My
Romance with the National Anthem
There is raging debate on singing the national anthem. This is how my sentiment grew. Nationalism is a harsh word today. Writing this is not about an ‘ism.’ I belong to a generation who learnt to sing the song with pride, volume, and ownership, portrayed in a certain posture of stiff back, chin up, eyes straight, and reverberating vocal chords. I studied in a school was managed by Irish, French, and English nuns. Our music teacher was a tall willowy English sister passionate about all music, vocal and instrument. She excused me from her class, as I was tone deaf, except when we practised singing the National Anthem and the Scouts and Guide songs. She taught us how to sing Jana Gana Mana, as the nuns would close any function and program with the singing of the Anthem, their strong accents joining our girlish voices. I grew up believing this one song linked everyone in what I called India.
During the '62 conflict, still in school, I sang this song with extra fervour hoping it would carry to our soldiers in NEFA. At that time, it was introduced in cinema halls. We sang it full throated, standing erect, hands to our sides, eyes looking straight ahead. Today we would be mistaken for cadets from a military academy, but at that time, most youth forgot to slouch, when the tune started. No one wanted to run through it, even though I had waited six months to see Lawrence of Arabia in 70 mm.
I had an opportunity in the late 60's to attend the Republic Day Parade
at Delhi. It was after the '65 war and we had lost Shastri. I saw Indira Gandhi
for the first time, a diminutive feminine woman with fine bone structure, and
crisp wiry hair. President Zakir Husain took the salute, but I saw only the
Prime Minister, ramrod straight dwarfing all others. Everyone in the stands and
boxes sang the anthem that day at full attention. Hearing, by now one of my
favourite songs, the emotion was overwhelming. There is raging debate on singing the national anthem. This is how my sentiment grew. Nationalism is a harsh word today. Writing this is not about an ‘ism.’ I belong to a generation who learnt to sing the song with pride, volume, and ownership, portrayed in a certain posture of stiff back, chin up, eyes straight, and reverberating vocal chords. I studied in a school was managed by Irish, French, and English nuns. Our music teacher was a tall willowy English sister passionate about all music, vocal and instrument. She excused me from her class, as I was tone deaf, except when we practised singing the National Anthem and the Scouts and Guide songs. She taught us how to sing Jana Gana Mana, as the nuns would close any function and program with the singing of the Anthem, their strong accents joining our girlish voices. I grew up believing this one song linked everyone in what I called India.
During the '62 conflict, still in school, I sang this song with extra fervour hoping it would carry to our soldiers in NEFA. At that time, it was introduced in cinema halls. We sang it full throated, standing erect, hands to our sides, eyes looking straight ahead. Today we would be mistaken for cadets from a military academy, but at that time, most youth forgot to slouch, when the tune started. No one wanted to run through it, even though I had waited six months to see Lawrence of Arabia in 70 mm.
My romance continues even today, stirs my heart and soul. At times, I wish one had the liberty to sing it as an everyday song, but I keep such eccentricities quiet. Nowadays, I only get to sing Jana Gana Mana while watching a national program on TV. When it comes on, I stand erect as taught by the English sister and sing along. Sometimes the tune is fast and I have to hurry to keep up.
I had long thought of acknowledging this emotion and the right opportunity was when I published my novel. I wrote the dedication, ‘Amma, Mother, Ma.’ Amma is for my birth mother, Mother is for the sisters and teachers in the schools and colleges I studied, Mother knowledge, and Ma stands for India, my place mother.
I sing Jana Gana Mana in praise of Ma.
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