Happy Public Day...

The building complex we live in celebrated its first Republic Day yesterday. Which is quite a shame if you consider that we have spent a year as residents. Well, granted that it has taken its time for the two towers to fill up, with the third slowing getting populated (seven towers under construction, by the end of which, I and mine will be stone deaf from construction noise and with our insides caked with layers of dust which will have to be excavated to fill in sea and reclaim land to make more such towers), we residents didnt have much of a quorum the first year. The second year promised to be different. For one, mamma was bristling furiously about the lack of effort to do anything about national days. Therefore Mamma went off and bought us a flag. With another equally concerned mom. And three four other mammas got into the act. A rough programme charted out.
And a notice was put up. And a sponsorship begged for. And got. The National Anthem and patriotic songs, downloaded. Chairs ordered for. Games organised. Props organised. Many squabbles dealt with admirably. Timings shifted infinitely to accommodate every wannabe attendee. And then mega tantrum thrown and declaration of Attend Or Else, issued to all members of complex via polite security personnel on intercom. And more stridently by us moms via intercom and collar holding terror tactics when residents bumped into in lobbies and lifts.
Mamma is nothing if not gently persuasive. The flag was hoisted. A drawing competition organised for the children to draw on the India of my dreams. The brat drew flowers in a random grassless field and a triangular tricolour stuck in the centre. I thought it needed to be giltframed and hung at the MOMA but the judges were of a differing opinion and could not appreciate the deep thought that went into sticking a flag in a flower field which mamma interpreted as symbolic of children of differing communities and religions and cultures flourishing in the same soil, which is India and such like, dont tell the brat though, that mamma said so. I think he just found it more fun to keep making colourful concentric circles in continuous hand movements and fob them off as flowers.
Races were organised. The brat participated in two races. One, a tower race, where the kids in his age group had to build a tower of the blocks kept in their lane and race to the finish line. The second was a clean sprint. Of course, the brat excelled and managed by the skin of his teeth not to come last in both and then spent the entire prize distribution ceremony at the elbow of the hapless soul who was pulling out the prizes from the huge plastic bags, staring hungrily at each as they were handed over, until a kind soul took pity on him and handed him a couple of movie DVDs. Xena the Warrior Princess and Spy Kids. We reached home to have father and son fight over what was to be watched immediately. Yup. Pappa had polished his eyeballs in anticipation of Xena. The brat was keener on Spy Kids.
This was also the day that both maids had decided to be patriotic and take a break so there was no lunch cooked at home. Which pappa and mamma were fine with having ODed on the snacks being served at the function. The brat however hadnt ingested anything of value apart from wafers since the morning, so busy was he in getting into scraps with all and sundry and running every race to perfection except his own, the daddi needed real food, sandwiches and wafers and samosas didnt cut ice, and therefore, the family trotted off to Bikajis for lunch. The brat hobbled painfully and then squatted on the pavement refusing to walk a step more and pleaded with the Pappa to carry him. Mamma was tempted to do the same, but had mercy on Pappa's back and thought the next she would ever be carried would be when a crane and a hoist were deployed for the purpose.
The brat devoured food like one who has not seen edible stuff for close on few days. And ate without pause, or thought or censor of elements getting into his gullet. Mamma happily made the most of tired hunger and mixed in all the forbidden veggies into the rice. After a contented little burp, the brat sat back like a python with a goat undigested in his digestive tract, unable to move. "Mamma," he spake. "Why we sing Jana Gana Mana at Public day?"
Mamma spewed forth the gyaan about 26th January being the day India became an Independent Republic nation. "And before, we wuz not indeependen?"
"No, the Britishers ruled over India."
"Whuiz d Bridishers?"
A tired mamma looked to Pappa for help, and mumbled something about them being folks from England who came over in ships and took over India and ruled it for many many years.
"Why we let dem rule us?"
This was a question Mamma had no answer to. "I know," said the brat, dim wattage bulb lighting up in the recesses of his mind. "Is boring to be a ruler thas why. Leddem be rulers. We be public. Public has fun. Rulers ony sit in big chairs. So Happy Public Day."
To you too!