There was nothing special about that Sunday. I’ve never really liked Sundays anyway. They don’t seem as free as Saturdays, and they are never really as hectic as Mondays. And in the disaster that is Indian television, Sundays are usually reserved for events and shows that are a wee bit more pointless than the tripe that people are subjected to on other days.
Anyway, back to that particular Sunday - so ordinary was that day that I don’t even remember the year it was in. Nothing of note happened all day. No good movies were shown, no new story ideas popped into my head, no new brainwaves about policies that would help in the betterment of India in the future, nothing.
At about 8.30 PM, I managed to get my hands on the TV remote for some quick channel surfing while an ad was on during whatever silly event it was that they were playing that night. Nothing interesting was on, except for an episode of Barkha Dutt’s ‘We The People’ on NDTV. From the looks of it, they were discussing my favourite song – Jana Gana Mana. (Yes, I half stood up while even typing that.) My interest was suitably piqued, and I began looking forward to the midnight repeat of the show, which I could watch in complete peace.
Soon, as lights began to go off across the city, they went off in my house as well. It was a little past midnight as I (probably) settled in with a cup of Bru Cappuccino to watch ‘We The People’. (So unmemorable was that day that I don’t even remember if I actually sat with Bru Cappuccino. I’m just assuming I did it because in that phase of my life, that is what I normally did.)
But somehow, that day was just meant to be unmemorable. I don’t remember much of that episode, except for the fact that I felt spurts of sorrow at how indifferent and cynical people were towards our National Anthem. Now I am no longer the jingoistic patriot I was in my teens, but I just love Jana Gana Mana. Even today, over two decades since I first heard it, I feel goose bumps when I listen to it.
We have all seen numerous versions of the National Anthem courtesy the Maharashtra government’s law of playing it in cinemas. The shot of Lata Mangeshkar and Asha Bhosale looking at each other as they sing the National Anthem is one of the most impactful shots I have ever seen. I don’t know a single person who isn’t at least a little moved by the silent National Anthem, even though it is an advertisement at the end of the day. I even love the one that has a host of Marathi film and TV actors in it.
Even the version of the National Anthem that I detest (only because it is obscenely long and pretends to be intensely cinematic) - the one shot in Kargil - made an impression on me the first few times I saw and heard it.
So yes, I wasn’t particularly thrilled when people didn’t seem to take it seriously that day, even though I understood that it is eventually a matter of choice and personal preference. Barkha Dutt’s cynicism in particular was a little more than disconcerting.
As that singularly un-impactful show came to an end, they decided that the show would be incomplete if they didn’t actually play the National Anthem. And so they played it. The entire studio rose in respect. Even Ms. Dutt, after some deliberation, stood up from her comfy Oprah-esque position, admitting later that she normally never felt it necessary to do so. Needless to say, I, in my living room, stood up as well (as I always do, irrespective of the time and the place.)
As the last notes of my favourite song died away, a girl in the audience asked for the mike. And she said something to the effect,
“It doesn’t matter that all of us in the studio stood up when it was played. What matters is how many people stood up in their homes, in their living rooms, while watching this show on TV…”
“I am standing, which means others must be standing as well,” I replied.
Though I am quite prone to external manifestations of insanity, it was the first time that I spoke to a TV. It also seemed like I was speaking for the first time that day. The girl’s comment drew a smattering of applause, and the show came to an end.
I, of course, had no idea then that the girl happened to be one Swetha Ramakrishnan from Delhi, who would go on to, about half a decade later, become one of my best friends ever.
P.S. – This is, of course, a true story.
