Sometimes, we discover our true sense of duty when no one else is around.
Every Republic Day, I visit the nearby old society where I lived for twenty-five years to attend the flag-hoisting ceremony. It is a modest affair—the Nagar Sevak ( Municipal Councillor) arrives, the flag is raised in the small playground, a short speech follows, sweets are distributed, neighbours greet each other, and then everyone quietly disperses.
This year, however, it was different.
I reached the venue on time. But as I arrived, something felt out of place. The flag was fluttering gently with morning breeze. A neat rangoli adorned its base, flowers lay scattered around it, and a broken coconut rested nearby. Except for a few children playing cricket, the ground was empty.
Confused, I called the society secretary.” How come so early this year?” I asked.
He sighed before replying. “Political issue, bhai. Our Nagar Sevak lost the recent municipal election first time. So he did not want to come. And due to internal politics, we couldn’t invite the newly elected one either. So we went ahead and completed the ceremony quietly, with Sharma uncle—the senior-most member of the society.”Unsure of what to do next, I stood there for a moment and before I leave
I raised my hand in salute to the national flag. As I raised my hand, the tune of the National Anthem came to my mouth automatically, and I began singing—silently, to myself.
“Jana Gana Mana—”
I froze.
What followed was a mumble. Then my lips raced straight to “Jaya Jaya Hey… Bharat Mata ki Jai” at the speed of the new Vande Bharat Express.
Every word in between had just vanished. I tried again. The tune returned easily, but the lyrics refused to keep pace. One word popped up briefly, then slipped away like water through my fingers. Another appeared out of order—Ganga before Yamuna.
My lips kept moving, but my memory refused to cooperate. It felt as though the words were playing hide-and-seek with me. I wasn’t reciting the anthem anymore—I was remixing it badly, and failing.
It was an embarrassing.
Thankfully, no one was watching.
I had never imagined I would struggle to recite the National Anthem. I had sung it countless times in groups and collective voices—but never standing alone. It struck me then: for all those years, I hadn’t really been singing it. I had simply been lip-syncing, riding along with the crowd.
What troubled me most wasn’t forgetting the words, but the false assumption I had carried for years—that I knew them well enough to sing on my own.
I shamefully realised then that this wasn’t something I could postpone or ignore. Just feeling embarrassed wouldn’t undo the mistake. It had to be fixed—now.
I walked over to the society Sai Baba temple adjacent to the playground, and sat down. I told myself it would be simple. The anthem was only a few lines—one quick listen would be enough. I played it a couple of times on my phone, convinced that this would settle it.
It didn’t.
Each attempt brought a new mistake—a misplaced word, a skipped line. Syncing the tune with the lyrics proved harder than I had expected. In that quiet moment, it became clear: I had mistaken hearing for ownership, presence for learning.
Ten minutes passed, and I still couldn’t get it right. I stopped trying for moment.
In the meantime, my eyes drifted toward the playground, where a few children were playing cricket. One of them sat slightly apart, carefully noting down the score. He looked completely absorbed, as though nothing else around him mattered.
I don’t know why that stayed with me. But watching him write, something clicked.
I looked at my phone again. The National Anthem was only a few lines long, yet I had been trying to recall it all at once—letting words chase one another in my head, expecting memory alone to do the work.
Perhaps that was the problem.
I opened the notes app and began typing slowly, one line at a time. Read. Write. Correct. There was no tune now—just words, plain and deliberate.
Another ten minutes passed.
By then, something had shifted. Writing demanded more of me than listening ever had. Each line had to be faced, tested, and held. The anthem wasn’t mine because I had heard it often. It became mine only when effort replaced assumption—when listening turned into doing.
I walked back to the flag, stood straight, and saluted once more. This time, I sang the anthem quietly and correctly. In one place, the tune faltered, but I didn’t stop. I stayed till the end.
That morning, I learned that effort doesn’t guarantee perfection—only sincerity. And duty, I realised, feels less like memory and more like practice.
As I rode home, I passed my regular tea seller’s stall at the corner. He looked up, smiled, and called out, “Happy Republic Day, sir!” I returned the greeting. The words of the anthem were still alive in my mind. As I rode on, I sang it softly to myself—the words and melody moving together, no longer separate, but whole.
Happy Republic Day.
Postscript:
Solving a passive problem (Recalling) with a passive solution (Listening) rarely works. Listening helps us recognise something. Writing force us to learn it. Thank You.
You may read Happy Republic Day .