Popcorn Patriotism, what other name would it go by? In the aftermath of the horrific Pulwama tragedy there have been conferences, conclaves (what else would you call them?!) with eminent panellists—defence analysts, journalists, bureaucrats and politicians, but of course, discussing bare-thin how to, finally, at long last, give a ditch to our peacenik stance. In plain-speak, bordering Pakistan needs to be taught a lesson, whether we have to employ automated weapons to rake out their remorselessly inhuman approach. Of course, before these sessions begin, all stand to observe a moment’s silence, honouring the slain soldiers.
The forum is concluded with chai, pakodas, pastries and finger-sandwiches and mini-bottles of mineral water which unabashedly are stowed in sling bags for later use by more “patriots” than one would care to count. And this goes as doing our bit for those who have died in the service of the country, leaving behind widows who will give birth to posthumous children, ageing parents who for the rest of their lives will drop into a dazed sleep to be hauled up with nightmares of blood and dismembered limbs slashed across mountain slopes…these Patriotic Conventions breathing the same rarefied air as the Himalayas.
Could furnish a whole list where, over the last month, these academic summits to “salute our patriotism” have been held, but to what avail? Wearing white—with pearl eardrop earrings to match the “mood” is would one not, I repeat, paying tribute to our “public spirit”? An age of hyper-personalisation where all one’s selfless nationalism is with chop-chop, double-quick briskness posted on Instagram. Then there is this cry for each patriot to light three candles and march-a-mile a minute to India Gate or wherever to pay homage to our martyred soldiers, to possibly send a prayer their way.
One candle costs around 10 rupees, three, 30 rupees. And say, if there are 300 candle lighters, the sum total spent would be 9,000 in hard cash. Would that money not be put to the right use if it went to a National Defence Fund of sorts to help the fatherless children in their schooling or whatever? Many, consistent drops of water do a bucket fill.
Speaking of which, during the 1965 war with Pakistan, our unassuming Prime Minister, Lal Bahadur Shastri, came up with two practicable cum feasible (not to leave out commendable) plans. However, before touching on them the earnestly whole-hearted slogan “Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan” remains an unparalleled accolade to the Jawans who live to die for us, and the farmers who toil away, in rain or shine, so that food is laid on our tables. These four short words recognise, acclaiming the backbone of India.
Shastri’s proposals: every week, each Monday, “Miss a Meal”. The ravages of the war had taken a toll; if everyone would abstain from one meal, it would be of much slow but sure, financial assistance. Three evenings ago, when my mother for the 100th time, was trying to (not so kindly this time round) educate the maid not to wash dishes with taps on full-steam, full-tilt since lakhs and lakhs of people stand for hours in endless queues to get a bucket of water, to last the family an entire day, and by the time their turn comes, the rusty taps run dry. She couldn’t get to rural India where sarees, dhotis are baked in the sun to purge the stench of sweat, besides cleansing the wear to what could pass as a crispness arrived at after a wash; Rinky, had already moved on to doing the tea towels in the backyard at the tap reserved for the Maali’s water hose saying something about how post-haste she needed a good hard scrub to get those Holi stubborn-as-tattoo marks hose-piped off. Thus, another flood in the offing.
I, see, I have gone off on a tangent, however connected. It was my Mum who told me how many restaurants and dhabbas in their bid to do their bit would close shutter before dinner time, and the heart-warming part was that many, many households took the “Miss a Meal” plan to heart, going to bed empty stomach.
The second scheme: Indian weddings, may not have been the over-the-top affairs that they are for too many years now, but according to that era, lavish they were even if one were to “beg, borrow or steal” in the process. Shastri’s quiet yet firm plea: serve only simple, wholesome snacks during weddings, not an array of dishes that guests pile on to in their plates to taste a bit of each, the rest going waste. I am told, to a sizable extent, people did their best to keep the “band, baaja and baraat” a low-key affair.
To shift to our present times: it has become mandatory, while going to watch a film in a cinema hall, to rise to the National Anthem before the screening of the movie starts. So there the cinegoers, with one hand in their popcorn tub and the other cradling their Pepsi can, achingly shuffling to their feet, a grunt stifled as a sigh before slumping back in their chair once Jana Gana Mana… is over. A question: why hoist this brand of patriotism, does it graft love for the country prior to watching a movie one has been lusting to see since the promos started streaming?!
A continuation piece follows since space falls insufficient. The Sequel would probably be titled, “Aerated Patriotism”. Indian women and their jewellery are inseparable; part they may with their partner but those dangling gold jhumkas, “till death do us part”. And these same women, of all strata, readily jiggled off those bangles, plucked off those earrings…our soldiers needed ammunition, footwear, clothes. They were ill-equipped to fight the 1962 war with China. Gold would provide the equipment. This, True-Blue Patriotism…
Dr Renée Ranchan writes on socio-psychological issues, quasi-political matters and concerns that touch us all