On 15th
August, 1947, on the midnight hour, India became independent. The whole
household stayed up to listen to Jawaharlal Nehru, standing on the ramparts of
Red Fort, Delhi, to make that unforgettable speech about ‘our tryst with
destiny.’
Now, he said, we were redeeming that promise, a promise made to
ourselves long ago. Not completely, he reminded us. We now had a Constituent
assembly, which would draft our constitution; the members of that assembly were
nominated, not elected. It would be some while before India had its first
general election and there was a truly representative government at the Centre
and in the states.
Meanwhile a little chunk from the North West of India had been chopped
off; another bit had been amputated from the East. The wounds were bleeding,
suppurating, and would never quite heal. The surgery was ham-fisted, because
the surgeon was in a hurry, and didn’t know very much about this kind of
surgery.
The man drew lines on a map, bisecting villages, rivers, monuments; in
places the line even went through the kitchens of houses. So you cooked in
Pakistan and ate in India.
In our elation at becoming independent, we hardly noticed what was
happening up north as Muslims and Hindus killed each other by the thousands.
The British had left in an unholy hurry abandoning an India they could no
longer contain.
My father was chosen to make the Independence Day speech at the big
Maidanam, early the next morning, after the Sub-Collector’s wife hoisted the Tricolour.
She made a short speech in English, which he translated. After that he spoke in
Malayalam. There were not many in that town who could slip seamlessly from
English to Malayalam and back ag
All the school-children had been led to the big maidanam in town in
orderly lines, to participate. We had small tricolours pinned to our blouses
and we sang the national anthem after the flag was hoisted. I was so proud, I
thought I would burst.
