Vande Mataram

One of my articles published in the Indian Express a few years ago.

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It was a typical muggy evening in a sunny southern state of America. My sweat stained kurta sticking to my back, I stood in line waiting to buy a ticket for the Festival of India. This was an eagerly anticipated annual event and drew large crowds of the sub-continental people from all around. It also drew indigenous crowds of ‘educated’ people wanting to ride elephants, see snake charmers and shake hands with a Maharaja. They were sorely disappointed. The snake had escaped and bitten the Maharaja, who was then taken on the elephant to the emergency room.

As I waited, I glanced at the poster for the event. It promised a wondrous evening showcasing the diverse people, food, cultures and titillating splendors of an exotic country, if you could get into the auditorium. There were long queues for tickets comprising homesick Indians looking to talk to another human being without having to roll their r’s. What surprised me most was that not one of them was jostling for space to get ahead in the line, there was no fat uncle rubbing his smelly armpits in my face and definitely no one spitting paan on my shoes. Talk about culture shock! The odds of seeing such an orderly queue in India is rare. Some would say as rare as India winning the Cricket World Cup. Either of these events is cause enough for the general masses to rise up in union and exclaim jubilantly in chorus, “The gods are on our side! Our sins have been forgiven!” Of course, this would promptly be followed by political parties calling for a curfew to ascertain which gods were being propitiated and to include a quota for proper representation of the minority communities in these prayers!

But I digress.

An excited throng of sari, dhoti, kurta, salwaar and turban wearing multitude milled around the auditorium. The incessant babble of people around me was intermittently drowned out by music blaring from the speakers. Small shops had been setup selling everything from cheap imitation Indian jewelry at exorbitant prices to pirated Hindi movies, still running in theatres back home. Dance programs on stage highlighted the latest fads from bollywood songs, with enough pelvic gyration to give the local belly dancer a hernia! Even the large overflowing trash cans in every corner seemed to lend an aura of authenticity.

My attention was drawn to a table across from me. The sign above it instantly piqued my interest. I licked my dry lips with my tongue. A slight tremble in my hands gave away my anticipation. I moved closer to the table. I reached out slowly. My hand closed in around the plate of free, hot samosas. It was not a figment of my imagination. Neither was the small cup of sweet chutney on the side. I dipped the samosa in it and took a bite. An overwhelming surge of curry spice and sweet chutney enveloped me in a sense of well-being. I licked my fingers and wiped the delicious crumbs from my lips. I beamed from ear to ear. And that’s when it hit me.

It is well known that, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”. The belief that love is governed by a base need like hunger leads me to re-state, “To know if man has a heart, fill his stomach”. I walked away with a renewed faith in my fellow beings, my country and in the unstoppable positivity of a satiated stomach. With a look of utter satisfaction on my face and lightness in my step, I thought to myself, “Fill the plates of the hungry and the poor in India and you will soon rejoice in its new found patriotism.” After all, one billion stomachs’ is a ‘whole lotta love!’