Nationalism and Right-Wing

Born in 1975 to a middle-class family in Punjab, I grew up in an environment that aspired to everything English. We attended English medium schools, spoke in English, read English classics, and surrounded ourselves with English clubs and crockery.

As a child, I distinctly remember looking up aspirational-y at my family members who lived in the U.S. or UK. Shows like The Lucy Show and Different Strokes, as well as the Grammys, Michael Jackson, and Madonna, were our role models. The glamour of the American lifestyle, where the middle class was empowered to be assertive, free, and expressive, was intoxicating.

At home, Indian-ness seemed very confusing. There was a Pundit on DD's Discovery of India, holding a rose and speaking in a very British manner about his passion for India. Then there was the father of the nation, looking weak and feeble, with a stick in his hand, preaching "If an enemy strikes your left cheek, offer him your right."

The child in me rejected the idea of a weak father. Yet the sense of duty and the lack of courage and clarity kept me confused for a long time. Why did an English speaking very British seeming lover of a Lady Mountbatten become the PM and earned the power, luxury and the respect that comes with it? And why did the father get only a dhoti and a stick. A man who did not look after his own 3 children and wife was made the father of 120 crore Indians? It did seem fitting though to my very simple mind. Like father like children. Just like the father the 120 crores Indians also looked very weak, feeble, crushed, bent and pleading. No wonder they lived in dilapidated conditions were so poor and were willing to be slapped over and over. 

I rejected this idea of a father deep inside me. Glued to Enid Blyton then moving to Nancy Drew and graduating to Ayn Rand while physically I was in India my head and heart could never find anything common between what I wanted to stand for or what came naturally to me to admire and gravitate towards and what I found in India. 

During one of my history classes I remember asking my teacher that how did someone in jail get to write books, referring to the chapter which talked about the book “Letters to my daughter” that was written from a prison. Weren’t the British known to be cruel? How come Bhagat Singh was shown no mercy while the Pundit with his rose was shown so much love even in captivity? These questions were never answered. Ambiguous responses which didn’t ring any bell of truth I just decided I don’t like history. It seemed so irrational and illogical. 

It's often said that children have an innate sense for truth within their families. Even when adults withhold it, the atmosphere, unspoken tensions, hidden secrets, and unacknowledged issues are palpable and understood, communicated not through words but through an unspoken language of emotions and perceptions. As a child of Mother India the clear sense I got was that there is hypocrisy and double standard. And while at that stage I wasn’t dedicated to the search of truth as I devoted myself to my career and studies, the nagging feeling that all is not right never left me. As a young management executive I saw a lot of growth working for American companies living in Delhi. The Hindu, Indian Express the Economic Time India today NDTV Prannoy Roy were my source of truth to understand the world around me. The political scene was fraught with corruption and instability with scams and riots and terrorist attacks rampant. Modi and Shah were the villains destroying the Ganga Yamuna tehzeeb of India. Teesta Setalvad was the tormented woman lawyer who was the messiah of human rights representing the fight against everything wrong in India. 

Yet, nothing seemed to fit into its place. Modi and Shah the villains managed to bring so much development to Gujarat. The BIMARU states were home to the most corrupt governments with the Yadavs and the Lalloo clans engaged in never ending greed of cleaning out the state coffers. The Congress at the centre under the leadership of a mute but extremely cunning Sonia Gandhi seemed so deceitful. 

Brain drain and exodus of the best and the brightest was extremely high. I graduated from Engineering in 1997. Not even 10% of my batch mates were in India within a span of 10 years of graduation. U.S., Europe, Australia or Canada were the chosen destinations. People like me who ended up staying because of variety of other reasons were increasingly feeling defeated by having made the choice to stay back. As I said nothing seemed to fit. The hypocrisy and the lies I had always senses in the eco system continue to pervade more and more and made me so ill at ease with the country and place and culture I called home. 

I distinctly remember the first video of Pushpendra Kulsreshtha I watched. I can never forget that moment. The year was 2014 and I was riveted. The next couple of hours I searched every possible talk of his and heard each one of them. I have never been the same since. It finally all made sense. And this is what I learnt:

• The idea of India that was propagated was a lie. This family tree of Nehru Gandhi Thapar clan which had all the names that formed the narrative of India clearly explained how the lie was all pervasive and managed to gas light millions. The strategy was simple. The best way to destroy a civilization is to teach them to be ashamed of themselves. Write history such that none of their own are made to look like heroes. Instil a deep sense of inferiority complex and a sense of defeatism where anyone who still has any brains left chooses to run away. The once that are left behind continue to live in a slavery mindset which was a second habit as that is what they had known from 200 years of colonization and a sense of inertia and ennui pervaded.   

• It was liberating to finally accept my discomfort with viewing Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi as the "Mahatma" or the father of our nation. I felt an immense relief unburdening myself of a figure who, in my eyes, embodied weakness and made me feel ashamed of my heritage. I rejected a father who instilled self-pity and instead embraced the legacy of Subhash Chandra Bose and Veer Savarkar. These were the true heroes who taught me to stand up for myself and fight for what is rightfully mine. The fact that Mohan das Gandhi rigged the first election of India gave me the data point I needed. Something my heart had always known – not all is right with the bent man with a stick and dhoti and that his bent back was an outcome of the burden he was bearing of being maha when all that he was, was just another ambitious politician yearning for fame and recognition for himself and himself alone. He would go to any lengths for that. Make a pact with the Pundit I will make you PM you make me Bapu. While you wine and dine in British style I will keep the masses busy with remaining the poor austere Indian who must not aspire for anything other than self-sacrifice. 

  
  

• While we believe India gained independence in 1947, it never truly did. The transfer of power in 1947 by the British to their stooges, Nehru and Gandhi, was merely a facade. After Nehru, Indira Gandhi, a deeply troubled and unhappy narcissistic leader, saw it as her birthright to rule over India. She treated the country like her personal backyard, running it autocratically and gaslighting the poor and the followers of Bapu, constantly reminding them of their poverty, urging them to sacrifice and live austerely. She demanded they not only offer their cheeks but their whole selves to be oppressed. Meanwhile, this supposed Bapu admirer sent her son to study at Oxford who brought back an Italian. And the rest is history. The Emergency , Article 370 the falsehood and deceit of Kashmir issue, the Sikh riots and the list can go on and on.

  
  

Finally, the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that no adult ever helped me with as a child, that no media in print or TV ever honestly and factually helped me put together, had finally been assembled for me by an independent retired freelance journalist.

Once the cloud of gas lighting lifted, I found the real heroes and made peace with my roots and my motherland, India. The voices of Veer Savarkar, Shivaji, Sardar Patel , Subhash Chandra Bose , and the cries of millions subjected to emergency rule resonated with me. The ghosts of millions of Indians massacred in the name of secularism and tolerance, the deceit behind it, the racism, the divide-and-rule strategy, and the systemic impoverishment brought the light of clarity and with it came back the confidence and pride that was always mine to have being born in such a rich and old civilization, but was denied to me. 

In my mind, India became truly independent when Article 370 was removed. That was the moment when India, or Bharat, felt independent. I felt a sense of pride and belonging, realizing this was my nation.

Life, however, had different plans for me. Just as I felt closer to my roots and proud of where I came from, I happened to move to Sydney. Once you have felt Bharat in your blood you always remain Bharatiya. I can leave India but India can never leave me. The essence of being truly Bharitya is also the essence of 'Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam,' which means 'world is one family. ' This very notion of considering the world as one family, also instils in me with the sense of responsibility of 'One Earth'. And as I live in Australia which is my Karma Bhumi I continue to draw my essence from my Janm Bhoomi Bharat. Jai Hind!