Joy of seeing the tricolour fly

You’ll spot our house for the tricolour fluttering from the balcony, the only one on our street, and possibly in the colony. Around Republic Day or Independence Day, someone will be dispatched to the basement to select from the growing collection of flags we’ve been accumulating over the years. A suitable one will be found, ironed, fitted into a rod, and strung up (hoisting would be the wrong term) from the railing. There it will stay for a few days, perhaps a week, sometimes a little more.

We aren’t any more patriotic than the neighbours. Indeed, some of our views might not fit the current nationalistic narrative, and our choice of foods, or lifestyle, might have grave consequences were we to declare them openly. Should the national anthem be sung in movie theatres? Should jingoism be enforced through coercion and the fear of law? Our answers might prove provocative in the current climate, yet the hanging of the flag is something we regard with the same enthusiasm as putting up a Christmas tree, or lighting diyas at Diwali, or buying packets of colour on Holi, without any association with the ritualistic aspect of these festivals. Eating peanuts on Lohri around a bonfire is fun as long as one is not obsessive about significance and meaning.

Our collection of flags comes off the streets, bought from urchins who festoon themselves with the tricolour in the hope of making an extra buck around this time. My driver is partial to bargaining for them at traffic junctions, insisting he won’t pay beyond a certain (usually pithy) amount, but he is equally insistent on buying a flag to take home to his family. Since we are often surrounded by flag-selling vendors, I find myself funding several such purchases, which are then distributed among colleagues, much to their amusement. Some have wondered if I am a card-carrying member of some right-wing party. I tell them I have no trouble aligning myself with the flag even though I don’t care much for political parties, their manifestos or agendas.

I have noticed that not too many occupants of cars bother themselves with the petty commerce related to buying these flags. Many on scooters and motorcycles do, as do those who ride in auto-rickshaws. This week, I had reason to take Ubers to work on a couple of occasions. Each time, the drivers would stop to buy tiny flags to place on their dashboards. I thought it a lovely gesture. A number of part-timers who help to keep our home running smoothly are thrilled to take home flags that I am happy to share with them. It is in their lower-income colonies and slums where you will see more flags fluttering jauntily from rickety windows or roofs than you will see in all the tonier colonies put together.

I am not making a case for class and patriotism, merely stating a fact. I know some among our friends who would be embarrassed to have a flag anywhere near their homes. Why this is so is not something I am clear about. Perhaps it has to do with our polarised politics. Whatever the reason, it has fortunately not stopped us from enjoying a simple act — finding joy in the way the tricolour flaps in the wind.