ELECTIONS '98
COMMENTARY
SPECIALS
INTERVIEWS
CAPITAL BUZZ
REDIFF POLL
DEAR REDIFF
THE STATES
YEH HAI INDIA!
ARCHIVES

Mera Bharat Mahaan

Seated in front of the television waiting for the soccer World Cup to kick off, I listened as the commentator introduced the opposing sides and directed the viewers' attention to the special players, the ones to watch. The talented Brazilian side, as always, had plenty to offer in that regard. Ronaldo, much-acclaimed and twice voted player of the world, with his awesome power to turn on the speed at the slightest opportunity. Denilson, dancing around defenders with the grace of a gazelle and the speed of a striking rattlesnake, Dunga, solid as a brick wall in defense. The crafty Bebeto. As I listened, the narration stirred my imagination.

The various introductory formalities were completed and the players took the field. The camera moved to the stands. The fans of the defending champion were everywhere in their characteristic colours, swaying to the beat of a rhythmic drum. Across thousands of miles of ocean and into the unfamiliar terrain of a foreign nation, the legions of faithful had brought every accoutrement that could conceivably be orchestrated into a show of support. As Bebeto and Ronaldo set off, the narration resumed with words that, since then, have been such a revelation to me during this tournament -- "Brazil in yellow, naturally".

As the tournament progressed, other defining images, signs and voices rose and fell with the fortunes of the participating nations. British and German hooligans reflecting a robust underclass and a savage fringe of their respective nations. America versus the Great Satan. The determined re-enactment of the Falklands war. Each of these, a fantastic testimony to the cultures of their countries as well as to the perception of those lands on other shores. The images on stage were not merely of a group of athletes playing with finesse and ability that defied description, but of nations and their peoples holding court in front of the world.

By the time the semi-finals rolled around, the images of the survivors had predictably outdueled those of their opponents, and were crystallised with stunning clarity. The samba in yellow were still there, with their endless line of artists with euphonious names like Baiano, Sampaio and Rivaldo. Their rhythms were just as fascinating as in the past and the grace just as effortless, it seemed the gods still bless their feet with magic. And poised to do battle with them, the Clockwork Orange, born of a nation that had bested the odds with a togetherness of effort and doggedness of spirit. Frank de Boer might have imagined his hand in the dike on Dutch shores as he led the organised and unyielding effort to staunch the Brazilian flow.

In the other semi-final, Les Bleus, showing all the diversity of modern France, its hopes for a dream riding on the shoulders of a Algerian watchman's son and the tenacity of its immigrant stars, and poised at the edge of an accomplishment that had eluded many other gifted teams of the past. And against them, a tiny newly independent nation led by a man who, not very many years ago, rushed into the stands to defend his countryman against police oppression in an act that became a defining symbolism of Croatian hopes for independence from the oppressive Yugoslav federation. Captain for a reason, it seemed.

As these images stood out in grand displays on the world's stage, their evocative power was plain as light. As ESPN Sportszone's Tom Farrey mused, this is a sport and a tournament not merely about individuals and their abilities, and not merely about winning. The World Cup is a tournament that exudes the character and mentality of the nations that compete, and revels in the stories it brings to us, making it unique on the world's stage, even more so in some ways than the Olympics.

As I pondered that, my thoughts drifted back to the late 80s, when the chords of elegant nationalism were perfectly picked in a spectacular television spot with the magic words Mera Bharat Mahaan. A simple yet fascinating presentation of the myriad ethnic and geographic faces of our land and the magnificent accomplishments that gave poetry to it. The greats on that stage, drawn from a rich collage of cultural and sporting achievements, were brought together in a vivid presentation that simply said "This is our nation, see what we can do".

Through the years, many other advertisements for national integrity have come and gone, and the images of various accomplishments still linger. Elephant rides for Miss Universe, Indian blue on the cricketing fields of the world, and more recently, physicists and politicians in army fatigues and emblazoned caps signaling the passing of a nuclear threshold. The plurality of habits and opinion in our vast land has meant that many of these images are points of debate as much as they are milestones of the years. But they remain nonetheless, even if only hazily.

As I sit in front of my television screen and watch the second semi-final in progress, the tug of a rallying cry beckons again, seeking an idea to stand behind, an image to lean on, and a national character that defines us. I sense that the stuff of our lore and our portrayals need not be real or complete, for Brazil is about far more than samba and soccer, and Holland is considerably more than a spectacularly organised society. Still, having these images makes us more who we are, and lets us wear our identities on our sleeves with pride, not with the memory of defeated dreams of prosperity and equality.

Surely the magic words are within us, and perhaps there shall be many which collectively identify an Indianness. I do not know how we might define such a rallying cry, but the need for it is clear enough. Perhaps this is nationalism and perhaps it is dangerous, nevertheless I shall embrace it because it represents the memory of a dream that our nation once had, and the receding possibility that we might still engineer it to reality. Perhaps like me, you have remained an optimist through the days in the shadows of other nations, and perhaps you still cling to an India that you hope to build with others.

As I leaned back into the couch and stretched my feet up on the centre-table, the camera moved to the stands once again. To French President Jacques Chirac and his visiting Croatian counterpart, meeting for once over something other than the endless mudslinging that shades all political life. The roving eye moved on to find a massive banner jersey held aloft by a thousand fans in the stadium. Against the backdrop of the colours of the French flag, written in striking blue, were more magic words, Allez la France.

At half-time, I ducked into my closet and brought out an old T-shirt from a Festival of India in Hunstville, Alabama. Even knowing that India is many years away from being able to compete on the global stage with nations such as the ones I was watching didn't dent the simple joy I felt as I pulled it on. There is a satisfaction in wanting things to be right, even if it is accompanied by the knowledge of how wrong they are now.

One day, we shall have a national culture and a character that is readily identified on the world's stages, much as many nations now do. Then, to the rhythm of a vibrant society, we might celebrate the accomplishments of our heroes with a spirit that is identifiably and laudably Indian, with much more than diluted images of snake charmers and elephant lore. And whilst we await that promised tryst with destiny, let us cling to the magic words, so that in their fulfillment, we may find ourselves with pride. Mera Bharat Mahaan. Time to look for that printing shop.

How Readers responded to Ashwin Mahesh's recent columns

Ashwin Mahesh