“Sir, are you singing?”
The question came from a man standing beside me at an imaginary government function. He had a programme in one hand and a notebook in the other.
“I am listening,” I whispered.
“You have to sing,” he said. “I am watching your mouth.”
I looked at him. He looked at my lips. Somewhere behind us, a gentleman who had been enjoying a samosa began moving his jaw so vigorously that he appeared to know every stanza by heart.
We have reached a remarkable moment in our national life. Roads need repairing. Farmers need their crops bought. Young people need jobs. Hospitals need doctors. But our public debate has found room for a pressing question: how many stanzas of the national song must be sung, and what happens when somebody remains silent?
The matter is before the Supreme Court, which has indicated that choosing not to sing should not, by itself, invite punishment.
This must be disappointing for anyone hoping to become a National Lip Inspector.
Imagine the possibilities. Every official function could employ one. Every school assembly could have three. An officer might patrol the rows with binoculars, calling out, “Seat twelve missed a word. Seat thirteen sang with insufficient enthusiasm. Seat fourteen was chewing gum, so the evidence is inconclusive.”
Soon, we would require a Department of Patriotic Mouth Movements. Its annual report would announce that national devotion had risen by eleven percent, based on the number of visible syllables recorded. Ministers would congratulate themselves. Inspectors would demand better binoculars. Someone would propose a mobile app that could detect loyalty from a photograph.
Meanwhile, the road outside the department would remain underwater.
“Why is there no drain?” a citizen might ask.
“First,” the officer would reply, “please complete the song.”
There is another difficulty. The later stanzas invoke religious tones. Many Indians treasure those words. Others, who love India just as deeply, may have religious reasons for not singing them. Surely the motherland is large enough to embrace both.
I have nothing against singing the national song in its old form. I would gladly sing it. But today, that same song that helped stir a people to seek freedom deserves more than citizens glancing nervously over their shoulders.
Love for a country shows itself in many ways. A teacher stays late for a struggling child. A doctor treats a patient who cannot pay. An honest officer refuses a bribe. A neighbour helps another through a flood.
None needs an inspector to confirm that their lips moved.
If the government wants to hear the whole nation sing, it might begin by listening when the nation speaks. The journalist in prison, his voice silenced, the unemployed and poor crying out and the commuter on the potholed road, or crashing bridge have verses of their own.
And, if you ask the National Lip Inspector, he’ll tell you that they know every word by heart..!