PREETI MAHESHWARI
When I was a child, 15th August was pure joy. We would wake earlier than usual, excitement bubbling within us. Our uniforms were freshly pressed, our shoes gleamed, and our little flags were ready to wave. As we walked to school, we could already hear patriotic songs drifting from loudspeakers. Even the air seemed different – lighter, brighter, happier.
The school would be adorned with paper flags, ribbons, and balloons in saffron, white, and green. We would gather in the playground, eagerly awaiting that special moment – the flag hoisting. As the rope was pulled and the tricolour unfurled against the morning sky, flower petals would flutter down, and we would sing the national anthem with voices full of innocence and pride.
Afterwards came the cultural programme. Some of us recited poems, others performed plays about freedom fighters, and some sang songs that stirred goosebumps even in our young hearts. The sound of Vande Mataram and Saare Jahan Se Achha echoed around the schoolyard, and for those few hours, we all felt deeply connected to our country – even if we didn’t yet grasp the full weight of its history.
Then came our little treasure – the snack box. Inside lay a warm samosa, a golden boondi ladoo, and sometimes a small savoury treat. We would sit with friends, laughing and chatting, savouring every bite. By noon, we were sent home carrying both the flavours of our snacks and the glow of the morning’s celebrations.
From School Playgrounds to Newsrooms
Even after my school days ended, Independence Day remained special. When I began working, it was still a holiday. As a journalist, I had the privilege of attending flag-hoisting ceremonies at government offices, watching officials stand tall in respect as the national anthem rang out. Later, I would write stories capturing these celebrations – the speeches, the performances, the proud faces in the crowd. In a way, I became a chronicler of the nation’s joy, telling its story year after year.
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Far from Home, Close to the Flag
But now, living far from India, 15th August feels different. There is no school ground, no official ceremony to attend, no ladoo or samosa waiting for me – especially in the city where I live. Celebrations in larger cities, often organised by the Indian Consulate, require at least two days’ leave from work and a seven-hour drive to attend. There isn’t even a public holiday. The streets around me move on as though it were just another ordinary day.
Still, the feeling remains. Every year, I pin a small Indian flag badge to my shirt and head to work. On the way, I play the same patriotic songs from my childhood. As the music fills my ears, I am transported back to those mornings – the laughter of friends, the flutter of the flag, the warmth of the sun, and the pride on every face.
The Tricolour in the Heart
The celebrations may have changed, but my love for my country has not. Some things – like the colours of the flag and the pride they inspire – never fade. They simply live quietly in the heart, no matter where in the world you are.
Ae watan, watan mere, aabaad rahe tu.
Main jahan rahun, jahaan mei yaad rahe tu.
Jai Hind!
