midnight's child: what's so special about being born on August 15

August 15th is my own birthday... I take this coincidence, not as a fortuitous accident, but as the sanction and seal of the Divine Force.” As Sri Aurobindo spoke these lines on All India Radio on August 15, 1947, “many women,” remembers my grandmother, “hoping to be mothers in the years to follow, had made a wish to give birth to children on August 15.”

Such was the exuberance — real and some pretended — over this long awaited day. Sigh, out of granny’s six, none happened to be Freedom’s child. Well, decades later, she found herself preparing for the August arrival — me. The infamous solar eclipse of April 1980 made the expectant mother’s journey eventful and they kept the Ramayana and other aids handy. Like Rushdie’s Amina Sinai, my mother juggled with pleasant dreams and superstition, yet consistently hopeful to see her “angel” on our Independence Day. I popped out, six hours past the midnight. Thereafter, began my tryst with eventful birthdays — ghee soaked laddoos wrapped in cynical critiques, the nation’s regretful look-backs and patriotic films on Doordarshan.

“Born on Independence Day. What’s so special?” Some grumpy people question the privilege. Notes scribbled on my simple birthday gifts, like the pale front page of the Hindustan Times, dated August 15, 1947, and Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children among others, say, the ‘accidental’ association, is special. My birthday has been forever marked by people’s reaction over what they have read in the Independence Day-special editions. It has had its share of grunts, comments, smiles, tears and cheers over the PMs’ lengthy, meticulously-constructed speeches. Over all, the day feels like one of those moments in Steinbeck’s works — happy, yet having a political baggage. It also inspires people to comment on your personal virtues, read vices. Like, my ex-boss over a roshogulla had said, “Freedom’s child uh? So, that’s where your ‘independent’ streaks come from.”

Coming back to birthdays, as a kid, I would wake up to the sound of bells from the special mass at the school church. Schools in Dehradun (in Uttarakhand) require attendance on the big day. The mike testing would stretch from Ustad Bismillah Khan’s mangaldhwani to Mohammad Rafi’s reminisces of the wars. The flag hoisting at school had always reminded me of the one I had attended on my fifth birthday, a holiday — at the swanky club of the Modis (rubber factory) in Meerut. Unlike the previous year, on DD, it wasn’t “Indira granny”, addressing the nation from the Red Fort that year. One sardarji, my dad’s friend had come to wish me, but I chose not smile at him. On my ninth, the nuns had asked us to “pray for people in Kashmir and the Punjab.”

On the tenth, there was “some trouble with college boys” who didn’t want what the PM had wanted. The eleventh was different. No one would really show interest in the new, hurriedly-appointed PM’s speech — but in audio cassettes of Sadhavi Ma Ritambhara. In the lanes at my hometown, people hadn’t really bothered to whitewash the soot left by Mulayam ‘secular’ Singh’s inflammatory speech at the Ramlila grounds the previous year. Also, Nadeem uncle had stopped visiting us. At 12, a phrase, “pregnant with corruption,” in one of the dull patriotic songs describing the nation made me feel giddy and curious. “That’s some pregnancy!” I would wonder, looking for clues on reproductive health in the moral science book.

Five years later: Rahman had replaced Rafi for the hour-long mike testing. Some signs of change. The reluctant rusty school gate would open to people-in-saffron in the middle of the prayer service — some 700 distracted heads, including the principal’s, would turn right. The men-in-saffron, on having been assured that the “Sisters” conducted things well, would rush out. At 19, in college, I had been missing the chana-halwa treat from mom. “On a Sunday, you want to listen to more-pauses-and-less-of-speech from your rightwing Prime Minister?” my friends had asked, stuffing me with my first birthday cake. Those wreaths and jongas from Kargil crawling into my village during June — could I have missed the 1999 speech?

August 15, 2004. Daring bomb scares and all, Delhiites rush out for the hero — Spider Man II! “It hasn’t really felt like my birthday in the National Capital,” I rue, over the next three birthdays. Year 2007. Ustad Bismillah Khan, who had escorted Pandit Nehru to the ramparts of the Red Fort 60 years ago, is no more and his shehnai is gasping for survival. Red Fort has earned UNESCO’s World Heritage status during the 150th year of the 1857 mutiny and needs a tribute. And Delhiites will probably forget about both while whistling over Shah Rukh Khan’s hockey act in his new film. As for me, I am in the land of the Boss, big birthday bashes and beach rallies.

Wonder what an August 15th born should expect in a city with all the above three.

copyright: The New Indian Express