoor laddus. Nothing except the tokenism of flag hoisting and singing of the national anthem – where was the celebration and joy of being free?

This to me underlined the difference in the way freedom was perceived by those living in small towns and villages, and by the bureaucrat living in the capital. Drive down New Delhi on August 15 or on January 26, it looks no different from a day of national mourning. All markets have to remain closed, everything is shut down. There is no traffic, no one on the streets.

Also read: Time to Rescue 'Pandrah Agast' from the Drab Ritual of Independence Day

Some evil genius from the labyrinthine bureaucratic jungle of New Delhi must have decided that all government-run schools shall observe Independence Day on August 14 so that the students and teachers could be herded together to fill the vacant slots at the Red Fort on August 15.

Officially, all that happens is a meandering speech, delivered from the ramparts of the Red Fort, a speech that can go on for an hour or more, the length matched only by the absence of anything new. The disinterested invitees are there because they have all been ordered to be there. Those who have even less interest in the proceedings then these worthies are the hapless school kids, dragged out from their beds, dressed up, rushed to schools and brought to Red Fort in busloads, to sit and sweat in the horribly muggy weather of mid-August for hours on end and listen to someone trying to build his reputation on what he plans to do in the future. Is it any wonder that our kids are growing up with little interest in politics?

Is there another country which has reduced its national festivals thus? Do the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshis also do this, and if they do, should we not, all three of us, begin to celebrate our freedom, from colonial yoke?

Should we not celebrate our freedom as a free people – free it of the trappings of bureaucratic and militaristic regimentation and making it a real joyous celebration of freedom. Why don’t we have free concerts of music and dance, folk and classical; plays; film screenings; magic shows, exhibitions, and food festivals? Why don’t we celebrate?

Why don’t we the people reclaim our freedom?

Sohail Hashmi is a writer and documentary filmmaker. He also conducts heritage walks in Delhi.

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